Venice rolled out its red carpet and immediately had to iron claw marks out of it. The festival, once content with auteurs and damp postcards, now invites creatures who RSVP with growls and embargoes.

Frankenstein arrived stitched, styled, and suspicious of influencers who kept asking for a collaboration, preferably posthumous. A vampire refused sunlight and criticism, claiming both were notes he could not take.

Security briefings were updated to cover the undead and the undemocratic. Staff were told to treat every shadow as talent and every statement as a teaser trailer that bites.

I watched the business behind the spectacle, because the edits live inside the press kit and the audience is the final co-author with popcorn breath. The ushers moved like diplomats, shushing with Geneva precision while deals gnawed through their leashes.

Fog rolled in so aggressively the lagoon asked for royalties. The immersive installation turned out to be a shipping crate filled with ‘portable fog machine for costumes’ and a sign that said, “You are the atmosphere now.”

Frankenstein’s publicist requested key light on the left scar, which is apparently his good bolt. The film’s sound mix was 80% footsteps on marble and 20% budget whispering, “I came here to network, not to make sense.”

Somewhere between screenings, a statesman appeared by satellite, announcing he would not be attending while very much attending. His remarks were cut like a thriller trailer: no spoilers, only menace, and a hard fade to plausible deniability.

The merch table sold ethical garlic, reclaimed pitchforks, and a couture distress kit for when your sequel underperforms. Dress code updates recommend capes with reflective lining and the emergency elegance of a ‘detachable tuxedo bow tie clip’ billed as “from crypt to carpet in seconds.”

Paparazzi flashes were so bright the seagulls started giving interviews. A sea monster filed for a stunt credit and was told its tentacles were a safety violation unless they joined the boom op union.

Audiences screamed, then applauded, then screamed at the applause for being derivative. The applause meter looked like a NATO vote: unanimous until someone remembered the co-production treaty with anxiety.

The jury gave a standing ovation to an four-hour mood piece where bureaucracy eats a town and asks for script notes. Sustainability was achieved by recycling jump scares from 1931 into artisanal dread.

Venice remains gorgeous, which is frankly rude to everyone’s pores. The monsters remain on message, the press remains caffeinated, and if fear is the brand this season, please take a number—the fog machine is still printing them.