F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu, Eine Symphonie des Grauens is a story of the undead—figuratively and literally. An unauthorized adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the film attempted to create a safe distance from the source material by changing some names and details to avoid copyright infringement, to no avail. Stoker’s widow found out and sued the film company, demanding all known copies of the film be destroyed. Just like the undead character the film portrays, the film itself refused to die—at least three copies survived and resurfaced in the modern era through various means.
Its survival meant that it set a template for other horror films that followed. Among its influences on the horror genre, Max Schreck’s portrayal of Count Orlok inspired many other vampire portrayals, including The Master in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Petyr in What We Do in the Shadows. It doesn’t stop there; from Shadow of the Vampire (2000)—a fictional account of the making of Nosferatu, where Willem Dafoe (also starring in the new Nosferatu) portrayed Schreck—to the brief, out-of-place cameo in SpongeBob SquarePants, chances are most people have witnessed his incarnation in one way or another.
Robert Eggers, fresh from delivering the loose adaptation of Hamlet in the visually striking yet narratively dense The Northman, is an avid fan of the German Expressionist vampire film. He even adapted the film for a stage production while he was in high school. His fascination for it bleeds through his works, where period settings tell stories of their own, and the absence of real colors adds depth to the eeriness of his films. Yet, his rendition of Nosferatu isn’t a mere homage; it’s a work that showcases his penchant for meticulous framing and controlled chaos. A new rendition of Nosferatu by Eggers seemed inevitable.
At least two key elements suggest that Nosferatu should work under Eggers. First, his scalpel-sharp precision. Everything is meticulously in place—from the immersive period setting to the mise-en-scène, from painterly compositions to visceral horror. Second, his knack for embedding twisted reasoning into his narratives: Puritan repression in The Witch, isolation, and madness in The Lighthouse, and Pyrrhic vengeance in The Northman. Unlike Murnau’s work, which sought to distance itself from Dracula by streamlining its plot and antagonist, Eggers’ Nosferatu borrows more from the source material—interweaving layers of romanticism and melancholia into its horrific Faustian nature.
A Symphony of Horror
Nosferatu opens with young Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp) wandering a mansion in a melancholic state, pleading for someone or anyone to end her seemingly perpetual loneliness. Her plea invites an ominous presence—pale-skinned, rodent-teethed, near bald, with a bizarre stature. Without a shadow of a doubt, we immediately recognize Count Orlok (Bill Skarsgård)—utterly repulsive and menacing in every apparition. While terror and desperation loom over the scene, what stands out is the sense of deliberation—both in the characters’ actions and Eggers’ direction, including the premature revelation of the villainous creature. Narratively, this serves as a major distinction in the relationship between Ellen, her eventual husband, Thomas Hutter (Nicholas Hoult), and Orlok. Gone is the trope of a bloodthirsty villain lusting over his realtor’s wife at first sight; instead, an off-balance love triangle emerges, driven by Ellen’s Faustian pursuit of solace—an embodiment of Eggers’ penchant for twisted reasoning.
Depp leads this orchestrated madness in what appears to be a breakout performance—one shaped by the sharp direction but not overshadowed by it. Ellen, once a mere damsel in distress, is now a complex character with agency. She brings Orlok into the picture, and her role mirrors her deeds in the finale of Murnau’s Nosferatu—a distinction from Dracula. This version of Ellen evokes Anya Taylor-Joy’s Thomasin from The Witch, as both characters’ despair leads them to a Faustian bargain—not by desire, but by the logic of their circumstances. Depp conveys melancholy through her brooding eyes—eyes that, in Ellen’s backstory, see the future. The fear in them isn’t of the immediate horrors but of the inevitable. Yet when Ellen slips back into a trance-like state, Depp delivers a physical performance reminiscent of Zulawski’s Possession, her convulsing body embodying a psychological breakdown manifested in the physical plane.
