Tag: Max Schreck

Posted on

Eggers’ banquet

 

© Focus Features / Universal Pictures

 

Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu (2024) has finally reached Singapore and a few days ago I watched it in the city-state’s excellent arthouse cinema The Projector.  This is Eggers’ reimagining of the 1922 silent horror-movie classic Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror, which was directed by F.W. Murnau and based surreptitiously on Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel Dracula – though not so surreptitiously that Murnau and his producers escaped being sued by Stoker’s widow for breach of copyright.

 

The new Nosferatu has provoked some extreme responses.  The reaction has been as polarised as the weird relationship at the film’s core, wherein the beautiful, fragrant Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp) gets intimate with the gaunt, rotting, pustuled Count Orlok (Bill Skarsgård), the dreaded nosferatu – vampire – of the title.  A while back, I read a very positive review of it by Wendy Ide in the Guardian but was taken aback by the negativity of the some of the comments below the line: “A turd…” “Just awful…” “Absolutely terrible…” “Beyond boring, absolute crap…”

 

Well, I lean towards the Wendy Ide end of the Nosferatu debate because I thought the film was great.  At least, I thought so during the two hours and 12 minutes I sat before it in The Projector.  When my critical faculties started to function again – they’d been in a daze during the film itself – I became aware of a few flaws.  But generally, thanks to its atmosphere, its visuals, its sumptuous (if drained) palette and its overall craftsmanship, I found it the most impressive version of Stoker’s novel I’ve seen.  And yes, though it retains the original Nosferatu’s German setting and German character-names, this is essentially another retelling of Dracula.

 

Not that I’m saying it’s my favourite version of Dracula.  That accolade belongs to the 1958 Dracula made by Hammer Films, directed by Terence Fisher and starring Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing as Dracula and Van Helsing, which I saw when I was 13 years old.  13 is a formative age, when certain things tend to imprint themselves on your consciousness and become your favourites for life.  Also, I feel uncomfortable saying this Nosferatu is better than Murnau’s Nosferatu.  More than a century separates the two films, with huge differences in their historical contexts, themes, styles and filmmaking technology, and to me they’re like chalk and cheese.  That said, I noticed some of the flaws in Eggers’ Nosferatu when I did compare it with the old one.

 

© Focus Features / Universal Pictures

 

While we’re on the subject of comparisons, I should say I massively preferred this film to the 1992 Francis Ford Coppola one, Bram Stoker’s Dracula.  Despite having the peerless Gary Oldman in the title role, it was one of the few films I’ve come close to walking out of in a cinema.  I stayed the course in the hope it would improve in its later stages, but it didn’t.  Eggers’ Nosferatu is as operatic in its tone and as flamboyant in its visuals as Coppola’s Dracula.  However, while Coppola threw everything at the wall – restless camera movements, gimmicky special effects and make-up, over-the-top costumes, hammy performances – in the hope at least some of it would stick and hold the attentions of the raised-on-MTV teenagers he assumed would be the film’s audience, Eggers doesn’t merely show off In Nosferatu.  There are also moments of stillness and silence, of subtlety and holding back, of allowing atmosphere to ferment and ripen.  Actually, for my money, comparing it to Coppola’s Dracula is like comparing a moody and detail-laden work by a Dutch Master to a hyperactive kids’ cartoon.

 

Nosferatu’s storyline follows the Dracula template.  Young estate agent Thomas Hutter (the stand-in for Stoker’s Jonathan Harker, here played by Nicholas Hoult) is despatched from the fictional German port-city of Wisburg to a castle in Transylvania, where he has to supervise the paperwork for the purchase of a Wisburg mansion by the mysterious Transylvanian aristocrat Count Orlok.  Hutter’s sojourn in Orlok’s castle becomes a terrifying ordeal as he discovers the vampirical nature of his host.  He ends up plunging from one of its windows, into a river, while the Count sets off for Wisburg.

 

The Count’s chosen mode of travel is by ship – Romania, which Transylvania is part of now, borders on the Black Sea and Germany’s coast runs along the North and Baltic Seas, so this is evidently a long voyage – and he brings with him a horde of plague-carrying rats, which first destroy the ship’s crew and then start infecting the citizens of Wisburg when he reaches his destination.  These plague-rats are both a physical manifestation of Orlok’s evil and, presumably, a way of disguising his activities – with people dropping dead of plague left, right and centre, nobody’s going to notice a few blood-drained corpses.

