[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]
Stylistically, Robert Eggers’ remake of Nosferatu resembles one of those nightmares that refuses to relinquish its grip on the sleeper’s psyche: just when you think you’ve woken up, you suddenly realize that you’re still dreaming—still a prisoner of your own subconscious. The unnaturally smooth (and often “unmotivated,” to borrow the parlance of serious film critics and theorists) movement of the camera creates a surreal, hallucinatory, disorienting atmosphere; the editing, meanwhile—which liberally utilizes cross dissolves and match cuts—makes the very concept of time feel abstract and ambiguous. Every frame is meticulously crafted with a single goal in mind: to unnerve the viewer.
Bill Skarsgård’s performance as the titular vampire perfectly complements the unsettling subject matter. His interpretation of the nefarious Count Orlok recalls the uncanny quality of Max Schreck’s original version of the character: this is an accursed creature that willingly discarded its humanity centuries ago—a reanimated corpse than can only mimic life. It speaks slowly and haltingly, carefully enunciating each individual syllable, as though the act of communication has become utterly foreign to it; its ragged, labored gasps sometimes cease entirely, suggesting that it occasionally forgets to breathe. It is, in short, an affront to nature itself—a profane thing that simply should not exist.
Despite these fantastical terrors, however, Nosferatu’s true horror resides in its comparatively mundane conflicts. Yes, literal paranormal entities are objectively real within the context of the setting—but they are empowered and emboldened by the prejudices (including misogyny, bigotry, and classism) of so-called “modern” society, effortlessly preying upon a populace that is now too “civilized” to believe in the folklore and fairytales of yore. Privileged elitists like Aaron Taylor-Johnson’s Friedrich Harding, for example, reject any custom that contradicts their narrow preconceptions, perceiving the spiritual practices of more “primitive” (i.e., "inferior") cultures as pagan superstitions. Similarly, Nicholas Hoult’s Thomas Hutter is so obsessed with accumulating enough material wealth to rise above his meager economic status that he fails to recognize the ill-intentioned monsters lurking in shadows. Most distressingly, protagonist Ellen Hutter’s frequent psychic visions and premonitions of doom are usually misdiagnosed as psychotic episodes; indeed, the “medical professionals” that she consults dismiss her obvious trauma as a symptom of “feminine hysteria,” and their treatment essentially boils down to advising her to “get over it” (along with copious bloodletting—the era’s cure for every conceivable malady).
This rich thematic subtext elevates the narrative significantly. Featuring a pervasively haunting mood, sublime cinematography, and exquisite production design, Nosferatu is a genuine genre masterpiece. F. W. Murnau and Werner Herzog are tough acts to follow, but Eggers manages the perilous feat with aplomb, more than proving himself a worthy successor.
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