Back in Black - Nosferatu

Ioana Satmari • 4/4/2025

Black on black. Too much or not enough white to help you see anything. A white so full, so burning, so piercing that it completely unbalances reality. Or a white so sparse that you must sharpen your sight to decipher the nuances of black. A color film, but with so little color that it becomes bohemian in a phantasmagoric way.

Contre-jour frames that enclose a silhouette, almost dissolved in the war between shades of gray. A scene that could have been tender and yet remains piercing. A scene that, in the end, is overwhelmed by sounds of violins, torn voices, pleading, distant, and distorted. It seems that this scene might best (re)present the film Nosferatu, directed by Robert Eggers. A film that could have been tender but becomes grotesque, not because of the story, but because of the execution. And let us not forget the hopeful scene at the end. That scene, drowned in more color than the entire film has seen until then. Gilded in the rising sun, a light that wants to lift you to the heights of hope, only to disappoint you all the more. But through the scheme of soaking everything in color, you know something isn’t right.

In an excess of zeal, Nosferatu set out to be as realistic as possible, with a massive production effort that casts its own shadow. The entire construction of the film feels hand-crafted, everything seems to be in its place, with acting so “frighteningly” good that it becomes too good to be good. Like when you know how to do something so well that you no longer know when it’s time to stop. The repetition of things that worked, placed in different costumes and under different lights, loses more and more of its weight as the film progresses. The effort is indisputable. And yet, sometimes, in this too much that you can no longer grasp because it is a mound of extremes, you only see what slipped through. It remains exactly the metaphor of too much white that blinds you or too little white from which you can no longer discern the nuances of black.

The film attempts to inherit from previous versions and retain as much of the credibility and air of the story as possible. But something is rotten. And it’s not the flesh on which makeup artists spent 4 hours a day, but the abundance within abundance. The elements eclipse one another. What should I be looking at? It ends up being a film that haunts you with its “so much”… that it doesn’t let any single thing fully be… itself. What manages to shine through? What stands out in the entire parade of forces?

You might end up sad at the end, realizing that you probably got stuck somewhere along the way, lost in a scene you’re still thinking of. Or maybe you’re stuck in the knot of groans, screams, and things not fully seen, and, most terrifying of all, the entire thing of salvational and sexual sacrifice taken to extreme. There’s nothing visible beyond the tremors, hallucinations, and deathbed sex, and nothing audible beyond squeals, whimpers, and whatever combinations inspire despair.

Nosferatu gives the impression that it only wanted to astonish you. To make you look on in awe. And yet, the context is missing. All the excellence it throws at you is just as weak as the abyss that should have highlighted it. Astonishment arises from comparison. It only managed a resemblance between concept and appearance.

It begins abruptly with a scene designed to suffocate any connection to the world you came from when you sat down to watch. It rips you out of reality and places you under the chaotic spotlights that whirl about, showing you this or that. And after capturing your attention, it begins in earnest. The approach seems fairy tale-like, but it’s far from “Once upon a time…,” an approach far better portrayed in the original version. And I don’t know if I’m saying this because we can unravel the making of the first film much better. I mean, I don’t know if I’m saying this because we can see how the first one was made, and it’s so naive that it becomes precious. But if you’ve seen the 1922 version accompanied by a live music performance, maybe you know what I mean when I say you could breathe. Even if the story wasn’t as stable or complex, the music and the fact that you could shape the film in your mind made it more approachable.

The century-long difference puts into opposition the rigidity that the new Nosferatu brings. It arrives with a fury to be better through execution, and rightly so. But sometimes, things find their form through their gaps.

Nosferatu is a film that drowns you with its ambition to conquer you. It’s ambitious to bring color through gray. But often, sensitivity is lost when the goal is to create something that gives you chills. The film takes on the air of trying to convince you of its darkness. The grotesque and vulgar speak over any purity that might have made it truly frightening. It isn’t incisive, only sweet and clichéd.