This vampire isn’t here to kiss your neck—he’s here to snap it..
Ah, Nosferatu (2024)—a film that slithered into theaters like a pale, rat-infested fever dream and left audiences either mesmerized or wondering if they needed a tetanus shot. Director Robert Eggers, our resident historian of cinematic trauma, has once again graced us with a film that oozes authenticity, despair, and the unsettling feeling that you might wake up with something whispering in your ear at 3 AM. And folks, I love that!
Now I know what your thinking: Oh boy, another sexy Dracula movie to feed the fetish loving crowd. Well allow me to be more clear—this isn’t your sparkly Twilight bloodsucker or even your suave, cape-flipping Bela Lugosi Dracula. No, no. This one is a walking disease, a medieval horror show with skin like expired deli meat. He’s not seducing anyone; he’s an infection in human form. If you find yourself thirsting over this Nosferatu, I highly recommend therapy. And possibly an exorcism.
Eggers, in his eternal quest to make period-accurate nightmares, takes the bones of F.W. Murnau’s 1922 silent classic and crafts something that feels both ancient and eerily fresh. It’s the cinematic equivalent of staring at an old, cursed painting—unsettling, hypnotic, and full of details that make you question if you’re safe in your own home.
The film’s atmosphere is thick—we’re talking fog-drenched gothic horror, candlelit despair, and a score that sounds like an orchestra slowly succumbing to madness-thick. Eggers has weaponized the very concept of gloom, using historical accuracy like a blunt instrument to smother you in dread. The whole movie feels like watching a cursed artifact unfold, one where time itself is rotting from the inside out.
As far as acting goes, Lily-Rose Depp, in a performance that somehow screams “delicate flower” and “lowkey possessed,” gives us an Ellen who isn’t just a passive damsel—she’s practically inviting doom into her parlor with open arms. And Nicholas Hoult’s Thomas Hutter? Poor guy. Just another wide-eyed real estate agent who thinks selling haunted mansions to literal monsters is a good idea. (I mean, in this economy, I get it, but come on, my guy.)
Now if you will allow me, I need to fanboy out for a second here on Bill Skarsgård’s Count Orlok. His performance isn’t just a typical vampire—he’s a rotting nightmare given shape, a parasitic wraith with the grace of a dying spider and the presence of an open grave. There’s nothing remotely human left in him; he oozes decay, every movement a slow, deliberate mockery of life, like a corpse that refuses to stay still. His performance is visceral in the worst (read: best) way possible—his wheezing breath feels damp in your ear, his grotesque frame lurches through scenes like something dredged from a shipwreck, and his eyes, black pits of nothingness, seem to eat the light around them. There’s no charm, no seduction—just hunger. A festering, insatiable hunger that creeps into your bones and lingers there long after the screen fades to black. Skarsgård doesn’t just play Orlok, he infects the film with his presence, turning every frame he's in into a diseased oil painting of death and despair. It’s not just horror—it’s contamination.
But is he the real monster in this flick, the horror star? No. The star is the overwhelming sense of powerlessness that is felt when watching the movie. This film understands dread better than most—it’s not about what will happen, but the fact that you cannot stop it from happening. And that’s what makes Nosferatu not just a good remake, but one of the best modern vampire films. Is it perfect? Nah. At times the pacing drags like an undead corpse, and there is an argument for it being all style and no bite. But here’s the thing: Nosferatu isn’t here to hold your hand or give you cheap jump scares—it’s here to make you feel deeply, existentially wrong. And honestly? That’s what horror should do.
So, is Nosferatu the best horror film of the year? Maybe. Is it the best film of the year? Doubt it. But one thing’s for sure—Eggers has created a nightmare that doesn’t fade when the credits roll. It sticks to you. Lurks in the corners. And just when you think you’re safe, Nosferatu reminds you… you’re not. I give this film a 4 out of 5 Bryans. Because if you’re patient? If you let the film consume you? You’ll be rewarded with something that lingers with you into the dark of the night.
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