Netflix’s Castlevania Series Forgets What Makes the Games Work

I’ve this lingering feeling that even despite its many sequels, something about the full promise of the Castlevania series was never quite fulfilled, even with the beloved Symphony of the Night. While From Software’s Bloodborne may have taken Konami’s Stokerian torch and ran with it, with the Netflix adaptation Ellis and co. were given the reins to Castlevania to fully realize the idea of a dark, stygian world defined by gothic architecture and intense skirmishes with hordes of demonic nightmares. Instead, here we spend an exorbitant amount of time arguing about the social inequalities between those who are poor and marginalized and those clergy recognized as holy and just. These are noble ambitions by Ellis and co. indeed, but they fly in the face of the simple ideals which unify the best entries of the Castlevania universe; to say the writing of the classic games was ever more than mere window dressing at best would be charitable.

Despite admitting to never actually having played a Castlevania game, once in a while Ellis demonstrates that he gets what the commotion’s about. In one scene in the third episode “Labyrinth,” Trevor is being walked against his will to the town church to speak with its bishop. A black crow sits perched on a brutal Victorian steel fence which flanks the group’s sides and the twilight gloom juxtaposes against the eerie backgrounded papal institution. Anticipation for the impending encounter quietly builds through strong, inspired art direction and solid camerawork. While brief, we’re shown here how restraint in cinema can paint a scene in such a way that also echoes that imagined Castlevania ideal. Not a single smarmy one-liner or testicle joke or sheep-bestiality anecdote or useless swear word was necessary.

This Castlevania series is at its best when it wants more to be an adaptation of its source material than it does a milquetoast imitation of Game of Thrones. Even worse, it sometimes channels the puerile cutaway gag formula championed by Family Guy. In one scene, Trevor is questioned by an angry mob about the whereabouts of his compatriots, the historian clerics known as the Speakers, who they’ve come to murder. Trevor replies, “I’ve put them somewhere safe,” and we briefly hard cut to the catacombs below where the Speakers crowd around the corpse of a cyclops which Trevor previously slayed. A man nervously states, “I swear it just moved.” In a different context, this joke might have worked pretty well. In a vacuum, it’s a funny idea which is solidly executed upon. But when placed inside both the specific drama of this particular scene and within the wider context of Castlevania as a whole, it leaves a bad taste while feeling needlessly contrarian to the heart of this franchise.

A strong adaptation bends both to the whims of the medium it’s operating within and of its source material. It then manages to find common ground while also taking artistic liberties to forge its own path. Castlevania caters too hard to some of the more cynical aspects of modern prestige television, those that shows like Better Call Saul and Twin Peaks have already themselves deemed obsolete—all this while ultimately failing to channel the macabre, doom-and-gloom spirit of the original games. Sometimes Castlevania feels like it’s almost there, whereas other moments fall flat on their face. Dodgy production values make matters worse, with certain scenes being exquisitely animated and art designed while others simply do not pass muster. Its English voice dub, the default for American Netflix users, is often poor, and an uneven vocal mix frequently can make conversations feel stilted and one-sided. Little about this television adaptation works as well as it should. With a second eight-episode season already well into production, I can only hope that the team can find the time to learn firsthand what makes the games so special and beloved so that they might whip this thing into shape.