At this exact moment in pop culture history there is nothing more boring than being a vampire -- always tormented and misunderstood, always in a big fight with some other supernatural monster squad, always in love with the wrong non-vampire. Each new media incarnation feels the need to flip the script, forcing the blood-fueled into silly new mythologies about baseball and sunlight, enforcing the rigid code of model-hotness, desperately trying to make enough cultural noise and ignite the attention span of a weary, post-Twilight population.
Unless you’re Eve (Tilda Swinton) and Adam (Tom Hiddleston), that is, vampires under the directorial command of low-key/high-style weirdo Jim Jarmusch. Then everything is awesomer than Legos. Eve’s an impossibly chic jetsetter, turning heads as she stalks through nighttime Tangier. Adam’s a bit of a brooding art-hermit in the most bombed out part of Detroit. Together they’re into books (she can speed read all the languages), vintage guitars (he collects them and creates anonymous underground music highly sought after by sonic nerds), languorous sex, messy hairstyles, scratchy Wanda Jackson records, goofy disco videos on YouTube and sucking on blood popsicles that drop them slow-motionly into narcotic ecstasy. Eve scores
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