Okay, it was rude of the film makers not to consult Florence Stoker about the use of her late husband's book to make this film. She was entirely within her rights to have the whole thing consigned to the flames, though even a cursory look at the worst prints in circulation reveal what posterity would have lost had she succeeded. At its best this is an extraordinary achievement, and its a pity that its many fine qualities went largely unappreciated in 1922 - and for some time thereafter.
However there is no point getting bogged down in false veneration. Nosferatu has some glaring flaws which reduce its status from the towering masterpiece it is purported to be. The cinematography is often crude, even by 1922 standards. The script robs Stoker's story of its grandeur and blatant eroticism - there is a brief nod to the latter only in the final scenes. In place of sex the director has placed pestilence, which may or may not be an asset, depending upon your stance. Of much of the acting, well, the less said the better, and some of the special effects are frankly risible. Compare the journey from the Borgo Pass to that in Tod Browning's Dracula, made only nine years later, to see how inept parts of Nosferatu can be.
On the plus side one has to applaud a film that maintains its terror and stark imagery almost eighty years after its release. At its best Nosferatu is that rare creature, a truly frightening and disturbing horror epic. It is a triumph of design, and the attention to detail is overwhelmingly impressive. Max Schreck manages to deliver a performance that is aided and abetted by makeup, but whose real impact derives from its sinister restraint.
A mixed bag, then, something it has in common with its 1931 Hollywood remake. I know I swim against the critical tide when I say I prefer the latter, but that is not to deny the power of this film.
However there is no point getting bogged down in false veneration. Nosferatu has some glaring flaws which reduce its status from the towering masterpiece it is purported to be. The cinematography is often crude, even by 1922 standards. The script robs Stoker's story of its grandeur and blatant eroticism - there is a brief nod to the latter only in the final scenes. In place of sex the director has placed pestilence, which may or may not be an asset, depending upon your stance. Of much of the acting, well, the less said the better, and some of the special effects are frankly risible. Compare the journey from the Borgo Pass to that in Tod Browning's Dracula, made only nine years later, to see how inept parts of Nosferatu can be.
On the plus side one has to applaud a film that maintains its terror and stark imagery almost eighty years after its release. At its best Nosferatu is that rare creature, a truly frightening and disturbing horror epic. It is a triumph of design, and the attention to detail is overwhelmingly impressive. Max Schreck manages to deliver a performance that is aided and abetted by makeup, but whose real impact derives from its sinister restraint.
A mixed bag, then, something it has in common with its 1931 Hollywood remake. I know I swim against the critical tide when I say I prefer the latter, but that is not to deny the power of this film.