Nosferatu: Mark Kermode’s horror film review (2024).

Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu is here, finally materialising after nearly a decade of gestation. Like the Count himself, it’s risen from development hell to feast upon our collective cinematic jugular. And what a glorious, gothic banquet it is. You can watch Mark Kermode’s take on this film above, or read on for what we thought here at SFcrowsnest Towers.

This isn’t just a remake of the 1922 silent classic; it’s a love letter drenched in blood, existential dread, and the kind of bizarre detail that only Eggers can conjure. The original Nosferatu was made to dodge the long-dead hand of Bram Stoker’s copyright, but Eggers fully embraces its Dracula DNA while adding layers of his trademark historical obsession. It’s the kind of film where you’ll learn as much about 19th-century occult rituals as you do about the perils of buying real estate in plague-ridden Germany.

Let’s talk about Bill Skarsgård. As Count Orlok, he’s both terrifying and oddly tragic—a monstrous ghoul whose every movement oozes menace. Eggers reportedly made him lose weight, lower his vocal range, and sit through six hours of prosthetics daily. The result? A Nosferatu that looks like he’s been haunting art galleries and feeding on nihilistic philosophers. Skarsgård doesn’t chew scenery—he drains it of life, leaving a desolate masterpiece behind.

Lily-Rose Depp’s Ellen Hutter is an ethereal delight, a beacon of purity corrupted by Orlok’s grotesque fixation. She strikes the perfect balance between gothic heroine and subversive agent of her own doom. The plot thickens deliciously as she sacrifices herself to Orlok in a scene that’s both harrowing and oddly sensual. Yes, it’s a vampire movie, but Eggers layers it with enough psychosexual tension to make Freud rise from his grave and start writing again.

Nicholas Hoult as Thomas Hutter is an endearingly hapless estate agent—think Ted Lasso but with wolves and plague rats. His journey from cheerful optimist to traumatised vampire hunter is played with sincerity, even as he’s outshone by the supporting cast. Speaking of which, Willem Dafoe as the occult-obsessed Von Franz might just be the most unhinged genius since his lighthouse keeper days. His every scene is a masterclass in deranged exposition, delivered with the gravitas of someone who’s read one too many grimoires.

Eggers doesn’t shy away from horror’s inherent absurdity, either. There’s a kind of gleeful insanity to scenes like Ralph Ineson’s doctor diagnosing Ellen’s occult-induced seizures or the plague rats swarming through Wisborg like they’re auditioning for Ratatouille 2: Pandemic Boogaloo. And let’s not forget Herr Knock, played by Simon McBurney, whose bug-eating lunacy is almost charming—if you’re into that sort of thing.

Visually, Nosferatu is a feast. Jarin Blaschke’s cinematography bathes everything in shadowy, romantic hues, making even the gruesome beautiful. The Romanian castles are foreboding, the Baroque interiors haunting, and Orlok’s plague ship feels like something straight out of a fever dream. Eggers’ attention to historical detail is borderline obsessive; you can almost smell the mildew and despair wafting off the screen.

Is it perfect? Of course not. The pacing occasionally drags, and Aaron Taylor-Johnson’s Friedrich Harding feels a bit undercooked compared to the rest of the cast. But these minor flaws are quickly forgiven when the film delivers such richly textured dread and atmosphere.

Eggers’ Nosferatu isn’t just a remake—it’s a resurrection, a reinvention, and a reclamation of gothic horror at its finest. It’s haunting, hilarious, and horrifying in equal measure, proving that some classics are worth digging up from their graves.

Here at SFcrowsnest, we’ll be adding this one to our collection of cursed relics. Just make sure to keep a garlic necklace handy while watching. You know, just in case.