 

But Orlok’s presence has been felt in Wisburg long before his arrival there.  Hutter’s wife Ellen – the Nosferatu equivalent of Stoker’s Mina Harker – has had an inexplicable psychic link to the ghoulish Count since her childhood and has already, in her dreams, pledged herself to him.  Also, Hutter’s boss Knock (Simon McBurney) has been communing with Orlok via some occult rituals.  Sending Hutter off to Transylvania was clearly part of a plan to relocate the vampire to the feeding-grounds of Wisburg.  Knock is the film’s version of Milo Renfield, the asylum-inmate who in Stoker’s novel becomes Dracula’s disciple.  Accordingly, Knock goes insane, gets incarcerated,  escapes and does Orlok’s bidding in the city.  Meanwhile, the thirsty Count makes a beeline for Ellen and those around her…

 

© Focus Features / Universal Pictures

 

Eggers’ cast-members acquit themselves well.  Lily-Rose Depp is extremely impressive in a role that requires her to be frightened, helpless, yearning, lascivious, possessed and defiant – often a couple of those things in one scene.  As a female foil to Dracula, she’s as good as Eva Green’s character Vanessa Ives in John Logan’s gothic-horror TV show Penny Dreadful (2014-16).  Likening someone to the mighty Eva Green is big praise from me.

 

Playing Jonathan Harker in a Dracula film is a thankless task.  You have to be bland and bloodless enough to add spice to the forthcoming dalliance between your missus and the Count, to suggest she’s a desperate 19th-century housewife who might actually welcome the vampire’s kiss.  But you also have to be interesting enough to make the audience root for you while you’re trapped in Castle Dracula.  And Nicholas Hoult does what’s required as the Harker-esque Hutter.  His restraint contrasts with the silent-movie acting of the original Hutter, Gustav von Wangenheim, who spent the early scenes of the 1922 Nosferatu grinning like a maniac.

 

On the other hand, Simon McBurney is unnervingly off-the-scale as Knock.  The 1922 Knock, Alexander Granach, was off-the-scale too, but McBurney’s one is allowed to slather himself in some full-on, 2024-stye blood and gore.  (He follows the hallowed Renfield tradition of chomping on small animals.)  If there’s a criticism, it’s that he doesn’t get enough to do.  More on that in a minute.

 

Ralph Ineson and Willem Dafoe respectively play a beleaguered Wisburg physician, Dr Sievers, and a Swiss expert on the occult, Professor Von Franz, who correspond to Stoker’s Dr Seward and Professor Van Helsing.  When Hutter gets back to Wisburg, they team up with him to put a stop to Count Orlok’s onslaught.  Willem Dafoe won’t replace Peter Cushing in my affections as the ultimate cinematic Van Helsing, but he’s delightful as the eccentric, cat-loving Von Franz.  Kind old gent though he is, Von Franz concocts a plan to destroy the vampire that may have tragic consequences for the people he’s supposed to be protecting.

 

© Focus Features / Universal Pictures

 

As for Bill Skarsgård and the film’s depiction of Count Orlok…  I can see why it’s been controversial.  Some have been disappointed that Eggers and Skarsgård didn’t replicate the iconic look of actor Max Schreck, who played the Count in 1922 as a bald, gaunt creature with rodentlike incisors, Spock ears and unseemly tufts of ear and eyebrow hair.  Indeed, in the first part of the film, we hardly see Orlok.  During the scenes set in his castle, he’s unsettlingly obscured by a haze of firelight, candlelight, shadows and darkness.  But when Eggers’ cameras finally reveal him, he’s an icky, mouldering thing, from the neck down at least, and he sports a monstrous and frankly distracting moustache.

 

I know Dracula had a moustache in the novel, and certain actors have played him with one, such as John Carradine in the Universal movies House of Frankenstein (1944) and House of Dracula (1945), and Christopher Lee in Jess Franco’s Count Dracula (1970).  But this must be the droopiest, shaggiest Drac-tache ever.

