MOVIE REVIEW – Remaking Nosferatu is a strange, yet hypnotic endeavor, a fact only slightly nuanced by the realization that it’s not exactly uncharted territory. F. W. Murnau’s 1922 silent film, subtitled A Symphony of Horror, was an unauthorized adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, predating the authorized 1931 version (and arguably just as faithful to the source material as that early Universal Horror classic). Then, in 1979, Werner Herzog offered his own take with Nosferatu the Vampyre, a film with a more verdant palette and an eerily quiet atmosphere, masterfully imbued with a creeping sense of unease, suggesting that such events could very well unfold in our own reality.

This same ominous sense of fate permeates Robert Eggers’ 2024 take on Nosferatu – whose most contemporary work, The Lighthouse, is set around the time Stoker’s novel was published. Eggers’ Nosferatu echoes its source material just as the earlier film echoed its inspiration: set in the 19th century, Thomas Hutter (Nicholas Hoult) journeys to the misty peaks of the picturesque Carpathian Mountains, to the remote castle of Count Orlok (Bill Skarsgård), to finalize a real estate transaction. Orlok becomes captivated by a photograph of Thomas’ wife, Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp), and when he relocates to his new estate, he brings with him a bloodthirsty plague, obsessively and devilishly stalking his new town, and Ellen in particular. To label this attraction as love or even lust wouldn’t fully capture the totemic nature of the Count. This Orlok is neither the hideous, rat-like creature of Max Schreck’s portrayal, nor the caped, elegant Bela Lugosi, nor is reminicent of Klaus Kinski’s 1979 performance. This Orlok is not the hideous, rat-like creature of Max Schreck’s portrayal, nor the caped, elegant Bela Lugosi. Prepare yourself for a mesmerizing, thickly-bearded master vampire, exuding both ancient evil and a cursed noble elegance. Orlok gives the impression of consuming blood not out of mere thirst, but to collect and savor what he himself will forever lack.

The Director’s Trademark: Style and Atmosphere

Speaking of lacking, Eggers himself has faced accusations of “bloodless formalism,” with his measured, calculated camera movements, eye-poppingly meticulous production design, and centered compositions – as if he were the Wes Anderson of the macabre and the unknowable, right? But as with Anderson, this assessment, while technically accurate, doesn’t necessarily convey the essence of the cinematic experience. The careful, deliberate camerawork only amplifies Nosferatu‘s ominous atmosphere, especially in the long, dialogue-free scenes where the colors seem to fade almost entirely. Similar to the tinted prints of the 1922 version, this film isn’t truly black and white in the traditional sense, yet it often feels alien to color films as well. Eggers creates a liminal world ruled by shadows and candlelight; Count Orlok’s very presence – his bony, gnarled claws, more prominent than his fangs, reaching out in impossibly sharp silhouettes from the darkness – becomes just as terrifying as his physical form.

Ellen seems to instinctively sense this, far more so than the male characters of Nosferatu. She feels Orlok’s presence, whose obsession grows into an almost feverish, hypnotic force, ultimately granting Ellen stronger intuitions about the creature’s destruction than even the vampire hunter Albin Eberhart Von Franz (Willem Dafoe, who clearly relishes the role that was a mere side plot in the original but now resembles Van Helsing). It was suggested that Eggers’ former muse, Anya Taylor-Joy, might play Ellen, and while she undoubtedly could have, Depp (daughter of the well-known, bizarre and legendary film icon, Johnny Depp and the still beautiful, famous French actress and model in the nineties, Vanessa Paradis) possesses a haunting, vulnerable aura that wouldn’t be as believable from Taylor-Joy after Furiosa. Taylor-Joy exudes confidence, while Depp’s Ellen must, to some extent, surrender to possession; she moves as if she stepped out of an Exorcist remake, only she does it all without the aid of visual effects.

More Than a Remake: Nosferatu Reloaded

This time around, the acting is also more prominent than in the 1922 silent film, not because that masterpiece is lacking in any way, but because Eggers has essentially supercharged the original, taking his time to depict the plague that Orlok brings to the town. (This, incidentally, was also a memorable element of Herzog’s version.) Eggers’ Nosferatu evokes, to a certain degree, the mood of Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula, especially in its baroque excesses, if not in its specific visual language. If there’s one thing holding this approach back, it’s that after the near-Shakespearean heights of The Northman, the new film inevitably nudges Eggers closer to the world of – gasp! – franchises.

Of course, Eggers has always drawn from folk tales, gothic horror, and countless other tropes, but in The Witch and The Lighthouse, these motifs are only faintly recognizable, with the stories being permeated by a kind of otherworldly, unique madness. In contrast, Nosferatu is an expanded, drawn-out version of a more familiar trope, making it just another stop on the long road of Stoker adaptations.

Haunting the Past: A Classic Tale in Modern Garb

Given these precedents, it’s no surprise that Nosferatu turned out to be a damn fine film. Even if Eggers seems to be reaching as far back as possible for cinematic inspiration, tackling a silent film staple allows him – indeed, compels him – to showcase his more modern sensibilities: the men are represented by Hoult’s contorted, scream-like facial expressions and the নিতান্তই দুর্বল Friedrich (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), whose wife, Anna (Emma Corrin), is this story’s version of Lucy from Dracula. In a plague-ridden town, it is Ellen’s visionary power and feverish, ecstatic state that enables her to connect with the evil, perhaps even enjoying it. Nosferatu, with its ominous atmosphere, perfectly captures this duality.

-Gergely Herpai „BadSector”-