Editorials
Dellamorte Dellamore: Looking Back on ‘Cemetery Man’ 30 Years Later
Last year, I had the privilege of joining a film club that gathered monthly to watch horror movies inside a decommissioned morgue. The screen wasn’t the best, and the chairs weren’t as comfortable as the local Cineplex, but there’s something to be said about the magic involved in getting a bunch of people together in just the right mindset to enjoy macabre stories about the things that go bump in the night. I bring this up because there are plenty of scary movies that benefit from this added contract between the filmmaker and the audience, where viewers allow themselves to become fully immersed in a fictional world, no matter how bizarre it may seem.
And if there’s one movie that absolutely requires this kind of commitment in order to hit properly, it has to be Michele Soavi’s criminally underrated horror-comedy Dellamorte Dellamore – or, as it’s referred to in North America, Cemetery Man. A surreal exploration of love, death, and isolation adapted from the works of Dylan Dog creator Tiziano Sclavi and directed by a talented pupil of masters like Argento and Fulci, Cemetery Man has rightfully earned a reputation as the last truly great Italian horror picture.
With 2026 marking the 30th anniversary of the film’s North American release, I think this is the perfect moment to look back on Soavi’s idiosyncratic masterpiece as both a landmark in surreal horror storytelling and as one of the all-time best comic-book movies that isn’t technically based on a comic-book.
Of course, to fully understand the genius of Cemetery Man, it’s best to start this story with the rise of Tiziano Sclavi. An Italian writer who divided his time between short stories, novels, and news articles throughout the 70s before tackling comic books in the 80s, Sclavi became an infamous figure among genre fans when he created the iconic paranormal investigator Dylan Dog alongside comic artist Claudio Villa. Sclavi actually instructed Villa to watch the 1984 film Another Country so he could model their shared creation on English actor Rupert Everett, a decision that would affect the production of Cemetery Man years down the line.
Unfortunately, much like the yellow-shirted cowboy Tex and even the Italian adventures of Topolino (Mickey Mouse), Dylan Dog never quite broke through to the English-speaking world despite making his way across most of Europe (and even South America). While the character was popular enough to warrant a widely panned adaptation starring Brandon Routh back in 2011, real fans know that the only faithful adaptation of Tiziano’s comics is Dellamorte Dellamore.
After all, despite the film coming out after the success of Dylan Dog, the adventures of Francesco Dellamorte actually began as a novel that Sclavi wrote during the early 80s (but only published in the 90s), with the writer later cannibalizing many of his own ideas about a womanizing stoic who confronts undead monsters. In fact, Francesco later appeared in an issue of Dylan Dog loosely based on the then-unreleased novel, indicating that Sclavi never stopped thinking about this original horror yarn.
So once he made a name for himself in Europe, the writer decided to enlist the help of filmmaker Michele Soavi in order to bring his book to life as a standalone motion picture. Having already found success with his slasher feature Stage Fright, Soavi managed to convince a host of international patrons to back a strange little horror movie that might appeal to comic-book fans.
With money coming in from France, Italy, and even Germany, the filmmaking team was easily able to convince Rupert Everett to take on a role that had been meant for him from the very beginning. However, with the film being shot in Italy, it would be produced in the same “Tower of Babel” filming style that was popular in Europe before the turn of the millennium. Rupert spoke his native English while the rest of the cast spoke Italian, and everyone would later be dubbed in post-production as the project was handed over to international distributors.
Ironically enough, the main cemetery set was built over an abandoned Italian burial ground. Even the ossuary featured in the film was completely real, with Soavi later claiming that a crewmember regretted stealing bones from the site after encountering a vengeful ghost.
The finished film would hit Italian theaters in 1994 as Dellamorte Dellamore (literally translating to “Of Death, of Love”), with the story following cemetery caretaker Francesco Dellamorte (Everett) as he protects the grounds from the undead that occasionally rise from their graves. After an affair with a grieving widow (Anna Falchi) leads to her untimely death, Francesco and his intellectually disabled assistant Gnaghi (François Hadji-Lazaro) embark on a series of morbid adventures involving paranormal threats, small town politics, and the complications of love after death.
Later retitled and rereleased in America in 1996 as Cemetery Man (with new additions to the soundtrack, including Ozzy Osbourne’s rendition of Hellraiser), the movie was divisive among both audiences and critics. While some were enamored by the fascinating main character and the surreal atmosphere, others felt that the flick’s offbeat tone and anti-fascist agenda felt unpolished. Yet, over time, the movie developed something of a cult following as filmmakers like Martin Scorsese began to call it one of the greatest cinematic experiences of the 90s.
