When The VVitch came out ten years ago, horror aficionados felt as excited as a virgin on prom night: their date was Robert Eggers, the fresh-faced auteur whose blistering debut crowned him the genre’s new hope. His sophomore effort, The Lighthouse, didn’t just meet expectations—it blasted them into orbit, stealing the spotlight at Cannes 2019. But then came The Northman in 2022, a brooding Viking epic take on Hamlet. Though ambitious, it split opinions like a battle axe, raising eyebrows more than applause. Was this the end of his ascent? Or just a mere studio-tied faux pas? Thankfully, Eggers’ latest offering, Nosferatu, is a triumphant return to form- eerily seductive, richly atmospheric, and downright terrifying.
Why Nosferatu, I wondered, and not its richer, more famous progenitor, Dracula? After all, the 1922 classic is a film born of audacious plagiarism: German auteur F.W. Murnau simply swapped Bram Stoker’s names to dodge copyright laws, rechristening Count Dracula as Count Orlok. Yet, this unauthorised adaptation birthed one of cinema’s greatest pillars, a prototype of horror itself, and Dracula would grace the silver screen only 9 years later… Legendary critic Roger Ebert mused that to a modern audience, it wasn’t “scary, but “haunting.” Eggers’ remake is both—and then some. It magnifies the eerie dread of German expressionism, shunning cheap jump scares for slow-burning terror that clings like a shadow under the moonlight.
Eggers’ obsession with historical and folkloric accuracy grounds this Nosferatu in a grim, archaic world, a time before Dracula was buried with cliches, where vampirism is a chillingly plausible scourge, a scapegoat for calamities such as the black plague. Compared to the original, this version pulses with sexuality, merging fear and desire in ways that reflect a society teetering between repression and release. The off-screen space, the hallmark of Eggers’ work, becomes Orlok’s sinister domain. His presence slithers through darkness and shadow, his monstrous visage withheld until absolutely necessary, letting your imagination do the frightening work. Bill Skarsgård, now firmly establishing himself as this generation’s Boris Karloff, commands the role with a hypnotising low baritone and an unnerving stillness. The supporting cast shines: Lily-Rose Depp as the possessed Ellen, Nicholas Hoult as Thomas Hutter (a role not far removed from his take on Renfield), and Willem Dafoe, reuniting with Eggers for the third time, and raving through delirious monologues as only he can. Eggers directs them with a feral precision, eliciting performances that are primal yet refined: no eyebrow is allowed to flinch here.
This is where Eggers’ meticulous style finds its perfect subject. Nosferatu, unlike Dracula, isn’t about charm or romance- it’s grotesque, stark, and devoid of Stoker’s lyricism. It strips the vampire mythos down to its raw, terror-inducing essence, creating a lean, steady exercise in form. Eggers indulges in the extreme aesthetics of Murnau’s vision, fetishising every frame to the brink.
By foregoing Dracula’s rizz for the pure, bone-chilling terror of Orlok, Eggers achieves something remarkable: a faithful yet daring remake that consolidates the archetype. In its barren, emotionless narrative lies its strength—a pure distillation of horror, pushing the genre into chillingly uncharted stylistic territory. Nosferatu is more than a return to form, it’s a masterclass in reinventing fear itself.
4/5
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