Vampires have never been out of fashion. They don’t age, they don’t apologize, and they certainly don’t follow trends. They are the trend.
And yet, lately, they’ve returned with particular determination. With Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu and Luc Besson’s Dracula, it feels like the undead have once again risen to conquer our dreams. Not politely. Not subtly. Dramatically.
Every generation rediscovers the vampire. But each time, the silhouette changes.
From the elongated shadow of Count Orlok to the aristocratic sensuality of Count Dracula, from Victorian mourning lace to ‘90s velvet excess, the vampire has always been as much about costume as about curse.
Because what is a vampire, really, if not a masterclass in image control? They understand the power of a cape. The importance of a high collar. The erotic tension of a cinched waist. They know that immortality is one thing - but immortality in the right fabric? That’s legacy.
So, let’s summon the most iconic vampire looks ever to haunt the screen.
Black Sunday (1960) by Mario Bava
Before vampires were cool, they were terrifying.
Barbara Steele’s dual performance as Katia and Asa is pure operatic horror. Asa, in particular with her severe dark gowns, sharp veils, and that impossibly sculpted face - looks like she was carved from marble and malice. The costumes lean heavily into baroque decay: corseted bodices, heavy fabrics, religious undertones. Nothing casual. Everything fatal.
Valerie and Her Week of Wonders (1970) by Vítězslav Nezval
Pale, melancholic, and dangerously pretty.
With its Pre-Raphaelite framing and washed-out, storybook palette, this film feels like it was made to be endlessly reblogged. Valerie drifts through scenes in nightgown-sundress hybrids, delicate ribbons, and magical earrings that look stolen from a Victorian jewelry box. At the same time, her grandmother’s sheer black gloves and ropes of pearls add a decadent rot beneath the innocence.
It’s less about seduction, more about atmosphere. Vampirism here is lace, ritual, and girlhood on the brink.
Daughters of Darkness (1971) by Harry Kümel
Aristocracy Never Dies.
Delphine Seyrig does not enter a room. She occupies it. With her perfectly sculpted 1930’s waves, controlled voice, and those immaculate gowns by couturier Bernard Perris, she embodies a kind of eternal, continental elegance. Silk, satin, gloves. Everything whispers old money and older secrets.
This is the vampire as European socialite. You don’t run from her. You RSVP.
Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979) by Werner Herzog
This is not the grotesque horror of the 1922 original. This is yearning.
Isabelle Adjani drifts through the film in high-necked, diaphanous white gowns that feel almost bridal, almost devotional. The silhouettes are late-19th-century pure, puffed sleeves, delicate pleats, soft movement. She looks less like a victim and more like a saint awaiting sacrifice.
Opposite her, Klaus Kinski’s bald, rat-like Nosferatu is all elongated shadow and funereal black. However, it’s Adjani’s fragile luminosity that defines the film’s aesthetic. Her white against his darkness. Innocence against rot.
The Hunger (1983) by Tony Scott
Yes, we’ve spoken about it before. And yes, it would be blasphemy to exclude it.
The opening alone is iconic: Peter Murphy in a cage while Bauhaus perform Bela Lugosi’s Dead. Catherine Deneuve appears in silver cat-eye sunglasses, leather air-cadet cap, blade-shaped earrings, studded gloves - and only escalates from there. Impeccable tailoring. Cold glamour. Controlled sensuality. And David Bowie? Cream suits, oversized coats, decadent scarves.
This film didn’t just dress vampires. It defined 80’s goth chic.
Vamp (1986) by Richard Wenk
Let’s be honest. The plot is not why we’re here.We’re here for Grace Jones. Playing a vampire queen who moonlights as a stripper, she turns every scene into a living art installation.
Her Keith Haring-designed costumes are outrageous in the best way: psychedelic catsuit with whiteface and red wig, sculptural metal spiral bra, Afrofuturistic headdress that looks like it could summon lightning.
It’s camp. It’s theatrical. It’s fearless. She doesn’t just steal the film. She devours it.
The Lost Boys (1987) by Joel Schumacher
Quintessential 80’s? Yes. But elevated.
Kiefer Sutherland’s David looks like he just left a cyber punk club and decided to start a cult. The peroxide spiked mullet. The floor-length double-breasted black coat. Leather gloves. One dangling earring. Maximum DGAF energy. This is when the vampire stopped being aristocratic and became dangerously cool.
Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992) by Francis Ford Coppola
What can we say? Everything is excessive. Everything is correct.
Costume designer Eiko Ishioka was given total freedom, and she responded with art history on acid.
Dracula’s red muscle armor alone deserves its own exhibition. It’s anatomical, romantic, grotesque. And Lucy’s dramatic white lace gown? Pure bridal hysteria. Voluminous, translucent, almost absurd in its innocence before corruption.
This isn’t styling. It’s spectacle.
The Addiction (1995) by Abel Ferrara
Black and white. New York. Existential dread. Here, vampirism is stripped down to 90’s intellectual chic: long dark coats, simple silhouettes, severe hair, and a hell of a pair of sunglasses. Nothing ornate. Nothing theatrical. Just urban detachment.
It feels like a philosophy student discovered Helmut Lang and nihilism at the same time. And honestly? It works.
Blade (1998) by Stephen Norrington
The tactical vest alone could walk a Prada runway.
Paired with a floor-length leather coat, industrial belt, and Matrix-style sunglasses, Blade’s silhouette became the blueprint for late-90’s cyber minimalism. Functional. Aggressive. Clean.
The nightclub bloodbath scene? Still one of the most stylish openings in vampire cinema.
Every trend-savvy human trying to look “dark but practical” owes him royalties.