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Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922)

A review by Damian Cannon.
Copyright © Movie Reviews UK 2000
Close your eyes, cast your mind to a lifetime past, back to cinema's infancy. A time when the art of filmmaking was still rough, shockingly basic. No computers poised to pump out CGI graphics, no Steadicam harnesses worn through dizzying pursuits, not much in the way of trick photography. At this stage even synchronised sound and colour-sensitive emulsions were still a long way down the road. Yet what the pioneers enjoyed, abundantly so, was enthusiasm, imagination, a belief in their ability to tell stories and entrance audiences. Within reach lay the great human tales, epic sagas of heroes and gods, tragic songs of love found and lost, chilling nightmares of horror. In the latter category, few and far between were the creations equal to Bram Stoker's Dracula of 1897.

A spine-tingling tale based on the deep-seated fear of losing one's own self, whether to possession or madness, it cries out to be filmed. F.W. Murnau obliges, in the process unsealing a wellspring of inspiration for directors as yet unborn. His take on Nosferatu translates the supernatural and the spooky into pure visual imagery, moulding the familiar into the grotesque. This transformation centres on Count Orlok (Max Schreck) himself, the head honcho of the vampire world. In person he's unsettling, a vapour-thin wraith capped by a hairless, desiccated, pointy-eared head of indeterminate age. As a shadow that caresses the wall like smoke, his fingers curl endlessly, antennae for otherworldly powers. Behind coal-black lips lurk those teeth, hypodermic needles used to plunge through a new victim's fleshy neck, barely held in check by Orlok's caution.

Already in thrall to the Count's will is one Knock (Alexander Granach), an agent for house sales in the city of Bremen. In coded communication with his master, Knock finalises a purchase by sending his employee Thomas Hutter (Gustav von Wangenheim) to the far-off land of Transylvania. Abrim with ambition and the immortality of youth, Thomas shakes off the fears of his devoted wife Ellen (Greta Schroder); this is their opportunity for advance. On the road Thomas makes enviable time, rushing across Central Europe in pursuit of destiny. Only near to the Count's castle do the local's have the mark of terror, certain to a man that Thomas' journey can lead only to the grave. Thomas remains unswerved. Constant even when he accidentally slices his thumb and has to ward off the tender advance of Orlok, writing only of strange dreams in dispatches home. Naivety soon wrenched from a baby.

Interestingly, for a modern audience Wangenheim's performance is perhaps the weakest, least convincing aspect of Nosferatu. He overacts terribly, reacting to the smallest perturbation with grand gestures and facial contortions. Yet this broad style is certainly in keeping with the movie's period, a mode of acting evolved from the demands of silence. Thus, while watching Nosferatu you're torn between finding Wangenheim amateurish and remembering that is to be expected. However, even with this considered, Wangenheim is a poor match for Schreck. The latter cools the soul by a glance, then heats the air with an almost erotic charge. Orlok, in these hands, is like a fool in love; desperate for the closeness of touch, longing across countries for a kiss, given to gazing forlornly from windows. You come close to pitying Orlok, a poor, misunderstood plague-carrier.

Working with cinematographer Fritz Arno Wagner, Murnau generates atmosphere with the barest of tools. Light and shadow are manipulated with the thought that terror should remain unseen, gliding just below the surface. Something is out there but you don't know where. Thus Nosferatu places Orlok in the screen's corners, ready to emerge as a phantom rippling across a wall. Simple, but effective, techniques enhance the unease. Orlok fades from view, negative exposure turns day to night, sped up motion makes a carriage move too quickly for comfort, objects shift without human interaction. These, with some embroidery, are the staples of modern horror. Beside the effects, Murnau directs at a rapid pace, hardly pausing for exposition. Nosferatu is more a linked series of jumps from one climatic scene to another, all adding to the eerie tone without damming back the tale's flow.

With the benefit of hindsight, it's easy to recognise the influence of Nosferatu. Ground breaking techniques developed here, by Murnau and collaborators, feature in all manner of movies; how many times since have we seen the low-shot used to make a character loom huge over the audience? They've been improved upon in the meantime, at the expense of this original, but the founding elements remain. Yet beyond this, Nosferatu hasn't travelled particularly well. It's haunting rather than outright scary, the acting is mostly over-cooked (apart from Schreck) and the script relies on your memory to fill in the gaps. As a film it's more of a curiosity than a picture worth seeking out for entertainment value alone. That said, you're unlikely to see anything else quite like Nosferatu!

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