In the unsettling twilight between romance and dread, Nosferatu—Robert Eggers’ 2024 reimagining of F.W. Murnau’s 1922 silent masterpiece—transforms the iconic vampire mythos into something altogether more visceral and horrifying. Drawing from the eternal tension of gothic romance, the sacrifice of innocence, and a flood of visceral, gory terror, Eggers’ latest venture is as unsettling as it is remarkable. Every shadow in his film trembles with dread, every soft whisper of a gust carries the promise of doom. And much like the vampire Count Orlok himself, Nosferatu grips the audience with a chilling, almost suffocating force. The result is a haunting tale of love and monstrosity, where horror builds not in cheap thrills, but in the slow, cruel suffocation of hope.
Eggers, a director whose name has become synonymous with meticulous historical horror, has long proven himself to be an artisan of fear. From the blood-soaked Puritan past in The Witch to the claustrophobic maritime madness of The Lighthouse, and the bloodstained Norse epics of The Northman, Eggers has demonstrated a unique capacity for transforming history’s darkest moments into living nightmares. Here, he turns his gaze to the origins of the vampire myth, inspired by Bram Stoker’s Dracula, but with his own brand of scrupulous period detail and immersive terror. The result is a Nosferatu that eschews modern tropes in favor of a haunting meditation on death, decay, and the relentless pursuit of the soul.
From the first frame, we are thrust into a city on the brink of collapse—a place plagued by a terrifying, unseen malady, a metaphorical and literal pestilence that foreshadows the arrival of the Count. As Ellen Hutter (Lily-Rose Depp, in a performance that simmers with quiet terror) is increasingly haunted by a malevolent force, we sense the creeping presence of evil long before Orlok (Bill Skarsgård, inhabiting the role with a new, terrifying gravitas) emerges from the shadows. Eggers is not interested in immediate shocks; instead, he lingers in the tension between the living and the dead, between the light and the encroaching dark.
The film’s narrative retains the core beats of Murnau’s Nosferatu, but its emotional depth and unrelenting atmosphere of dread are what set it apart. Thomas Hutter (Nicholas Hoult), an unassuming clerk, accepts a commission to travel to the distant, desolate castle of Count Orlok. What should be a mundane task turns into a nightmare as Hutter finds himself locked in a race to save his wife, Ellen, who becomes the object of Orlok’s ghastly obsession. As Orlok sets his eyes on her, Hutter, desperate and determined, must face an enemy far older and far crueler than he can possibly understand.
At its heart, this Nosferatu is a love story, but one that is defined by cruel necessity rather than yearning passion. The tender affection between Hutter and Ellen is a stark contrast to Orlok’s grotesque hunger—his own twisted version of devotion, predicated on death and suffering. The stakes of love and sacrifice are drawn with a stark, almost brutal clarity. The relationship between Ellen and the vampire is not merely about survival, but about the corrupting influence of desire—one that demands an unspeakable toll, a toll paid in blood and grief.
Skarsgård, free from the shadow and silliness of Pennywise (his turn as the murderous clown in IT), emerges as a vision of nightmarish power. His Orlok is not just an ancient vampire, but a physical embodiment of decay. His skin seems to peel from his face like an ill-kept parchment, and his movements are impossibly slow yet eerily predatory. In each frame, he feels like an artifact of death itself, an impossibly alien force made flesh. In a performance that eschews the excesses of typical horror, Skarsgård brings a terror that is as intellectual as it is primal. His voice, deep and guttural, is the last sound one hears before the darkness consumes.
Willem Dafoe appears in a brief but crucial role as Professor Albun Eberhart Von Franz, a man obsessed with understanding the malevolent force at work. Dafoe, whose previous role as a fictionalized version of Nosferatu’s creator in Shadow of the Vampire offered a campier take on the material, here delivers a more restrained, yet no less frenzied portrayal. His character, though frequently dismissed as mad by the others, is the only one who understands the true nature of the evil descending upon the city—a grim irony given that his warnings are ignored, and his own fate sealed. Dafoe’s performance, under Eggers’ direction, becomes a tragic commentary on the futility of knowledge in the face of inescapable doom.
Visually, Eggers once again proves himself a master of atmosphere. The iconic shots from Murnau’s Nosferatu, particularly the towering, skeletal silhouette of Orlok, are reimagined here with a grandeur that enhances their horror. The use of light and shadow becomes a language in itself: as Orlok’s silhouette stretches across a wall, as the rats emerge in swarms, as the wind howls through ancient stone, the visuals become as much a part of the narrative as the characters themselves. The color palette—icy blues, sickly greens, and oppressive grays—creates an environment of suffocating dread, while moments of warmth—candles, fires—become temporary refuges, only to be shattered by the sudden eruptions of terror.
The film’s score, composed by Robin Carolan, heightens the unease with a brooding orchestral accompaniment that swells and recedes in time with the mounting dread. It is both haunting and strangely beautiful, perfectly underscoring the tragic nature of the tale while also punctuating the horror that looms at every turn.
In its final act, Nosferatu transcends its origins as a simple monster tale to become something more profound—a meditation on sacrifice, the nature of evil, and the lengths one will go to for love. Ellen, no longer merely a damsel in distress, becomes the beating heart of the film—a final girl who faces the darkness with courage, even as the city around her crumbles. Depp’s performance as Ellen is stunning, bringing a quiet intensity to the role that turns what could be a mere victim into a symbol of defiance against the monstrous.
When the credits roll, the lingering terror of Nosferatu remains, not just because of its grotesque imagery, but because of the underlying human story. Love, sacrifice, and the terror of the unknown are not merely tropes, but lived experiences. Eggers has taken a 100-year-old tale and transformed it into something that speaks to the horrors of our own age, a mirror held up to our darkest fears.
In Nosferatu, horror finds a new face—one that is not just monstrous, but tragically human. It is a masterpiece of gothic terror, one that will echo in the mind long after the final frame fades to black.