The first five minutes of The Vampire Journals contain bloodletting, bare breasts and beheadings; the movie's remainder consists of a series of fugue-like variations on those three themes. Sometimes the emphasis is on bloodletting. Other times, it's breasts or beheadings, until the finale brings it all home. The story, if it matters, concerns a good vampire with a tortured conscience and a predilection to provide turgid narration, who must fight an evil vampire for the soul of a young American pianist. The Full Moon label usually means a degree of campy humor—the only saving grace for this sort of thing—but there's none to be found in this dour Anne Rice rip-off. Instead, there's just a lot of arch line readings, steely glares and black clothes, elements that never make the essential transition from bad to enjoyably bad.