Nosferatu (1979)

“Come on you apes! You wanna live forever?” 

If you answered in the affirmative, then you’re in a world of hurt, courtesy of Lieutenant Rasczak or later Lieutenant Rico. The only good bug is a dead bug, so you’d better get with the program, soldier! Still, who wouldn’t want to live forever? The inevitability of death remains a foregone conclusion for every living creature on the planet, but what if you could spit in the face of The Grim Reaper and say, “Not today, you hoodie-wearing fuck!” There’s an invincibility factor that initially sounds enticing, but ultimately, reality will indeed rear its boring, mundane, soul-crushing head. In the case of What We Do in the Shadows (2014), four vampires take part in some hilariously wacky antics while the atmosphere remains surprisingly one of general malaise. The most silent (in fact, he says nothing at all) of the vampire flat mates is Peter, whose appearance is a direct copy of the vampire in F.W. Murnau’s 1922 silent classic Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror. This wasn’t the first time the terrifyingly pale, rat-like visage of actor Max Schreck’s iconic Count Orlok received a direct homage. 

1979 was the year of the vampire film, where both cinema and television audiences were able to view, amongst others, the John Badham-directed Frank Langella Dracula (based on the Broadway hit that my lucky-ass parents got to see. Bastards), the surprisingly amusing George Hamilton comedy Love at First Bite, and of course, Tobe Hooper’s made-for-TV Salem’s Lot, which also borrowed heavily from the makeup artistry of Nosferatu producer/designer Albin Grau. The character of Count Orlok has been referenced or even appeared in everything from video games, music, and even a Spongebob Squarepants episode. Willem Dafoe would be nominated for an Oscar when he portrayed a fictional version of actor Max Schreck in Shadow of the Vampire (2000). Buried under the impressive Oscar-nominated makeup by Ann Buchanan and Amber Sibley, Dafoe’s naturally demonic looks and sly wit brought both humor and terror to a metafictional story about the making of Murnau’s film. E. Elias Merhige’s film is something of a black comedy, which can sometimes rub horror fans the wrong way. Very little comedy is to be found in Werner Herzog’s haunting, dread-filled adaptation/remake of what he described in a making-of-featurette and again in 1998 as “the greatest of all German films.” His belief in bridging the gap between the German expressionism movement and the New German Cinema allowed him to make an extraordinary and singular version of an oft-repeated tale. 

Herzog’s narrative features have always been a mixed-bag for me. The early work has been justifiably lauded, with Aguirre, The Wrath of God (1972) being, in my opinion, a masterpiece that is also highly entertaining. Just because a film is a masterpiece doesn’t mean one can plop down on the couch and check it out any day of the week, but Aguirre is awesomely engaging and wild. The Oscar-nominated German filmmaker is understandably a legend for both his films and his idiosyncratic persona. I pride myself on being patient, so lengthy films don’t bother me. For Herzog, it’s not a question of length (most of his films don’t exceed two hours), but a matter of narrative rhythm and pacing. He simply takes his time, which is his right, especially considering what he’s gone through to make many of his films, but they can certainly result in mixed audience reactions. He’s fared much better with his astonishing documentaries, which he often narrates with his signature probing, inquisitive tone. While a film like Invincible (2000) contains a fascinating story which somehow peters out in the final 20 minutes, docs like Land of Silence and Darkness (1971) and Grizzly Man (2005) explore the nature of humanity and death in riveting fashion. Death and immortality are Herzog’s main focus in Nosferatu the Vampyre.  

