El Conde (2023)

El Conde is the kind of audacious, wickedly imaginative film that feels like it shouldn’t work—until Pablo Larraín makes it sing, turning historical horror into a razor-edged fable with real bite. Shot in gorgeous black-and-white, it glides between the macabre and the absurd with a deadpan confidence, finding gallows humor in the way power clings to life and families circle like carrion birds. The movie’s great pleasure is its tone: elegant, mischievous, and unnervingly funny, as if a political cartoon learned to fly and started hunting at night. It’s not for viewers who want subtlety or comfort—this is a provocation—but if you’re open to a bold allegory wrapped in stylish vampiric comedy, it’s a feast.

El Conde is clearly trying to skewer Pinochet’s legacy through a grotesque, gothic vampire fable, mixing political satire with horror-comedy and a deliberately stylized, art-house vibe. When it works, it’s audacious, nasty in a purposeful way, and occasionally darkly funny, with strong performances that commit to the absurdity. But the film can feel like it’s in love with its own premise, leaning into polemics and blunt metaphor where you might want sharper wit or more narrative momentum, and the investigative middle stretch tends to drag. If you’re not already on board with Larraín’s chilly, confrontational approach—or you want your satire tighter and your pacing brisk—this may feel more like an endurance test than a wicked good time.