‘NOSFERATU’: Eggers Delivers an Instant Horror Classic That Seduces, Haunts

Evil is the plague of desire, heartache etched across time and space, in Robert Egger’s immaculately constructed gothic horror, Nosferatu. A remake that leans on this classical haunt’s impressionistic terrors as much as it engages in a century-long conversation with the story itself, mining the treasured material for new macabre corners to exploit and desecrate, Nosferatu is an artisanal implosion of Egger’s unholy but exacting storytelling sensibilities. The craft is front and center in Egger’s frigidly cold, knottily twisted reimagining of this vampiric tragedy: Jarin Blaschke’s moonlit, candle-flickering cinematography lures you into the shadows; Craig Lathrop’s meticulously haunted set designs create a tension between the living and the dead, the opulent and the otherworldly; and composer Robin Carolan’s deliciously unnerving score binds the film’s horrors into a single unholy hymn, deepening the dread that Egger’s impeccable craft brings to life. What prevails is a singular vision of demented yearning and moral corruption where you don’t dare look away from the screen for an instant—for fear of being seduced by Nosferatu’s spell—or perhaps because you already have been.

Nosferatu—this version and all before it—is a story of iteration and stolen souls. The original 1922 film was itself an unauthorized retelling of Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel “Dracula”, shot on a limited budget under questionable circumstances, not least of which was the diabolically enigmatic presence of Max Schreck as the titular villain. Dracula, and by extension Nosferatu, is the most portrayed literary character in film history, with over 500 screen appearances. His ubiquity brings a challenge: any retelling carries the weight of expectation and demands some kind of visionary novelty. Of those 500+ films, few are memorable, and even fewer are remarkable. Nicolas Hoult, playing recently married real estate agent Thomas Hutter here, just last year starred as Renfield in the farcical film of the same name, a tepid effort that failed to leave a lasting impression. But Eggers’ Nosferatu defies the tides of lazy repetition and mandated IP recycling. Elevated by the director’s artfully playful approach and obvious reverence for the material, the film is shot like a living work of gothic art, taking its subject matter deadly seriously to emerge as an instant horror classic.

Thomas Hutter believes he has an opportunity—a chance to secure a brighter future for himself and his new bride, Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp). Fate and fortune motivate the upstart to Transylvania, where a mysterious count eagerly awaits him to finalize a relocation to Hutter’s Bavarian hometown. For a man of limited prospects, the invitation feels like a gateway to overnight prosperity, cutting short the brief bliss of his honeymoon. What Thomas cannot see are the machinations guiding his journey—forces driving him, Ellen, and the fate of the larger world into the malevolent claws of an unstoppable, obsessive evil. Unbeknownst to him, Ellen shares a psionic connection with his soon-to-be host, their cat-and-mouse history of obsession and devotion binding them in ways Thomas cannot comprehend. Awaiting him at Count Orlok’s (Bill Skarsgård) decrepit castle is an impenetrable evil—a figure so patently profane that his silhouette alone chills the spine. What should have been the simple closing of a real estate deal instead becomes a covenant written in blood, veiled in an ancient dialect. Here, souls will be exchanged.

The tension is as thick and queasy as the smoke-filled air in these wickedly frightening vignettes, where firelight and shadow obscure the grim proceedings. Carolan’s score, dominated by trembling strings and crescendoing choirs, swells like a malign force, its sharp, scraping notes and ghostly voices driving the tension to impossible heights. Eggers pays homage to his own works—particularly The Witch, where rising choirs and sinister strings turn sound into pure dread. Here, sound mingles with sweat in a symphony of evils, fear-stricken performances amplifying the terror under Nosferatu’s haunting aura—an infernal presence, as if his talons pluck at the strings of both characters and audience alike.

Skarsgård succumbs to the role entirely, disappearing within the pall of Count Orlok’s vampire, every trace of humanity secreted into shadow. His take on the character is strikingly original—his daunting physicality is reimagined as a hulking undead brute, a far cry from Schreck’s skeletal whisper of an apparition, paired with a commanding vocal performance: a breathy, staccato cadence that lands somewhere between guttural menace and grotesque parody, as dissonant and unsettling as the character himself. These changes may take some getting used to, particularly for those deeply familiar with the classic Nosferatu, but they’re undeniably bold choices. Nevertheless, Skarsgård casts a dark spell over the film, his hypnotic mannerisms evoking a creaking door—a staple of horror’s soundscape—a guttural groan dragged from hell itself, slamming shut with the startling force of a jump scare. Even when he’s not on screen, his presence haunts every scene, infecting the psyches of both characters and audience alike.

Emerging from the shadows in a star-making turn is Depp, who injects Ellen with a deep forsaken sadness and captivating unhinged intensity. She may resist being an instrument for Nosferatu the character but is a critical instrument for Nosferatu the film, as the story rests on her ability to sell her jejune innocence, her enveloping madness, and her supine lust, emerging in little moans, tongue-flickers, and lolled-back eyes. It should come as little surprise that Willem Dafoe, playing an occult doctor, almost steals the whole thing out from under the rest of his cast mates. His performance is electrifying, injecting every scene he’s in with a crackling humor that aptly releases the tightly-wound levers of tension. The rest of the cast adds vivid color to the film’s nasty delights: Ralph Ineson as a pragmatic doctor rejecting medieval practices; Emma Corrin as Ellen’s close friend and confidant; Aaron Taylor-Johnson as a shipping magnate and ally of Thomas; and Simon McBurney in a head-turning turn as Herr Knock, Count Orlok’s deranged servant. Together, this ensemble creates a kaleidoscopic nightmare, each performance adding its own vivid hue to the film’s wickedly macabre delights. Their collective energy doesn’t just support the main trio—it amplifies the terror, enriching Nosferatu with layers of menace and twisted charm, and just enough good humor.

With Nosferatu, Robert Eggers delivers more than just a retelling of a classic—it’s a resurrection, a distillation of everything that makes gothic horror so relentlessly enduring. The film’s obvious craft, sticky performances, and unrelenting atmosphere coalesce into something greater than the sum of its parts: a cinematic séance that bridges the past and the present, reverent of its roots while boldly carving out new, unsettling ground. While it doesn’t surpass The Witch, Eggers’ undeniable masterpiece, Nosferatu more than holds a candle to his best work—a dark, flickering flame that illuminates the genius of his vision. I can’t wait to rewatch and let Nosferatu’s spell take hold all over again.

CONCLUSION: With Nosferatu, Robert Eggers conjures a gothic horror that feels both timeless and daringly fresh. A masterful blend of craft, performance, and atmosphere, it’s a haunting reimagining that lingers like a shadow you can’t escape—an instant horror classic.