Although it took 17 years after his death for medical records to reveal a distressing medical diagnosis and 22 years for his daughter Pola Kinski to reveal his horrific sexual abuses, it was clear to anyone who worked with the notorious Klaus Kinski that this guy was crazy. While he was somehow able to appear in over 130 films, which included his other collaborations with Herzog (Aguirre, Woyzeck, Fitzcarraldo, Cobra Verde) as well as the classic western The Great Silence (1968), the freakish Crawlspace (1986), and the highly underrated Venom (1981), it’s quite frankly incredible that so many people were willing to take a chance on him considering how much his reputation preceded him. I suppose, in many ways, the ends justify the means as his natural intensity (whether due to acting ability or legitimate mental illness) made for engaging screen portrayals. Like Dafoe, Kinski’s gaunt features and wide, hollow eyes lend themselves magnificently to the role of Nosferatu, this time named Count Dracula as the copyright to Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” novel had expired, thus allowing Herzog to restore the original character names without risk of a potential lawsuit from the Stoker estate as Murnau’s film ultimately had to contend with. Although he was his usual difficult, angry self, somehow his relationship with makeup designer Reiko Kruk remained pleasant enough for him to get through the four-hour makeup application process without a hitch. The result is worth it. While many interpretations of the Dracula legend go for a seductive, sexually-charged villain, Kinski’s Count is revealed to be a creature of great pain and sorrow. He looks upon his immortality and very existence as a curse and while there is nothing remotely attractive about him, one still feels pity for this undead monster despite his awful deeds. Murdering people and draining them of their blood is shown as more of a necessity rather than the usual predator/prey dynamic. The sadness which emanates from this bat-like creeper makes it one of the more sympathetic portrayals of the most famous of all bloodsuckers.  

Herzog’s screenplay takes the unique approach of a dual adaptation between Stoker’s novel and Murnau’s film, borrowing and transmogrifying storylines from the literary version and taking visual cues from the screen effort. Years later, he described Stoker’s novel as “mediocre literature” and when faced with a lawsuit down the line regarding the original film, he stated that he was “a thief without loot” since Murnau had illegally lifted major plot points anyways. Still, Stoker’s story, regardless of Herzog’s feelings toward the writing, is a compelling and elegantly simple yarn which has captivated audiences for over a century. The writer/director said at the time of shooting that pain is often a source of inspiration when it comes to what films he wishes to make. It’s clear he felt a level of understanding and fascination in the plight of Dracula and the constant agony he must deal with as the years have passed and the world has continued to change. Late in the film, as the Count enters the room of Lucy Harker (Oscar-nominee Isabelle Adjani, The Story of Adele H, The Tenant, and a lunatic performance in the jaw-dropping Possession), with whom he is smitten, he calls her his “salvation.” It’s clear he’s loved and lost before countless times, yet the hurt he feels has never been extinguished. A “broken heart” is a metaphorical term, and yet the crushing devastation from the breakup of a relationship often manifests itself in literal physical pain that centers around one’s chest, hence the belief that one’s heart is actually broken. The acting prowess of both Kinski and Adjani are on full-display as he longs for her companionship and she answers him with defiance and a declaration of love for her victimized husband.  

Prior to learning about Lucy’s genuine affection for her caring husband Jonathan Harker (Bruno Ganz, future Adolf Hiter in Downfall), we’re treated to a gloriously grotesque opening as Herzog himself operates a shaky handheld camera while filming the decrepit and mummified remains of various individuals. These were, in fact, real bodies; the victims of an 1833 cholera epidemic which were on display in Guanajuato, Mexico. While facial features have long given way to decay, the twisted mouths of many of the bodies distressingly show pain and anguish, as if they’re frozen and screaming for all eternity. While more exploitative filmmakers may have used these bodies as merely a way to creep a viewer out, Herzog is showing us the ravages of time which Kinski’s Dracula cannot experience and views from afar with both jealousy and contempt. “Time is an abyss,” the Count tells a future victim, illuminating his unfathomable experiences across the pages of history. 

With very short but telling scenes, we understand perfectly how much Jonathan and Lucy care for one another. He wishes to give her the life she deserves and she’s constantly worrying about his health. As an agent who handles various estates, taking long journeys is an integral part of his job. However, when his clearly-disturbed boss Mr. Renfield (Roland Topor, writer of The Tenant, Fantastic Planet) entices him with the promise of a large commission by making a four-week trek over the Carpathian Mountains to Transylvania, he takes it. He needs the signature of one Count Dracula (Kinski) to finalize the purchase of a large, ruined manor quite close to Jonathan’s own home. Although Lucy has recurring nightmares involving bats and fears the worst, Harker sets off. 