Hoult, meanwhile, delivers a serviceable performance as the doomed husband. Thomas’s ill-fated journey to the Carpathian Mountains is a crucial narrative thread, filled with omens leading up to his encounter with Orlok. Through this journey, Eggers’ direction shines. The muted, monochromatic visuals pay homage to German Expressionism, evoking a cold, oppressive atmosphere—from the off-kilter Gypsy village to the derelict castle where the horror unfolds. Hoult fits the role, though his lethargic presence is often overshadowed by Depp’s hysteria and Skarsgård’s menacing presence.
As for the titular Nosferatu, Skarsgård’s natural facial structure lends itself to horror. His transformation into Pennywise in It and the sequel is a fitting attestation to this sentiment (although his involvement in The Crow isn’t). Upon the announcement of his casting, I couldn’t help but suspect that his portrayal of Orlok would be a synthesis of Schreck’s freakish nature with the general Stoker’s rendition of Dracula with imposing charm and predatory allure, but that’s not the case in Nosferatu. His portrayal of Orlok eschews the seductive qualities of say Bela Lugosi‘s or Gary Oldman‘s Dracula, opting instead for something outright vile—commanding both intimidation and repulsion. His heavily accented, guttural English resembles an evil mantra, reminiscent of Dune’s Sardaukar chants. Skarsgård, buried under prosthetics and an awkward aristocratic mustache, exudes dread with every appearance.
Eggers amplifies the grotesque nature of the story through a charged dynamic between the trio, particularly Orlok’s predatory nature—blurring the line between lust and appetite. As Orlok drains life from his victims, he breathes it into the film, with Eggers playing out a dance of attraction and disgust. Hoult’s performance as the clueless pawn between both forces provides a necessary counterbalance, though he is often eclipsed by the intensity of his co-stars.
The Cost of Controlled Chaos
Eggers described his Orlok as both a lover and a biter in an interview with The Verge, viewing the story as a “demon lover” tale—an angle that redefines Ellen’s role. This may be the film’s most significant deviation from the original, but it is far from the only one.
Nosferatu absorbs more of Dracula’s lore, adding elements that deepen the plot. The inclusion of the Hardings (Aaron Taylor-Johnson and Emma Corrin), a Lucy Westenra-esque stand-ins, serves as both a catalyst for Ellen’s affliction and a decoy for the audience’s expectations. They’ve also added to the film’s subplot of skepticism, which eventually leads to the introduction of Dafoe’s Albin Eberhart von Franz—a rogue scientist, occultist, and Van Helsing surrogate—adding an air of vintage freshness to the film’s mythology. Von Franz is a reflection of Thomas’s employer’s fascination with the evil codex — tied to the curse of Nosferatu.
These additions, along with the meticulous structuring of the narrative, reinforce the film’s Faustian themes. Orlok is not merely a monster but an omnipresent force of doom. Eggers’ methodical storytelling constructs a framework where every element serves a purpose, as though piecing together a detective’s board of interconnected motifs and superstitions.
The Faustian bargain and Gothic romance form the foundation of Nosferatu, and Eggers’ control over every detail makes it a mesmerizing work. From Wisborg’s lived-in setting to the interplay of light and shadow, every frame evokes fear, confinement, and inevitability. The result is a film that is both chaotic and deliberate—a controlled chaos.
Yet, there’s an underlying sense that something is missing. Perhaps it’s the cost of being a passion project or the consequence of too much deliberation. In The Witch and The Lighthouse, Eggers allowed his narratives to unravel unpredictably, delivering cathartic shocks and satisfactions. Nosferatu, in contrast, feels too meticulously crafted—but the satisfaction of piecing together all the contributing pieces leads to it missing the shocks. It’s losing some of the rawness that makes horror truly bite, not because it’s fangless, but because it’s being too precise in which parts to bite — trying to leave as few trails of blood. However, it is still a stellar entry in the director’s solid filmography, and like the undead it depicts, it refuses to die.
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