Of course, merely describing Cemetery Man doesn’t do it justice, as it’s the dreamlike experience of actually living through Francesco’s genre-bending adventures that makes the movie so memorable. Sure, there are zombies, but this isn’t really a zombie movie. There’s also plenty of romance (as well as some remarkably vivid sex scenes), but it’s also not a love story. And while you’ll inevitably laugh out loud at the overall absurdity of the plot, the constant existential anguish motivating our main character means that this isn’t a proper comedy either. It’s precisely this eccentric combination of contrasting aesthetics and influences that keeps me coming back to the film year after year – though it was only during my most recent rewatch at the morgue that I realized how much the experience benefits from a receptive audience.
At its best, Cemetery Man feels a lot like flipping through random issues of poorly translated euro-horror comics from the 80s, with each pulpy page offering gnarly visuals and erotic subtext while also seeming to cry out in anguish over a continent scarred by authoritarianism. This fever dream aesthetic might be off-putting to viewers who like their horror served with a side of logical worldbuilding, but I’m of the opinion that the emotional core of Francesco’s lonely existence firmly anchors the film in a relatable emotional reality.
Cemetery Man certainly has plenty of issues, such as low production value, problematic treatment of disabled people, and even the flick’s awkward approach to sexuality (and there is a lot of sexuality in this movie), but even these negative elements ultimately help to paint a grimy and nightmarish reflection of the real world. Hell, the final act here involves Francesco going on an American Psycho-style killing spree while reality unravels around him, so I think it’s safe to say that the film isn’t attempting to glorify our troubled main character.
Speaking of Francesco, Everett gives his career-best performance here as a complex individual who is just as much a budding Casanova in his romantic pursuits as he is Norman Bates in his social (and emotional) isolation. He may not be a traditional “good guy”, but I think anyone would lose their grip on sanity if they had to deal with Francesco’s grisly job.
There’s just so much to love here, from the gorgeous countryside visuals to the retro special effects (I’m eternally amused by the filmmakers’ attempts at creating ghost-lights by lighting cotton balls on fire and waving them around with fishing wire). That’s not even mentioning the hauntingly beautiful score by Manuel De Sica, which hits especially hard during that mind-boggling finale.
Part secret comic-book adaptation, part existential meditation on love/death, and part comedic takedown of Italy’s fascist past, Cemetery Man is just as much of an enigma as its seductive main character. The experience might be a little too weird for some folks, but I’d argue that the film is still worth revisiting 30 years later precisely because of how strange it is. So if you’re aching for more original horror, why not watch one of the only movies to ever truly capture the spirit of classic European horror comics?
College kids, strippers and vampires—those were Donald P. Borchers’ only requirements when he approached Richard Wenk about writing and directing a movie for New World Pictures. As requested, Wenk cooked up Vamp (1986), a tailor-made blend of the decade’s teen movie craze as well as its horror boom.
Grim and earnest stories were still very much a part of the ’80s horror landscape, yet Vamp is something of a comedy. One difference between it and, say, Saturday the 14th, though, is the former avoids using schtick. Wenk’s movie proves that horror comedies also don’t have to subtract thrills from their recipes. Of course, it takes a minute before reaching that point; college antics and culture shocks preface this one macabre misadventure.
Vamp‘s initial setup is apt for a typical college-set, sex-driven comedy; to bribe their way into a fraternity house, two pledges (Chris Makepeace, Robert Rusler) go looking for some adult entertainment. Without wasting time on any further exposition, the characters embark on an all-in-one-night trip that quickly detours into terror.
To procure their elusive MacGuffin—a stripper willing to gyrate for some frat boys—Keith (Makepeace) and AJ (Rusler), plus a third wheel named Duncan (Gedee Watanabe), trade the safety of their remote college campus for the seediness of some unnamed city. The setting is recognizably L.A. by day, but as soon as night falls, downtown, along with the characters, slips into a kind of surreal universe. Director of photography Elliot Davis gave this early entry on his prolific résumé an unusual yet distinctive look; that Mario Bava-esque, magenta-green lighting is omnipresent, so much so that it’s almost its own character.
Chris Makepeace and Robert Rusler in Vamp
The faint comparisons to Martin Scorsese’s After Hours are merited, although not just because of Vamp’s distinguishing nighttime aesthetic. Save for the primary characters, the supporting roles in Wenk’s movie are also quite colorful and transactional in their behavior. The difference here, though, is the additional urge to ruin Keith and his friends at every turn. Some of that harm is humorous and tolerable enough, whereas the moment Vamp dishes out its first fatality, it’s abundantly clear how this movie qualifies as horror.
Vamp falls into that category of horror movie that reveals its genre with a scream rather than a series of whispers. The opening scene can function as a hint of what lies ahead—things are not at all what they appear to be—but otherwise, Wenk is more than happy to hold off on the horror. When that time does come, though, it catches the viewer off guard. In addition to the pure shock value is that sudden decision to upend the movie’s foremost feature. Or so it would seem.
