The 2003 film "Underworld" doesn't just invite viewers into its world—it drags them by the throat into a damn near suffocating urban hellscape where the moon never seems to shine and the rain never stops falling. Director Len Wiseman created a city that feels like it's been drenched in darkness for centuries, a metropolitan nightmare where every corner hides shadows within shadows. This isn't some half-assed vampire flick with red velvet and candlelight—it's a cold, steel-blue nightmare where ancient blood feuds play out against the backdrop of decaying Gothic architecture and sleek modern design.

It happens to be one of my favorite films from that era of time. Today , well later today most likely, we are going to sit our kids down to watch it (they are angsty teenagers, and what better film to inspire that angst, than 2003’s Underworld), like good parents often do.

The setting slams together medieval European aesthetics with early-2000s industrial grit, creating a world where vampires don't hide in crumbling castles but instead occupy gleaming skyscrapers and opulent mansions while still clinging to their aristocratic bullshit. Meanwhile, the Lycans are forced into the sewers and underground lairs, a visual metaphor so damn obvious it practically punches you in the face: the upper class literally lives above the working class they've spent centuries oppressing.

Every frame of this film drips with atmospheric tension. The constant rainfall creates a city seemingly weeping for the centuries of bloodshed it has witnessed. This isn't just style for style's sake—it's a visceral reinforcement of the eternal nature of the conflict, a visual reminder that this shit has been going on for so long that even the weather is exhausted by it.

At its bloody heart, "Underworld" is a Romeo and Juliet story with automatic weapons and fangs. Death Dealer Selene (Kate Beckinsale) is a vampire assassin who's spent six centuries hunting Lycans (werewolves) with ruthless efficiency. When she discovers the Lycans are tracking a human named Michael Corvin (Scott Speedman), she plunges headfirst into a conspiracy that will shatter every damn thing she thinks she knows about her world.

The plot twists like a knife in the gut when Selene realizes her vampire elder Viktor (Bill Nighy) has been feeding the coven centuries of lies. The Lycans weren't the ones who started this war—it was the vampires who enslaved them, the vampires who drew first blood. And the final kick in the teeth? Viktor murdered Selene's family himself, then turned her into a vampire and fed her a bullshit story about Lycans being responsible. Talk about a toxic fucking workplace.

As Selene and Michael (who gets bitten and becomes the first vampire-Lycan hybrid) develop feelings for each other, the story becomes not just about uncovering truth but about breaking free from the chains of the past. Their forbidden romance isn't just defying social boundaries—it's spitting in the face of centuries of hatred, propaganda, and absolute horseshit from both sides.

The film's brilliance lies in how it gradually peels back the layers of its historical mythology, revealing a past so steeped in betrayal it makes Game of Thrones look like a kindergarten squabble. Through flashbacks and exposition that somehow manages not to bore you to tears, we learn that this war began in the 5th century with a forbidden love not unlike Selene and Michael's.

Viktor, a vampire Elder with an ego the size of a goddamn continent, had a daughter named Sonja who fell in love with a Lycan slave named Lucian. When Viktor discovered Sonja was pregnant with a hybrid child, he did what any reasonable father would do: burned his own daughter alive while forcing Lucian to watch. This act of cruelty sparked the war that would rage for the next six centuries, a conflict fueled by Lucian's rage and Viktor's need to cover up his own monumental fuckup.

The film presents a masterclass in unreliable history. The vampires believe they're fighting a righteous war against savage beasts. The Lycans know they're fighting for freedom against aristocratic oppressors. Both sides are neck-deep in propaganda and selective memory, creating a historical narrative that serves their needs while burying inconvenient truths under centuries of bodies.

As film critic Roger Ebert noted in his review, "What makes 'Underworld' effective is not so much the action as the look and the atmosphere. It's kind of entertaining to visit this world."[1] This understates the case significantly. The world of "Underworld" isn't just entertaining to visit—it's a fully realized nightmare that sucks you in like a wound that won't stop bleeding.

"Underworld" has often been dismissed as style over substance, a criticism that misses the point so completely it's almost laughable. The film's style—the blue-black color palette, the Gothic architecture juxtaposed with modern technology, the fetishistic leather costumes—isn't separate from its substance but an essential expression of it.

Film scholar Carol J. Clover argues that horror films often use visual metaphors to explore social anxieties, and "Underworld" is a textbook example of this approach.[2] The segregation between vampires and Lycans visually represents class warfare. The vampires' mansion, with its surveillance cameras and guards, becomes a symbol of privilege protected through violence. The Lycans' underground lairs represent a literal underclass, forced to live in the shadows of the society that rejects them.

Even the combat styles reflect this divide. Vampires fight with elegant weaponry and martial arts, maintaining distance from their enemies. Lycans fight with raw physical power, transforming their bodies into weapons. It's a visual reinforcement of the divide between the aristocratic and the proletarian, between those who can afford to keep their hands clean and those who must use whatever tools they have at their disposal.

"Underworld" wasn't just another entry in the vampire genre—it was a kick in the teeth to the romantic, sensual vampire stories that preceded it. While Anne Rice and even "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" presented vampires as tortured, sexy outsiders, "Underworld" presented them as privileged aristocrats maintaining their power through violence and deception. It was less about the seduction of eternal life and more about the corruption of eternal power.

The film spawned a franchise of five movies, but none captured the raw, rain-soaked intensity of the original. The first "Underworld" created a world where ancient mythologies collide with modern sensibilities, where creatures from medieval legends carry automatic weapons and drive luxury cars. It's a world where the past isn't just prologue—it's a prison, trapping its inhabitants in cycles of violence they can barely comprehend.

As Selene says in the film's opening narration: "The war had all but ground to a halt in the blink of an eye. Lucian, the most feared and ruthless leader ever to rule the Lycan clan, had finally been killed. The Lycan horde scattered to the wind in a single evening of flame and retribution." What she doesn't yet realize is that everything she believes is absolute bullshit, a carefully constructed narrative designed to keep her loyal and deadly.

And isn't that always how war works? Those in power feed the soldiers whatever story will keep them fighting, whether it's about freedom, security, or revenge. The genius of "Underworld" is that it takes this very human dynamic and dresses it in leather and fangs, creating a parable about how easily we can be manipulated when we're blinded by hatred and fear.

In the end, "Underworld" isn't just about vampires and werewolves. It's about the lies we tell ourselves to justify violence, the histories we construct to rationalize hatred, and the courage it takes to question the narratives we've been fed. As Michael and Selene stand together at the film's conclusion, they represent not just a union of vampire and Lycan but a rejection of the bullshit that has kept their kinds at war for centuries.

And that, perhaps, is the most human story of all.