Space Vampire

I’ll admit: I side-eyed the premise at first. A *vampire clone* in space? But *Space Vampire* won me over in the first ten minutes, thanks to Beth Roeg’s delivery of the human lead’s opening rant about her “glorified janitor” job on a derelict station. Her performance is all scrappy charm, the kind of heroine who’d roll her eyes at a hero’s tragic backstory—then secretly melt when he uses his fangs to open a stubborn protein bar wrapper. Ryan West, meanwhile, nails the vampire’s awkwardness, his voice a mix of aristocratic detachment and bewildered fascination, like a lab-grown Dracula who’s just discovered TikTok. The story’s pacing is its greatest strength and its one flaw. Dixon’s dialogue is *electric*—the kind of back-and-forth that demands rewinding to catch every jab—but the brevity means the emotional payoff feels slightly rushed. I wanted five more minutes of the pair’s quiet moment in the hydroponics bay, where the vampire’s vulnerability peeks through his programming. The production is crisp, though West’s voice occasionally dips too low during action scenes, forcing a volume tweak. Still, the narration’s chemistry sells the absurdity: a scene where the vampire “feeds” via a straw (to avoid *actual* biting) had me laughing out loud. It’s not deep, but it’s *smart* fun—a palate cleanser between heavier listens, or a perfect commute companion for romance fans who crave wit over angst.