We get a fabulous scene involving gypsies who are terrified at the prospect of Jonathan traveling to Dracula’s castle. The very mention of the Count’s name is enough to cause the entire tavern to clam up and the owner’s wife to break a dish. He’s given a cross and even a handy instructional book on vampires, but it’s all for naught. His determination to get his job done ultimately proves to be his downfall. I adore scenes in which a handheld camera is employed in a non-contemporary setting. Herzog’s cinematographer Jörg Schmidt-Reitwein, who would shoot a great deal of the director’s films throughout the 70’s, tracks Harker along the treacherous route until he’s unexpectedly picked up by a mysterious coach. In a subtle, yet very creepy touch, we later discover that Dracula’s castle may be nothing more than ruins and what we, the audience, and Jonathan see when he enters the castle may be all an illusion. What is definitely not an illusion is the Count himself. In a bold move, the first appearance of the Count is framed in a wide shot. The camera peers up from the bottom of the stairs to the entrance and as the doors open, we see what appears to be a shadow, or possibly a figure in the doorway. Due to the stillness of the shape, it’s unclear whether this is a person or just an oddly human-like form. Suddenly, the shape moves and out of the darkness steps Count Dracula in all his glory.  

Dracula puts out one helluva spread; he’d probably do well as a bed-and-breakfast owner, and the only negative Yelp review he’d likely receive regarding his hospitality is his sudden outburst after Jonathan cuts himself while slicing bread. Kinski hungrily eyes Ganz with that incredible stare, who backs away, and the scene plays out in a gloriously tense single take. Although very freaked out, Jonathan appears to take the Count’s weirdness in stride, which seems par for the course due to his non-plussed response to Renfield’s psychotic giggling from earlier. The film doesn’t overtly state that Dracula is hypnotizing his victims, but with most of Kinski’s acting coming from his eyes, the audience is definitely catching on that his victims are helpless to defend themselves once he’s fixed on you.  

What makes Herzog’s film, which isn’t so much scary as it is disquieting, is its use of stillness. In his final act of terror upon Jonathan, he enters the poor man’s room and moves at an unbelievably slow pace, ramping up the tension. He has his fill of Harker’s blood, then locks him inside the castle as he heads towards his new home and Lucy. While the Count’s character clearly has tragic elements, he’s still a monster and someone who isn’t above committing dirty tricks to get what he wants. A weakened Jonathan barely escapes while the Count travels by coffin, accompanied by more coffins filled with Transylvanian soil and many, many rats. He terrorizes the crew of the ship transporting these oblong boxes, and by the time the unmanned vessel slowly floats into port and crashes against the canal’s streets, the crew is dead and all hell is about to break loose.  

Hundreds of rats escape (they really should’ve pulled up that plank before they got loose) and a plague devastates the city. Pestilence runs rampant as the Count wanders the increasingly deserted streets and society devolves into an apocalyptic display of hedonism and madness. Renfield has fully embraced his role as Dracula’s vicious servant and escapes prison. Lucy continues to have visions and sleepwalks while the number of disgusting grey rats continues to grow. 

Jonathan makes it home but suddenly has no recollection of his relationship with Lucy. This leads to the most electrifying scene in a film full of breathtaking moments. As Lucy stares into a mirror, it reflects the door behind her, which seemingly opens and closes under its own accord. Something is casting a shadow, but we see no one else in the room. Suddenly, the clawed, rat-like hand of the Count reaches out for Lucy from off-camera. He introduces himself and Lucy shows great strength of character and courage by standing up to the imposing Count. Adjani is a great actress despite having a tendency to bug her eyes out (Kinski is guilty of this too), and her defiance and declaration of her undying love for Jonathan is stunning. It’s as if the Count has truly met his equal and even when he states that “it’s more cruel not to be able to die,” Lucy refuses to pity him and her crucifix causes him to hastily leave.  

