Run from the sun, toward the laughter

This review by longtime Charlotte arts critic Lawrence Toppman was published by The Charlotte Ledger on July 20, 2026. You can find out more about The Charlotte Ledger’s commitment to smart local news and information and sign up for our newsletter for free here. Ledger subscribers can add the Toppman on the Arts newsletter on their “My Account” page.

by Lawrence Toppman

If you title a show “Dracula: A Comedy of Terrors,” a theatergoer might reasonably expect three things: Dracula, comedy and terror. The Blumenthal-produced show, which opened July 7 at Booth Playhouse, provides a Dracula who’s sexy if never spooky, 90 minutes of laughs that scratch the funny bone while leaving the brain undisturbed, and terror … well, not unless you shudder watching patrons at the lobby bar suck orange-hued drinks from receptacles resembling blood bags.

Director Gordon Greenberg, who co-wrote the script with Steve Rosen, loosely follows the story of Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel. British real estate agent Jonathan Harker (James Romney) voyages to Transylvania to sell properties in London to Count Dracula (Christopher James Stevens). Back in England, Drac tries to put the bite on both Lucy (Adriane Leigh Robinson), Harker’s fiancée, and Mina (Paul Vogt), her man-hungry sister.

Their father, blustering Dr. Westfeldt (Kelly Bashar), finally seeks the aid of vampire hunter Van Helsing (Vogt again). When this towering Teutonic frau arrives, she — yes, she, for the show is “Dragula” as much as anything else — and Westfeldt feel their own hearts going pitty-pat.

Three jokes will tell you more than anything I could say about the show. Here they are:

“He was as terrified as Meghan Markle at a family reunion.”

Dracula, discussing his cobwebbed new abode: “It’s perfect as it is.” “Even with the dust, the bugs and the smell?” “I’m used to it. I have a timeshare in New York.”

Van Helsing to Westfeldt: “It takes a very big man to admit his mistakes. And I like a very … BIG … man.” A hundred years ago, the drummer in a vaudeville orchestra would’ve delivered a rim shot.

The writers take a few mild stabs at shibboleths: Westfeldt’s belief that a woman doctor can’t amount to much, the traditional division of males into bookish nerds and swaggering men of action. Dracula puts the “bi” in “bite,” necking with Jonathan almost as avidly as with Lucy; maybe Greenberg and Rosen mean to offer a defense of sexual fluidity.

A friend compared this show to Monty Python, perhaps partly because of the “we didn’t really know how to end this” feeling that hangs over both “Dracula: A Comedy of Terrors” and “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” But this stays a notch below Python in both wit and ambition.

Python could be equally silly but expected their audiences to work a bit to get the jokes, to see social or historical relationships underlying the humor. Here the writers lay gags out as neatly as the simple cheese puffs demented servant Renfield brings to a party. (All the actors except Stevens play multiple parts, and Bashar earns big laughs by frantically switching wigs and accents to play the insect-snarfing Renfield.)

The hustling cast uses quick costume changes, shamelessly broad accents and intentionally over-the-top portrayals to mine laughs, and they’re all good at it. Stevens seems to be channeling both Dr. Frank-N-Furter and the beefcake titular hero of “The Rocky Horror Show.” He’s been given a wildly unfocused character to play, so he abandons all pretense of emotional consistency and chews the scenery with gusto. He’s exactly what the show needs.

Lawrence Toppman covered the arts for 40 years at The Charlotte Observer before retiring in 2020. Now, he’s back in the critic’s chair for the Charlotte Ledger — look for his reviews several times each month in the Charlotte Ledger.