Satire

As attention spans keep getting whittled down, intellectually impish Romanian satirist Radu Jude continues to go longer and longer, his latest act of cinematic disobedience the nearly three-hour mythbuster “Dracula.”

But you will not be getting a worshipful retelling of author Bram Stoker’s horror classic. For that, call Francis Ford Coppola. Rather, Jude has Frankensteined together a grab bag of notions about the vampire saga that is his country’s most well-known cultural export — originating with real-life medieval slaughterer Vlad the Impaler but most famously immortalized by a 19th century Irish author. Jude turns it into a vaudeville that, even at its most entertaining, is best described by a common bat-related term that’s more scatological.

For the last decade, festival favorite Jude has turned contemporary Romania’s fault lines into his own jangly, caustically funny microcosm of the world’s glaring sociopolitical hypocrisies, from the warping of the past (“I Do Not Care if We Go Down in History as Barbarians”) to sexual attitudes (“Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn”) to late-stage capitalism (“Do Not Expect Much From the End of the World”). Jude is especially trenchant about how these realities are sold to us, and what’s inherently funny and tragic about that.

Halfway between an endurance test and a mad romp, “Dracula” is still proof he’s cinema’s brainiest, raunchiest crank: Eastern European’s own X-rated Monty Python. “Dracula” was birthed initially as a jokey response to his anti-commercial tendencies — as if Jude could ever make a conventional horror movie. But it still managed to percolate (fester?) until he’d found a unifying idea across a dozen or so vignettes of prurient humor and social commentary: the twinned legacy of a bloodthirsty despot who still stirs national pride, and an invented, Hollywoodized legend. All of it is engineered around the brutality of capitalism, which bites, slurps, then discards. It’s economics and entertainment.

As for that sucking sound in Jude’s antic organizing concept, it’s artificial intelligence: His proxy narrator is a creatively blocked filmmaker (Adonis Tanţa, in one of many roles) turning to an AI chatbot to generate ideas for his vampire film. The film’s cheeky opening is a succession of AI-generated Vlads/Draculas of all genders, colors and ages. From there, the intermittent interludes of hilariously nonsensical AI slop visuals — whether inoffensively ugly, as when inserted into a doomed peasant love story, or pornographic, when the prompt is sexing up Coppola’s 1992 version — are a consistently funny middle finger directed at a grotesquely vampiric, art-leeching technology.

The various “generated” stories and sketches, meanwhile, break up a narrative about a sleazy Dracula dinner theater in Transylvania that, when its underpaid, slave-labor leads decide to bolt mid-performance, gives dissatisfied customers a (ahem) stake in the outcome. The punchy bits work best, as when a reincarnated Vlad interrupts a modern-day tour of his home to clap back at rumors (“I didn’t kill rats!”) or a very Jude-like scenario in which Dracula is a ruthless video game company head exploiting his workers. Less effective is an overlong adaptation of the first Romanian vampire novel, its phone-shot cheapness and amateur theatrics eventually grating, and a Chaucer-adjacent fable about a cursed farmer’s harvest of phalluses that is more obnoxious than clever.

With Jude, of course, vulgarity is often the point, and maybe, as two hours becomes three, the excessiveness is part of the point too. When will we all be worn down by stupid consumerism? It doesn’t make the devilish, insane and extreme “Dracula” any easier to take as a skewering of sensibilities and conventions. As often as you may be tickled by its fanged silliness, you’ll also be drained.

The cultural legacy of the 1984 rock-mock-doc “This Is Spinal Tap” is of sufficient amplitude that, to give the band’s guitarist Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) his knob-twiddling due, it’s gone way past 11.

Perennially quotable, ad-libbed to Brit-accented perfection by co-creators Guest, Michael McKean and Harry Shearer and finessed into an iconic spoof by director Rob Reiner, “Spinal Tap” was born. The movie both ridiculed (and, slyly, furthered the cause for) the metal world’s idiotic excesses, but also an industry’s love of a satisfying comeback saga.

When your fake movie becomes gospel truth to admiring music legends and a pretend forgotten band goes on to play Wembley in real life, the fine line between clever and stupid (again, so quotable) suddenly looks like a rarefied space for a sequel to exploit.

Yet when the key comic minds behind that singular sendup of past-prime glory-seekers aim to rekindle their magic, “Spinal Tap II: The End Continues” leaves one thinking some classics are better left in their original, endlessly re-playable states.

Not that the sight, 40 years on, of the sweetly clueless Tufnel, McKean’s prickly frontman David St. Hubbins and Shearer’s man-of-few-blurts Derek Smalls reuniting for one last concert won’t trigger a low-wattage 83-minute-long smile. But the concept of Tap being revered (by legend cameos Paul McCartney and Elton John, no less) saps the comedy of outsider tension, making for something closer to a feature-length outtake reel than a fresh take on clownish notoriety.

There’s agreeable silliness early on in seeing where the trio has landed in their solo lives, from acknowledged retail dreamer Nigel’s cheese-and-guitar shop to the fringes of the recording world, where California-transplanted David finds himself composing phone-hold music. In these moments, you get a glimpse of the special sauce of personality delusion that Guest, as a director, turned into a mini-genre (“Waiting for Guffman,” “Best in Show,” “A Mighty Wind”). But when dead Tap manager Ian Faith’s daughter, Hope (Kerry Godliman), having inherited daddy’s contract, forces the members to gather in New Orleans for an arena show, the whole thing loses an essential oddball energy, trying to coast on a masterpiece’s fumes.

Gag encores are pitfalls. The famous drummer mortality problem is a case in point, wearing out its understandable reviving with star cameos (Questlove, Lars Ulrich) and a lackluster tryout montage. Then, after the hiring of an energetic young replacement (Valerie Franco), a humor opportunity is missed when we wonder why she isn’t pushing back on having to play songs like “Bitch School.” Even the band’s second chance at a Stonehenge showstopper is more like a joke in name only.

The three leads can still, when given room, generate an anything-can-happen vibe, even if the improvisatory pearls are in short supply. But there are quite a few instances when the promise of comedic friction is undercooked or ignored and the new strains of hinted lunacy (as when Guest regulars John Michael Higgins and Don Lake show up) never quite soar.

The funniest addition, because it feels genuinely pointed about the milieu, is Chris Addison as the band’s aggressive promoter Simon, who prides himself on being impervious to enjoying music, and tells our septuagenarian rockers that for posterity’s sake, ideally, two of them should die during the show. Thankfully, nothing in “Spinal Tap II” will kill off the original’s legacy. It’s just a nostalgia lap you wish had more 11.