Theme of Relentless, Fruitless Searching Montage: Vampire Hunters by Seiji Yokoyama (Dracula: Sovereign of the Damned a.k.a. Tomb of Dracula OST)
You’re wandering an endlessly self-iterating shopping mall. You’re slightly cut out, apart from the world even as you move through it-hell, at one point you’re just full-on walk cycling as the larger reality rolls past you.
You pause in the food court. You light a cigarette. You stare down as many people as you can. You’re in the mood for a brawl. A ridiculous looking mall cop rolls up to you on a two wheeled conveyance. You flick ash all over their phony badge. A staring contest ensues, a battle of wills. You win. The mall cop motors off. You manage to look both psychotically mean and pathetically forlorn even in victory.
You’re blowing cigarette smoke through your nostrils. Relax. You’re a fictional character. Fictional people never get cancer. And even if you do, well, you know, it’s just, like, fictional cancer. For fictional people. So it works out. There’s probably even, like, an equally fictional miracle cure out there that’ll fix you right up. Depend upon it!
We get a steady, ominous zoom into your staring, pathological face from all the way across the food court. Your face is obliterated by a searing white light. The white light blazes like the sun. For a moment we get a full-on shot of the noonday sun itself but then it fades into a painted sun that’s an element of a tacky mural depicting the complex of mall buildings in a festive, prosperous relationship with the rest of the city. We cut to a reverse angle of the mall cop motoring straight towards the camera. The two wheeled conveyance is smoking and sparking. We cut to your deranged laughing face in close-up. We get a majestic slow motion shot of the mall cop getting engulfed in flames while still racing along. And then we’re looking at the mural again as the burning mall cop crashes into the mural. Spectacular explosion optical.
Jump cut to your dour face. And then we see the mall cop totally not on fire, puttering along, rack focus to the mural. Go to a close-up of your dour face. And then we go wider to see you grabbing up a paper plate with someone’s pepperoni pizza slice. Extreme close-up of you stubbing out your cigarette in the cheese. A distraught father’s face. An angry mother’s face. A confused daughter’s face. The paper plate with the ruined slice drops onto the table where the family unit sits. We get a shot of you stalking away into the vast mass of shoppers.
Jump cut to an empty food court. It’s like everyone just got blinked away to a most distant lost and found.
Close-up of a painted sun.
Not even a memory of a single battle fought.
Never mind the fact that you found no glory that day.
Surely a great lie would’ve worked itself into the fabric of things . . . except it didn’t.
End with a shot of a long abandoned arcade and then a long abandoned kiosk and then a blazing noonday sun inside of which we see the sketchy outlines of your angry face . . . and then a full cosmic blackout.
