Review: Nosferatu (2024) — A Lurid Lullaby of Gothic Dread
★★★★☆

Robert Eggers' Nosferatu is not just a remake—it’s a resurrection, and one performed with the care of an artist exhuming an ancient body for study, reverence, and fear. Drawing from the spectral bones of F.W. Murnau’s 1922 silent classic, this 2024 iteration breathes new (or undead) life into the vampire mythos with a brooding elegance that refuses to be rushed.

From the first frames, the film announces itself as something different. Eggers doesn't rely on jump scares or cheap thrills. Instead, he weaves dread slowly, like a fog crawling over cobblestone streets. Shot on 35mm by Jarin Blaschke, the cinematography evokes turn-of-the-century engravings—every image a painting, every shadow a whisper. The nearly monochrome palette isn't just a stylistic flourish; it’s a gateway into the film’s melancholic tone, as if the entire world is on the verge of withering under Count Orlok’s gaze.

And what a gaze it is. Bill Skarsgård’s performance as Orlok is nothing short of hypnotic. Hidden beneath layers of eerie prosthetics and yet strangely expressive, Skarsgård turns the vampire into a creature not only of hunger but of loneliness. He’s not a suave predator, but a plague—gaunt, grotesque, and mournful. The real revelation, however, is Lily-Rose Depp as Ellen Hutter. Her portrayal brims with a haunted resolve, giving Ellen the spine and sorrow of a woman carrying centuries of inherited fear and forgotten strength. Nicholas Hoult, as Thomas, grounds the narrative in quiet desperation, a man unraveling in a world he cannot comprehend.

Eggers leans heavily into the psychological, reimagining Orlok not simply as a monster but as a manifestation of forbidden desires, repressed grief, and unhealed trauma. Ellen’s descent into obsession—and eventual defiance—is more than a gothic trope; it’s a tragedy laced with agency. The horror comes not only from what Orlok is, but from what he awakens in others.

The score, composed by Robin Carolan, is another triumph. Rather than drenching the film in the typical orchestral shrieks of horror, it favors aching strings, funereal bells, and sonic textures that hum with unease. It’s less a soundtrack than a slow chant, a lullaby for the damned.

If Nosferatu falters, it's in its deliberate pace. Viewers accustomed to high-octane horror may find themselves restless. But for those willing to surrender to the film’s meditative rhythm, there are rewards in every frame. This is a movie that doesn’t tell you to be afraid—it trusts you’ll find the fear yourself, in the long silences, the candlelit corridors, the quiet cruelty of a glance.

There are also those who may wish Eggers had pushed harder, faster, or further into the depths of terror. But that misses the point. Nosferatu is not a scream; it's a murmur in the dark. It's the creak of an old coffin in your dreams, the scrape of something ancient beneath your floorboards.

Eggers has crafted a film that honors its source material while making bold artistic choices. It's not a crowd-pleaser, but a mood piece—an invitation to surrender to shadows. And for that, it earns a solid four stars.

Recommended for fans of slow-burn horror, classic vampire lore, and the kind of movie that lingers long after the credits crawl.

Rating: 8/10
Vampires are starting to become scary again.