If there’s anyone you would pick to reimagine a seminal masterpiece like F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu, it would probably be Robert Eggers. The writer and director of atmospheric, fastidiously detailed chillers like The Witch and The Lighthouse is one of the few filmmakers likely to come even close to doing it justice. Also, there’s the reassuring presence of Werner Herzog’s 1979 adaptation, a wonderful film in its own right, suggesting that a further version need not be a disaster. Thankfully, Eggers puts his own stamp on the hoary old tale with his rigorous style, his fetishistic eye for period detail, and his determination to make vampires terrifying again.
In Wisborg, Germany in 1838 young solicitor Thomas Hutter (Nicholas Hoult) accepts a commission from his employer, Knock (Simon McBurney) to travel to the Carpathian mountains and meet with the eccentric Count Orlok (Bill Skarsgård). Orlok has purchased property in Wisborg but insists that it be signed for at his home in Transylvania. Hutter’s new bride Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp) implores him not to go, but her husband sees it as a foundation for his future career. Unbeknown to him she has a psychic link with the undead Orlok from years previously, and his attention has focussed on her once again.
Let’s get the elephant in the room out of the way; this is a tale so baked into the cultural psyche that it’s ossified, and Eggers does nothing to subvert the bones of the story. And as is common with Eggers’ earlier work, it’s marked by patience and restraint. Those who feel the A24-style has become slightly self-parodic will likely gain further milage here.
Yet, while there’s nothing new in the storytelling here – both Bram Stoker and Nosferatu screenwriter Henrik Galeen have writing credits – it differs from previous versions (of Dracula in general) in foregrounding both the monstrous and the libidinous. Skarsgård’s Orlok is as grotesque as the character has ever been, yet there’s a powerful sexual charge that drives the film. This manifests through another unusual decision of Eggers’ adaptation; that of positing Depp’s Ellen front and centre as the catalyst for the events.
It’s no surprise that Skarsgård is so immersed in the role as to be invisible, his prosthetics an abominable echo of Vlad Tepes himself, his voice an elemental rumble in the extinct Dacian dialect. He’s evil incarnate, all traces of suavity and tragic romance stamped to dust. Another day at the office then for the erstwhile Pennywise the Clown. But it’s Depp who is the revelation here, wrestling the film’s plaudits from its title character. Ellen is the alpha and omega of the story, both inciting naif and resolute resolver. It’s a committed performance, psychologically deft and impressively physical. If Demi Moore wasn’t tipped to hoover up the meager crumbs the various awards bodies occasionally toss towards the horror genre, Lily-Rose would be a worthy recipient.
The visual style is the other striking element. While undoubtedly in the grand gothic tradition, Eggers, cinematographer Jarin Blaschke, and their phenomenal production design team have recoiled from any sumptuous Hammer-type opulence, leaving the baroque, succulent dialogue to shoulder the flamboyance. There is rich, scarlet blood – lots of it – but otherwise, the frame is often almost leached of colour, as if Orlok himself has sucked it as dry as the desiccated corpses he leaves on the plague ship. Yet it’s often mesmerically beautiful, delighting in both dreamlike surrealism and Expressionist chiaroscuro shadow play, recalling the Scandinavian strand of silent horror like Victor Sjöström and Benjamin Christensen as well as the spikier, angular aesthetic of Robert Wiene, and Murnau‘s original.
Nosferatu 2024 is more grist to the mill for those critical of endless remakes, sequels, prequels, and reboots. Yet the source text is, like Shakespeare, robust and malleable enough for all manner of riffs and approaches. Like Herzog’s take, Eggers’ adaptation offers more than enough of its own dark joys to stand on its own terms.
In cinemas nationwide now
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