By Stephanie Zacharek
By Simon Abrams
By Michelle Orange
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Nick Schager
By Amy Nicholson
By The Invisible Woman
By I Used to Be Darker
Casting a tapered, vase-slender silhouette and speaking in a Transylvanian accent with a touch of Borscht Belt, Hotel Transylvania's de-fanged Count Dracula is introduced in an 1895-set prologue while serenading his infant daughter. No menacing carnivore, this Nosferatu has sworn off fatty human blood, is more scared of humans than we are of him, and desires nothing more than a spot hidden away from ever-ready-to-mob villagers in which to raise his tyke. His baby-voiced, Weekend Update croon at the cradle's side ID's no one less than Adam Sandler as the Voice Of.
To such an end, the Count breaks ground on Hotel Transylvania, meant to become a haven for the entire monster squad of persecuted and despised Universal Studios contract players. When we rejoin the Count a century or so later, we find his establishment's rooms booked up by Wolf Man and family, Frankenstein and Bride, Jell-O mold the Blob, and so on. It's the eve of daughter Mavis's 118th, which, in Dracula years, makes her a restless teenager pacing up her bedroom walls. Although Mavis is going through a goth phase, she's really just a sweet Selena Gomez-voiced kid who wants to see something of the outside human world that her hyper-protective dad has forbidden to her.
Despite the Count's best efforts, guess who's coming to — and possibly going to become — dinner? Distinctly pink and fleshy Jonathan (Andy Samberg), a young, mortal backpacker, stumbles into the hotel's lobby and into Mavis's heart, after the count disguises Jonathan for his own safety as a reanimated cousin of Frankenstein's monster so he can thereby "pass," to use the language of clandestine racial identity.
Hotel Transylvania is full of lines with the double-meaning elasticity to serve the film's flexible metaphor, equating monsterdom with the Us versus Them segregation of your choice — though it's funniest when it just slaps its cards on the table. "Are these monsters going to kill me?" a quivering Jonathan asks the count. "Not as long as they think you're a monster." "That's kind of racist." "Mavis could never be with someone of his kind," old-fashioned Dracula harrumphs before finally venturing into the world to fight for his daughter's happiness.
Hotel Transylvania is, in brief, a tract against parochial xenophobia, the count's lofty getaway a catch-all filling in for gated community, ethnic ghetto or hick backwater. The idea that insular communities might have any intrinsic value does not enter into the script, content as it is to endorse the great melting pot of pop monoculture, for which Instagram tourist Jonathan is the missionary, pushing aside zombie Beethoven and his decaying songbook to take over as Mavis's birthday entertainment. When the monsters do finally emerge from seclusion, they discover that they have gained acceptance with the humans through the vehicle of entertainment, as the great-great-grandchildren of the torch-and-pitchfork-wielding yokels who once spurned them are now profiting from a "Monster Fest" at the foot of the Carpathians. The nearest Hotel Transylvania comes to criticizing the compact with pop commodification comes when the count is plugged into Jonathan's smartphone and, hearing LMFAO's "Sexy and I Know It," gasps "It's taking my soul!"
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