Lucy’s role of damsel-in-distress is wonderfully subverted as she takes a more active part in the extermination of Dracula. The film’s Van Helsing (Walter Ladengas, The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser) is a much more minor figure here, essentially acting as a disbelieving sounding board for Lucy as well as the doctor in charge of Renfield, a writing choice which cleverly merges Van Helsing and the character of Dr. Seward. She attempts to procure assistance from the townsfolk, but with so much death and desolation around her, all she can do is wander through the crowds while pallbearers carry dozens of coffins and the few remaining survivors engage in doomed celebrations in the city square. Herzog’s use of a documentary-style approach lend the film an immediacy and desperate quality which leads Lucy to make the ultimate sacrifice.  

Jonathan is still barely alive and sunlight seems to be bothering him, but as far as we can tell, being bitten by a vampire doesn’t appear to have changed him. She crushes “the consecrated host” (communion wafers) to form a protective circle around Harker and lays in her bed, wearing virginal white, and awaits the arrival of Dracula. When the Count enters her room, both his and Lucy’s skin appear as white as ghosts. He bites her neck and begins to feed, but when he pulls away, she sensuously gropes for him, enticing him to continue feeding and thus delaying his exit. The ploy works and sunlight begins streaming through her bedroom windows. The Count realizes he’s trapped and his eyes turn completely white as he writhes on the floor. An interesting facet of Herzog/Kinski’s Count is that he doesn’t disintegrate as in Murnau’s version. He appears to merely be incapacitated, although his stillness is left up to the viewer whether he’s dead or merely helpless. Either way, Van Helsing finally arrives to do something and drives a stake through Dracula’s heart off-camera. In a devilishly ironic twist, Harker turns into a vampire himself and accuses Van Helsing of murder. Despite the absence of a police force or even proper prison guards, Van Helsing is hauled away and Harker requests his horse. “I have much to do...now,” he states through two sharp fangs and off he rides into the windy desert.  

Werner Herzog’s beautiful film is full of gloom and darkness coupled with an almost surreal approach to the downfall of a society by a seemingly unstoppable force. The renegade filmmaker remarked in the making-of doc that this was his eighteenth film and yet up until that point, he’d never made a genre film. While filmmaking shouldn’t necessarily follow any particular rules, Herzog understood that certain story beats and ideas must be presented in order to present a compelling story. He crafts a superb film using the excellent talents of his collaborators.  

The score, featuring a piece by Richard Wagner but mainly a collaboration between composer Florian Fricke and performer Popol Vuh, is gorgeous. For some reason, the phrase “harpsichord rock” ran through my head, which I think is an appropriate description of the music here. Production designer Henning von Gierke peppers the film with creepy little touches, including Dracula’s skeleton-themed goth clock and a fancy-dress party taking place while dozens of rats scurry about at their feet. Speaking of the rats, these grey bastards would be kind of cute if they weren’t spreading a deadly disease. They start out in small numbers but eventually grow to an army of rodents. Their first appearance on the ship seems relatively innocuous at first, but they soon take over while the Count decimates the crew. In a stunning helicopter shot, the camera rotates around the ship as a man (presumably the captain) has tied himself to the steering wheel in a desperate attempt to make it to shore.  

The performances are uniformly excellent, with Kinski playing up the Count’s sadness while still remaining a malevolent figure. Ganz is very good here and his final transformation is played without any hint of self-awareness or winking to the audience. Topor’s delightfully deranged Renfield is a lot of fun, particularly when he comments that he hears “the rustling of sails,” signifying his master is drawing near. The real stand-out though, is Adjani, whose elegance and decency make her an ideal and unexpected heroine. Her courage is humanity’s only hope to destroy an unspeakable evil.  

Herzog has always been fascinated by chaos and the introduction of a literal plague along with a supernatural force gives him the chance to examine how a society would react to such an event. It’s bold and original, yet he finds a way to balance homage and still put his own personal stamp on an extraordinary film.