If afraid of major spoilage, those new to Vamp would be wise to stop reading here. There’s just no skirting around the fact that the central fellowship in this buddy movie hits a serious snag when AJ is killed. That development causes the story to become more of a “long, bad night” journey for Keith and his romantic interest. So while Wenk scores points for subverting expectations, there is also a touch of sadness in his decision. Because if Vamp does anything well, it’s making the characters likable.
Something that comes easily to Vamp—and other teen horror movies from this same era—is its ability to invent young characters worth caring about, or at the very least, are interesting and not so immediately off-putting. More impressive is how Wenk did all this without actually fleshing out those characters. Still and all, Keith and his kind are a grade above cookie-cutter, and in some cases, aren’t completely devoid of growth.
Grace Jones in Vamp
Vamp appeals with an assorted cast of characters. No two are the same, nor are they operating on the same wavelength. The cinematically extroverted AJ, whose actor conveyed charm and vulnerability in near equal amounts, comes alive when he’s at his most undead. Makepeace then makes the chronically cautious Keith a sympathetic fellow, even as he’s more and more affected by the night’s bizarre events. Meanwhile, Duncan is indeed the designated loser of the whole bunch, but Watanabe still manages to humanize him. As a bonus, the role didn’t require him to pull a Long Duk Dong.
As for Dedee Pfeiffer, she is plain adorable as the mysterious After Dark server nicknamed “Amaretto”. She spends all night fixing her dress strap while at the same time trying to get Keith to remember how he knows her. As their offbeat romance grows, it becomes another highlight of this movie. Whether or not Pfeiffer’s character is really a vampire also creates some welcome tension in the story.
Like a lot of its contemporaries, Vamp went on to become a bit of a cult classic. That current status is determined by several factors, but without a doubt, the casting of Grace Jones is the most considerable. The image of her writhing on that unique-looking chair, a Keith Haring original, springs to mind whenever this movie is brought up.
Chris Makepeace, Billy Drago and Paunita Nichols in Vamp
Prior to that first display of unequivocal horror, local vampire queen Katrina (Jones) took to the stage and delivered a strip show like no other. One would expect nothing less from that renowned model and performance artist. By now reports of Jones’ tardiness on set are no secret, yet it’s also hard to deny her commitment to the part of Katrina. It was, in fact, Jones who took charge of her character’s appearance—on top of Haring painting her body and that now-iconic chair, she had Andy Warhol handle her costuming. And not too many actors could seize a room’s attention without saying a single line of dialogue.
In 2022, Vamp received a retrospective novelization from Encyclopocalypse. This literary union of preexisting source material—Wenk’s original screenplay—and new ideas from author Christian Francis amounts to a more comprehensive visit to the After Dark Club. The basic story there is no different than what’s shown on screen; however, Francis gets creative with the characters’ origins and designs, and he enhances a number of key scenes.
The novelization expands on the urban and social decay of the main setting, and supplies a background for the After Dark Club. Sandy Baron’s character, Katrina’s emcee and familiar, is given ample motivation for sticking around; up until the fiery end, he is loyal to his friend and former business partner “Squeak”, who looks like he was “fed through a combine harvester, and left as nothing more than a heap of mangled remains”. Then there is Billy Drago’s character Snow, the leader of a street gang called The Dragons. His reason for menacing Keith and AJ is more altruistic than in the movie; he and his peers act tough to scare off any potential food for the vampires.
Lisa Lyon in Vamp
If not for all the backstories, Francis’ Vamp would be a hell of a lot shorter. Instead, this tie-in read dives into how AJ met Keith—the orphaned Anthony Joseph hailed from a broken home back in Brooklyn—and how their friendship flourished over the years. Keith’s archership is no longer just an assumed part of his entire being; it’s a confidence-building extracurricular for a boy who got picked on before coming into the protection of the new kid in town. These supplemental, in-depth looks at the protagonists, plus their close connection, are maybe unnecessary. The movie already did a fair and concise job of addressing their platonic intimacy without the need for flashbacks and insights, specifically in that scene where AJ lays it all out as he sacrifices himself.
Where the novelization gets off course is its approach to the minor characters. Intermittently backstorying the likes of Katrina’s indentured servants, Seko (Leila Hee Olsen) and Vlad (Brad Logan), ends up disturbing the flow of the writing. Was it absolutely essential that readers know Vlad was the Grand Duke of the House of Romanov, or how Snow’s accomplice Maven (Paunita Nichols) became so dentally challenged? No, not really. However, one’s mileage with these random biographies may vary.
The novelization is a more substantial experience, but for a movie like Vamp, less is more. And as plentiful as they are, it never simply coasts on its campy charms, either. The character work sits comfortably in that realm between cursory and meticulous, the script is sharper than first realized, and Greg Cannom’s vampire makeup is straightforward yet effective. Most of all, the movie didn’t squander its out-of-the-box concept. Richard Wenk made his vision of a “comic nightmare in which just about anything that can go wrong does” come true, and it is very enjoyable.
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