It is within the eerie prologue that Robert Eggers hints at what could have been his most valuable contributions to the much-frequented material. I say could, because establishing Ellen as the protagonist from the start, emphasising sexual repression as a central theme, and giving an even more explicit form to the idea of vampires as carriers of fatal diseases are intriguing premises which do remain somewhat unexplored. Not entirely devoid of other notable intuitions and flashes of striking imagery, Eggers’s Nosferatu ultimately comes across as an over-produced bore lacking the artistic emancipation of his earlier works. The nicely orchestrated narrative flow those possessed, here feels broadly stiffened by repeated visual and sound solutions, and often upstaged by contrived—at times inelegant—camerawork. Contrary to what Eggers stated in various interviews, my immediate impression was that the film’s photography attempted to use an analog camera as if it were digital, rather than embracing its intrinsic characteristics.
However inappropriate, it is difficult to elude comparison with Murnau’s original enactment or Werner Herzog’s Sturm und Drang reincarnation. Of the latter particularly, Eggers’s seems as an almost pedestrian revisitation deprived of mood and humanity, and dulled by mainstream sensitivity. If there’s a veiled irony about Hutter becoming increasingly worried about meeting Count Orlok over the decades—he was euphoric in the twenties, wary in the seventies, and so anxious in the latest Nosferatu that I wonder whether in the next adaptation he will finally have the good sense to cancel the trip—the Count himself goes through an even more significant evolution. Compared to Max Schreck’s relatively sober portrayal and Kinski’s unearthlier presence, Eggers externalises the lonely nobleman’s torments into a far more explicit form of monstrosity, seemingly reflecting the struggle of the modern audiences to use their imagination and the emphasis on appearance that is so idiosyncratic of our times. Just speculative reflections, or maybe not.
Regardless, this emphysemic Nosferatu and his copiously drooling adepts will hardly be redeemed by the production’s superb artistry, the many finely written and performed pages, or the palpable passion for the subject that permeates every single frame. So, for now, while I genuinely hope that a second round will make me reconsider these notes, I shall pretend that this and The Northman never happened, and look forward to Eggers’s next, his third after The Witch and The Lighthouse.
