December is a quintessentially jolly time of year. While movie theaters across the country unveil arrangements of maximalist children’s film posters to lure in young families and bored college students seeking childhood nostalgia, box offices long prepare for what is hopefully another lucrative holiday season. Amidst these festivities, the black-and-white poster of Nosferatu (2024) is a striking contrast.
Released on Christmas, the movie’s inaugural message is clear enough: it is not just another horror flick made to survive only in October’s undeniably spooky atmosphere. Rather than lingering in the shadow of Halloween, Nosferatu demands its own holiday, charged with the potential to turn a time of merriment and coziness into a hellish landscape of terror.
This “Christmas special” comes from the mind of Robert Eggers, a name familiar to any self-proclaimed cinephile. Eggers quickly became a cult figure in the horror genre following his work writing and directing The Witch (2015) and The Lighthouse (2019). Based on F.W. Murnau’s 1922 silent German expressionist film of the same name, Eggers’s fourth film Nosferatu follows the story of Thomas Hutter (Nicholas Hoult), a real estate agent in early 1800s Germany, and his wife Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp), who becomes the object of obsession of Count Orlok (Bill Skarsgård).
Though the cast are adept in their respective roles, none stand out particularly against the grandeur of Nosferatu. Like the cinematography and post-production editing of the film, the actors simply function as tools to carry out Eggers’s vision. In some ways, Eggers is the greatest performer of them all, assuming the role of puppet master to tell the age-old story of a terrorizing vampire. Still, the skill of the cast shouldn’t be discounted. A movie is only as good as the sum of its parts, and the actors consistently showcase convincing performances throughout the film. Their screaming, crying, convulsing, and slack-jawed, wide-eyed terror all showcase their ability as effective actors.
That Eggers is a singular filmmaker is clear-cut in Nosferatu. His astute portrayal of insanity, reality, and doubt unite historical fears with intrinsically human trepidations, brewing up the perfect storm for deeply unsettling horror. The film faithfully interprets the Victorian fears of the Other, infectious disease, and the unknown, as well as the inherent influence of political unrest and impending war from the early 20th century, contextualizing some of the less believable horrors of vampirism and justifying character choices for the modern day viewer. Nosferatu relies on Eggers’s devotion to historical and source accuracy, drawing heavily from Murnau’s film, Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula (1897), and Transylvanian folklore and mythology.
At the same time, suspense and genuine fear are evoked more tangibly by the undeniably Eggers-esque direction. Though his cinematic approach to Nosferatu is much more lavish than his typical style, Eggers maintains minimalist elements that breathe some realism into the fantastical storyline. Sparse instrumentation—as opposed to grand orchestral scores—subtly builds suspense with a delicate tremor of tension instead of obvious and rather blunt fear. Long, continuous shots are punctuated by moments of almost-utter silence, decorated only with the rustling of fabric or the clinking of metal—more authentic depictions of real-life silence, as compared to the pure absence of sound.
Many great horror films pointedly direct attention to lurking dangers nearby, wanting viewers to fear the unseen but obvious terrors lying in wait. Nosferatu isn’t lacking in these moments, used effectively when they are used, like slow motion and harsh contrasts to accentuate the perils of the Count’s castle. But in his more minimalist style, Eggers marries the boundaries between our conceptions of ordinariness and our fear of the unknown. Taking advantage of the human instinct to anticipate, his subtler approaches to building suspense only suggest the possibility of monsters and jumpscares. In doing so, he more terrifyingly creates uncertainty, weaving together anxiety and doubt in the validity of that very fear.
All of these elements boil down to Eggers’s unparalleled ability to tell a nuanced story. Each aspect of his films is intentional, careful, and strategic; so much is conveyed without ever being explicitly said or shown. The peculiar atmosphere of Nosferatu is developed in the same way, with symbolism and flashbacks telling the story. In nearly every frame, there’s something to dissect. These narrative cues operate as visual descriptions, and in turn, the movie becomes a sort of sensory book. You find yourself looking for deeper meaning behind everything you see, hear, and feel. What does the presence of animals imply? Why do they keep repeating that phrase? How is this scene going to be important later on? In a way, this effect mimics that of a book on a reader. Offering up more questions than answers, Nosferatu jogs the imagination and makes you think—a lost art in today’s day and age.
It’s not as though the film makes you work to understand it, though—just as the actors help deliver Eggers’s vision, the cinematography carries the narrative on its back. Like Nosferatu’s general direction, the cinematography fluctuates between minimalistic realism and dramatic fantasy, blurring the lines of what is believably scary. The more stripped-down aspects, including natural light, still, wide, open shots, and desaturation of color make the film more convincing, while excessive use of shadows, sweeping camera angles, and motivated camera work imbue fear into the story.
At the same time, the cinematography paints Nosferatu as visually stunning, highlighting the best of the sets, lighting, acting, costuming, and movement. More than its individual parts, how the story is delivered makes it convincing, terrifying, and beautiful. It transforms a mere horror movie into art.
Nosferatu’s overall composition—the writing, the direction, the cinematography—is good and well when taken at face value. But the only real drawback to the film is a big one because it makes the film harder to watch. Though it stands undoubtedly as a good movie, Nosferatu feels long and drawn out. In comparison to Eggers’s two solo projects, it is considerably longer. With the density of the story’s content, it’s understandable that Nosferatu has a longer runtime. But the pacing is slow, making the movie feel longer than 132 minutes. As a general rule, the story itself slowly inches forward. As a tactic for building suspense slowly, this technique isn’t problematic on its own. But the climax of the story isn’t hidden from the viewer; the first plot points establish the inevitable arrival of Count Orlok. Already knowing what lies ahead, there’s no additional tension built by emphasizing the characters’ anxieties. The movie’s tagline reads: “Succumb to the darkness.” But the darkness couldn’t come quick enough.
Potentially, part of the issue is that Nosferatu is making its debut in theaters. Perhaps it’s a movie better experienced in a less casual, less commercial setting. The craftsmanship of the film can’t be denied, and it’s a powerful work of art, crafted with Eggers’s obvious love and care for it. But he maybe loves it a little too much, because in honoring the integrity of realism and suspense, he begins to lose momentum along the way. That isn’t a deal breaker for all, but it means Nosferatu is a film better appreciated than enjoyed, despite its effective storytelling. It depends on how you see it: are movies for art or for entertainment?
