It is difficult to imagine what horror films might look like today had every known print of F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922) been destroyed by Florence Stoker and the Stoker Estate. The 102 year-old expressionist masterpiece was the catalyst for many of cinema’s greatest beginnings. From Hollywood to the Carpathian mountains of Europe, Nosferatu’s expansive influence is vital to understanding how much of cinema’s history is shaped by the shadows of Germany’s illegitimate vampire, Count Orlok. And what would Nosferatu be without Max Shreck’s unforgettable transformation into the Count?
His claws tendril-like, his teeth long and jagged, his eyes heavily shadowed, and his body cloaked as if he peeled a layer of night from the sky and drew it over his shoulders. Count Orlok, renamed from Bram’s titular and iconic Count Dracula without permission transformed man, and cinema, all at once despite its illegitimacy. But as it may be, accidents happened when a handful of prints survived destruction and Nosferatu was suddenly a key piece in a cinematic language yet unexplored. One of the greatest happy accidents to come out of filmmaking became an inspiration to many, and by some sort of fate, wormed its way into the life of a young Robert Eggers years later. Eggers, who was spellbound by the sight of Max Shreck, has earned his opportunity to remake Nosferatu out of the shadows of his biggest inspiration. With three critically successful films behind him, and rumblings of a Nosferatu remake since The Witch (2015) first put him on the map, the anticipation for this film has been a rollercoaster ride. The pitfalls of creative and financial indifference kept Eggers’s Nosferatu from exposing audiences to the dreamy, labyrinthe qualities of Gothic horror.
In a brilliant bit of counter-programming to offset merry moods, joyous jingles, and a spectacularly dire December release slate, Nosferatu is an end of the year event of which we’re not used to seeing. In a slot typically reserved for gargantuan epics, sweeping romances, and historical centerpieces, Nosferatu reconstructs the fictional town of Wisborg, Germany in 1838 to transport the audience to a unique plane of horror. Still, Nosferatu has the faint scent of a traditional epic, the aroma of romance, and all the technical make-up of a historical reconstruction we’ve come to know Eggers for. Reteaming with cinematographer Jarin Blaschke, and editor Louise Ford, Eggers’s quest to bring Nosferatu back to life is as intense and intoxicating as advertised. Between the details of period-appropriate delicacies and terrifying expression of impenetrable shadow as an ancient entity, Count Orlok reawakens with a taste for traditional theatrics, a suffocating aesthetic, and a psychologically tormented transformation of physicality from every actor on board. Eggers, with his worlds so believable through his hyper-specific style, makes the sudden appearance of the unbelievable a horrific projection of the nightmares we wish to wake from.
In a tale that feels as old as time, Nosferatu’s story won’t hold many surprises for those familiar with each incarnation of Nosferatu. From Murnau to Herzog, there’s only so many directions you can go unless you intend to imbue the Count with a tinge of corporate irony like they did in a film as recent as Renfield (2023). Which may be one of the best examples of a contemporary landscape that continues to rework horror icons as superheroic snark fests rather than applying a psycho-social context to the terror that permeates off the recognition of their image. It feels as if less writers and directors believe they can mine evil from the deepest parts of our collective subconscious because it’s already been done before. In the careful hands of Robert Eggers, he sees horror as an opportunity to reconfigure commercial enterprise into something intrinsically poetic. His compulsions may lie in technical accuracy, and in doing so, Eggers can pry the hinges of his world open by administering a cogent expression of evil not bound by the walls, candlelight, and objects that furnish the lives of his protagonists. He doesn’t see precision as an anchor to expression, so he blurs the line as a craftsman and filmmaker by officiating a mutual interest between what we see in front of us and what we can feel moving behind it.
The conduit that connects the space between the two realms of consciousness is Lily Rose-Depp’s star-making turn as Ellen Hutter. Emerging from a void of darkness, Ellen is drawn to the guttural sound of Orlok’s ancient German tongue that lures her to a billowing curtain where it outlines the shape of his presence. Orlok’s phantom appears as if he cut himself out of the very depths Ellen emerged from to illuminate the image of a broad shouldered, towering figurine of oppressive power that can drape, bend, and warp shadow like the cloak on his back. He is at once an icon with definite shapes and vocal cadences, while also embodying that which cannot be defined within the shrouds of darkness. His metaphysical transformation between conscious realms is a similar passage of transformation Ellen undergoes throughout the film. Unlike Bill Skarsgard beneath the costume and make-up, Rose-Depp embodies the more expressive, visibly physical transformation of Ellen no longer having control over her own body. In losing her bodily autonomy, Rose-Depp appears tightened by the corset around her waist or the darkness that has consumed her. She cries, suffocates, shakes, and jolts between the love she intends to give to Thomas, or the submissive state Orlok has suppressed her into.
Skarsgard, who is virtually unrecognizable as Count Orlok, stresses his vocal chords to the point where they may collapse if he were to speak for too long. The costuming and makeup department layers him with divots of decay and coarse skin that sounds as if every joint in Orlok’s body creaks as loudly as castle doors that haven’t been opened in centuries. In a surprising addition, Orlok’s mustache grants Eggers’s vision of him a characteristic distinction as compared to Klaus Kinski’s ghostly incel. Although his face is only so clear on very few occasions, Orlok’s silhouette and mustachioed face channels the spirit of Romanian Lords to peer through the shadows as if history itself had returned to haunt the future they never got to see. Orlok’s heavily made-up design is a note perfect form of opposition to Ellen’s vulnerability restrained by her outfits or as a laid bare, bedridden woman gasping to be free from Orlok’s control. The tension of Nosferatu is articulated through the spaces Ellen and Orlok respectively inhabit, how their costumes dress them up or strip them down, and how their relationship is an exhibit of psycho-sexual duality between a shadowed dream state versus the openly candlelit rooms of reality.
When a director vocalizes an immense amount of passion for a project based on timeless, beloved source material, expectations rarely match the execution. Looking at another highly anticipated movie from earlier this year; Dune: Part Two totally flubbed the core aspects of the novel. The ambition can often be too much for directors that end up simplifying complex ideas to access the quadrants of general appeal. You will find no such simplifications in Eggers’ vision of Nosferatu. Although there are a few too many jump scares that feel at odds with how “unmodern” Eggers’ style is, the snapshots are punctuated alarms that wake the characters from their nightmare. From over-calculated oners that trend toward symmetrical compositions, to hazy layers of light casting lucid hues reminiscent of the tangy oranges, intense yellows, and chilling blue hues of Murnau’s film, Eggers shapes his light around the immeasurable depths of the abyss. Almost as if the shadow were in control of what the camera sees and how relative it is to each subject. Perhaps his calculations as a visual storyteller extend to who is really in control of what we’re seeing and how we perceive who the control has submitted to.
I digress, but there may be some credence to this estimation when we see Thomas pulled into the orbit of an unmanned carriage. Or when Friedrich (Aaron Taylor-Johnson in a bizarre performance) approaches his dead wife in mourning as his life is drained from him when he’s cast in silhouette against the faintly colored skin of his chilled love. At every turn of the story we see coming, Eggers builds atop the idea that this inexorable evil casts a shadow to cover the light he can never see. As our dilated pupils frantically search for the light within the depths, the walls of shadow are erected to guide us toward the faint shape of what we could only assume was at the heart of the maze. A croaking, lusting, dying amalgamation of living for eternity without ever knowing the weight of an honest love.
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