Count Dracula, the infamous Transylvanian aristocrat, embodies transformation in more ways than one. In Bram Stoker’s 1897 classic, he shifts effortlessly from an elderly man to a youthful figure, and even takes on the forms of a bat, a dog, or a swirling mist. According to Joseph Campbell’s Monomyth framework, Dracula represents both the Shadow and the Shapeshifter—pure evil that adapts and evolves, always staying a step ahead of those who dare to confront him.
The tale of Dracula itself is remarkably adaptable, reshaping itself with each retelling to reflect contemporary anxieties—be it narratives of invasion, psychosexual horror, or twisted love stories. Each era has produced its own version of Dracula: from Bela Lugosi’s mesmerizing outsider to Christopher Lee’s charismatic authority, and Gary Oldman’s grandiose 1990s romantic figure, to Claes Bang’s postmodern skeptic in a recent BBC rendition who believes in nothing but himself.
One of the earliest and most striking examples of this malleability is the silent film *Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror* (1922). Directed by F. W. Murnau and scripted by Henrik Galeen, the film cleverly evaded any potential copyright claims on Stoker’s story (albeit unsuccessfully, as Stoker’s widow, Florence, sued to have all copies destroyed). Murnau’s adaptation rewrites Dracula in fascinating ways.
While Stoker’s original features the Eastern European nobleman drawn to 1890s London, Murnau sets the story in 1830s Germany. Here, Jonathan Harker—renamed Thomas Hutter—invites the vampire, now Count Orlok, to prey upon the fictional town of Wisborg. Hutter’s wife, Ellen, is reminiscent of both Stoker’s Mina Murray and Lucy Westenra. The narrative unfurls as something stranger than Stoker’s dynamic thriller, at times evoking the feel of a fairy tale and at others resembling a haunting nightmare from which one cannot awaken.
Murnau’s vision introduces a layer of darkness absent from Stoker’s tale. Where Stoker grappled with Irish mythology, a domineering employer, and perhaps the lingering presence of Oscar Wilde—his wife’s childhood sweetheart—Murnau was creating in the aftermath of World War I and its devastation, influenced by his producer Albin Grau, an occultist connected with Aleister Crowley.
This confluence of influences yields a more cynical version of the story. For instance, Murnau’s Hutter unwittingly walks into a trap set by his employer, Herr Knock—who parallels the disconnected Renfield from Stoker’s narrative—while the equivalent of Van Helsing, Professor Bulwer, exists merely as an ineffective observer, allowing Ellen’s sacrifice to bring the predator’s destruction.
Watching Murnau’s *Nosferatu* today is akin to witnessing the birth of horror film conventions. Although much has aged in the century since its release, its key scenes remain undeniably potent: the sight of the vampire lord rising from the boat that ferries him to civilization; stalking victims, claws extended; disappearing with the dawn’s light in a climactic moment. The makeup that transformed actor Max Schreck into Orlok remains chillingly effective, making him the most grotesque incarnation of the Count ever depicted on screen—a rat-like, primal being. The film carries a dreamlike beauty, its themes of predation and corruption echoing through the decades. Pauline Kael aptly termed it “superbly loathsome,” while Robert Desnos hailed it as “the most beautiful film ever made.”
The enduring power of this landmark film seems to have inhibited direct remakes, with noteworthy exceptions including Werner Herzog’s 1979 version (featuring Klaus Kinski as a more sympathetic Count, reintroducing many of Stoker’s characters) and a low-budget version released in 2023, starring Doug Jones as Orlok. Now, emerging director Robert Eggers has taken a fresh approach to Murnau’s tale, delivering a captivating yet polarizing adaptation.
Eggers’s previous horrors—*The Witch* (2015) and *The Lighthouse* (2019)—blend arthouse aesthetics with jump scares and gore, showcasing a direct, intense style unafraid to explore the bizarre. His adaptation of *Nosferatu* feels both like a tribute and an assertion of his own vision.
What stands out in Eggers’s version is how little he modifies the original narrative; it closely follows the same outline while adding minimal contemporary changes. Beautifully shot and composed—thanks to cinematographer Jarin Blaschke—this film captures Murnau’s solemn expressionism, creating an atmosphere thick with oppression, with darkness illuminated solely by flickering candlelight. It’s refreshing to see the material treated with such seriousness and vigor. The film features memorable elements and impressive supporting performances; Willem Dafoe shines as the whimsical professor, while Ralph Ineson (as Dr. Sievers) subtly underplays his role, and Simon McBurney channels the wild spirit of Alexander Granach from the original.)
Nevertheless, the film also features peculiar choices that may alienate some viewers. The narrative carries a single, heavy note of impending terror throughout its entirety. It’s understandable that some audience members might find humor in the film; its lack of tonal variation leads to unintended comedic moments. The ominous journey to the Count’s castle is so laden with foreboding that it’s nearly unbelievable Hutter would continue his mission. Robin Carolan’s relentless score further distracts from the story. Lead performances vary: Nicholas Hoult convincingly portrays Hutter, although he is mostly limited to playing a solitary emotion. Aaron Taylor-Johnson, as his friend Friedrich, comes off as wooden, while Lily-Rose Depp captures Ellen’s wide-eyed innocence effectively at times, though her character can feel overly dramatic.
Bill Skarsgård’s portrayal of Orlok showcases the film’s oddities most clearly. His deep voice lacks subtlety, presenting Orlok as pure hunger and relentless evil, leaving little room for nuance. His vocal choices and heavy makeup, which exceed even Schreck’s in the original, compound this limitation. Eggers positions him out of focus and at the picture’s edges, unintentionally overshadowing his performance. His decision not to replicate the original makeup raises questions; clad in a military mantle and drooping mustache—an homage to Stoker’s description—this version of Orlok appears more human and, as a result, less terrifying.
Eggers’s adaptation is a sincere and eccentric endeavor that may inspire viewers to revisit the original. It has already found commercial success, prompting curiosity about Eggers’s next project—hopefully an original work. As for the Count, he will continue to evolve, taking on ever-new and unpredictable forms.
J. S. Barnes is the author of five novels. His upcoming work, Frankenstein’s Monster, will be published this year.
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