 

Maybe Eggers avoided the Max-Schreck look because he was sensitive to the accusations of antisemitism that dogged the old Nosferatu – that Schreck’s Orlok played on common German stereotypes and caricatures of Jewish people at the time.  Or maybe he just decided that look had become too much of a cliché.  As well as a slap-headed, pointy-eared vampire featuring in the previous remake of Nosferatu, Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu the Vampyre (1977), similar ones have appeared in the 1979 TV version of Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot, the original film version of What We Do In The Shadows (2014), and Guillermo del Toro’s Blade II (2002), where the leader of the baldy-vampires was played by Luke Goss.  (Yes… a Bros-feratu.)

 

© Focus Features / Universal Pictures

 

It’s also debatable if Eggers and Skarsgård made the right choice for Orlok’s loud, guttural voice, which booms out of the screen like the Voice of the Mysterons from Gerry Anderson’s TV show Captain Scarlet (1967-68) with a Slavic accent.  At least it’s different…  And Skarsgård put a lot of work into creating those vocals, training with an Icelandic opera singer and even studying Mongolian throat singing.  But I actually found Yorkshireman Ralph Ineson’s deep, gruff, north-of-England tones more menacing, even though his character, Dr Sievers, is one of the good guys.  (Sievers must have had a medical practice in Leeds before moving to Wisburg.)

 

Elsewhere, not a great deal happens during the second half of the film, though Dafoe’s charming performance keeps us engaged.  The latter part of the 1922 film is enlivened by a sub-plot involving Knock, who gets blamed for the mayhem in Wisburg after Orlok’s ship arrives.  Believing him to be the real vampire, the townspeople pursue him through the streets and the surrounding countryside, in scenes that are still impressive today – Knock perched like a gargoyle atop a vertiginous rooftop, for instance, or the mob mistaking a distant scarecrow for him, rushing at it and tearing it to pieces.  Eggers removes this sub-plot, however, and Knock (who in the original film didn’t even meet Orlok physically) serves as a conventional vampire’s acolyte.  If nothing else, this gives the Count someone to transport his coffin from the Wisburg docks to the mansion he’s bought.  In the 1922 Nosferatu, he suffered the indignity of having to carry the coffin himself.

 

So, the film drifts somewhat later on and I’m not fully convinced by its portrayal of Count Orlok.  But overall I really enjoyed Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu.  It’s a feast – an Eggers’ banquet – of gorgeousness, gloom, sensuality, repulsiveness, grue, humour, absurdity and tragedy.  It has fabulous visuals, entertaining performances and a smart balance between the aesthetically pleasing and the grotesquely yucky, meaning it should satisfy both cerebral arthouse types and horror-movie aficionados more interested in blood, gore and plague-rats.

 

And I can’t understand why some people disliked it so much.  This Nosferatu isn’t Dross-feratu, it’s the Absolute-boss-feratu.

 

© Focus Features / Universal Pictures

Posted on

The land of thieves and phantoms

 

© Prana Film / Film Arts Guild

 

My previous blog post was about disgraced spin-doctor Dominic Cummings.  This post is also about a bald, sinister and shadowy figure who doesn’t take well to being exposed to the light.  I’m talking about Count Orlok, the central character of the classic 1922 German chiller Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror.

 

F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu was famously the cinema’s first (surviving) adaptation of Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula (1897), although the filmmakers sneakily tried to duck copyright responsibilities by changing the character-names and localities – retitling Dracula as Orlok, for instance.  In the event, Stoker’s widow successfully sued them anyway.  Nosferatu is one of those films I’ve seen so many clips of over the years that I’d assumed, wrongly, that I’d seen all of it.  When I came across a remastered version of it on YouTube the other day, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen it in its entirety.  So I immediately made amends.

 

Nosferatu is an immensely atmospheric film and the technical aspects of it that have become dated in the century since its making just seem to add to its strange atmospherics today.   For one thing, there’s the over-expressive silent movie acting.  Gustav von Wangenheim as the estate agent Hutter, who corresponds to Jonathan Harker in Stoker’s novel, grins disconcertingly like a young Brian Blessed – although as the film progresses and he’s dispatched to Transylvania, ‘the land of thieves and phantoms’ as he calls it, to facilitate an unusual property deal, he predictably gets less to smile about.  Meanwhile, Alexander Granach as Knock, who stands in for the novel’s lunatic and vampire-minion Milo Renfield, is unnervingly off the scale in his manic-ness.

 

© Prana Film / Film Arts Guild

 

Then there’s the special effects, which involve Keystone Cop-style speeded-up footage and crude stop-motion animation.  Viewed today, they give the film’s events a discomfortingly bizarre quality.  Whether it’s the beetling movement of the vampire’s black coach, drawn by black-draped horses, or a coffin lid shifting jerkily of its own volition, such things look like they’re happening in another, spectral world.

