Peter Cushing's Van Helsing was the shit. If you ever find yourself with a blutsauger for a neighbor, do yourself a favor and check your local listings for a man in a cape doing puns between the reels. Go on. Check. Nobody's coming, kid. It's you, a Mars bar, and whatever's in the kitchen drawer.
The mid-eighties moved the vampire off the moor and into a split-level with a two-car garage, and it worked because the suburbs were where the audience actually lived. The VHS boom put these films in a plastic clamshell on a shelf you could reach — the video store horror aisle raised a whole generation on box art alone. The trick of suburban horror is that no one believes the kid. The adults have mortgages and reasonable explanations, and the monster has better manners than anybody on the block.
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