 

One supreme moment of oddness comes while Hutter is journeying through Transylvania and a ‘werewolf’ is glimpsed prowling through a forest.  This is presumably meant to be Count Orlok in lupine form though it’s obviously a hyena the filmmakers must have procured from a circus or a zoo.  A hyena loose in an Eastern European forest should seem ridiculous in 2020 but, like so much of Nosferatu, it just seems strange.  (A werewolf, incidentally, featured in the original first chapter of Stoker’s Dracula, which was excised from the completed novel.  In 1914, this missing chapter was published as a self-contained short story Dracula’s Guest.)

 

If Nosferatu has a glaring technical problem, it’s the preponderance of day-for-night shooting.  This means that Orlok greets Hutter in the courtyard of his Transylvanian castle seemingly in broad daylight and thereafter he’s often seen stalking around in what is supposed to be darkness but is obviously sunlight (and even casting a shadow).  The sun is commonly supposed to be fatal to vampires, but it doesn’t have to be – in Bram Stoker’s novel, it’s stated that sunlight merely weakens Dracula, depriving him of his supernatural powers but not destroying him.  However, Nosferatu ends with Orlok disintegrating as he’s struck by an early-morning sunray, so the day-for-night shooting makes a nonsense of the vampire mythology that the film’s set up for itself.  (The remastered version of Nosferatu I saw was very cleaned-up and I’d heard that in the original version the night-set scenes had been ‘tinted’ to make them look darker.  But I’ve checked older uploads of Nosferatu on YouTube too and the day-night issue is still problematic.)

 

While I’m on the subject of illogicality, I should say I don’t understand the mindset of the crew of the schooner tasked with transporting some crates of soil, among which Orlok has concealed himself, to Wisborg, Hutter’s hometown in Germany.  They already know that a mysterious ‘plague’ is ravaging the coastal area that they’re sailing from.  And before they set off, they notice that the crates are swarming with rats as well as being full of soil.  So why do they accept this potentially lethal cargo?

 

On the plus side, of course, Max Schreck’s performance as Count Orlok is still utterly memorable.  Devoid of any of the gentlemanly or aristocratic suaveness that later actors like Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee and Gary Oldman would bring to the role of Dracula, Schreck’s Orlok is a pure creature of the night – bald, pale, sporting rat-like incisors and pointed ears and wielding clawed hands that resemble clumps of albino carrots.  He’s not entirely hairless, having some shockingly unruly tufts of ear and eyebrow hair.  (There are no vampire brides in this version of the story.  Orlok, like many a bachelor living alone, obviously neglects his facial grooming.)

 

When he’s wearing a crumpled hat and trying to act the welcoming host to Hutter, he’s ghoulish enough.  When he appears in his full, thirsty, vampire-ish form, for example, on board the schooner, he’s the stuff of nightmares.  Also interesting is how he’s much more supernaturally powerful than the average movie vampire – Knock and Ellen (Greta Schröder), who’s Hutter’s wife and the film’s equivalent of the book’s Mina Harker character, sense and react to his presence long before he even sets sail from Transylvania to join them.

 

Knock is particularly interesting as, unlike other Renfields and other minions of Dracula in other films, he never actually crosses paths with his master.  In the plot, his function is really to serve as a scapegoat for the slayings that occur in Wisborg after Orlok arrives.  The townspeople believe that Knock, who’s just escaped from the asylum he was incarcerated in, is the real vampire and a mob of them pursue him through the streets and the surrounding countryside.  Indeed, you’d feel sorry for him if he hadn’t throttled an asylum attendant during his breakout.  The chase provides Nosferatu with some of its most memorable images – Knock perched gargoyle-like on a vertiginous rooftop, for example, or the mob racing towards a figure they believe is him in the middle of a field, only to discover that it’s a scarecrow (which they tear to pieces in a rage).

 

To audiences in 1922, Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror must have seemed sensational.  Jaded, hardened film-watchers a century later won’t find it a symphony of horror, of course.  But with its strange images and sequences, the film still has a way of getting unsettlingly under your skin.  You’ll feel you’ve at least experienced a symphony of haunting Germanic weirdness.

 

© Prana Film / Film Arts Guild