Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht (1979)
Some movies stick with you, for better or worse. I like it when it's for the better. Werner Herzog's 1979 version of the classic vampire tale, Nosferatu, is one of those films that has stuck with me. Thankfully it's been for the better. In fact, my appreciation has only continued to grow with time. It's one Herzog's more seen films, thanks to Kinski's reputation and the fact that most versions are in English, but in my opinion, it's one of his more overlooked and under-appreciated.
Bram Stoker's Dracula has been adapted countless times, but only a few are really noteworthy. Probably the most widely seen is Coppola's 1992 version. It is not without merits. Gary Oldman is a fine actor, and does a good job with his version of the vampire, and Coppola flared the film up with an interesting visual style. The most respected and also well known version though is the first, FW Murnau's silent Nosferatu: eine Syphonie des Grauens. It reserves itself a spot on any film aficionado's must see list for Murnau's expressionist artistry. It was an assuredly constructed film with brilliant imagery and an unforgettable turn by the preternaturally creepy Max Schreck. Many will tell you that while having the highest respect for Murnau's film and its stunning achievements, they found it something of a dull affair. And I include myself in that category. There was also Todd Browning and Bela Lugosi's 1931 version, though it's perhaps more of a cult classic than an artistic masterpiece.
And then in the wings is Herzog's version. It too is respected by those who've seen it, and is itself something of a cult classic. It stars the volatile Klaus Kinski, with whom Herzog made five films, including Aguirre:Wrath of God and Fitzcarraldo. Friend, documentarian, and the man who infamously won a bet which resulted in Herzog literally eating his own shoe, Errol Morris once referred to Kinski as a bonified "crazy person." That opinion, by most psychological standards, was probably correct. So if there was ever anyone to offer up a performance worthy of comparison to Schreck's original, it's Kinski.
The story follows closely to Murnau's version. Bruno Ganz plays Jonathan Harker, who's called to deliver a real estate proposal to the Carpathian castle of Count Dracula. His wife Lucy is nervous of what may come and has strange dreams. His boss, Renfield is seemingly increasingly drifting further into excited insanity as Dracula's arrival draws nearer. Jonathan's trip to Count Dracula's castle is filled with tension and foreboding. He lodges for a night where he hears tales of a vampire and warnings, but continues on through the mountains. This act contains one of the film's most memorable sequences, set to Wagner's Prelude to Das Rheingold. It ends as a carriage mysteriously emerges from the fog to pick up Harker and carry him off to the castle.
Count Dracula's castle is the epitome of ominous. The colour palette is lifeless, and of course in tribute to Murnau, shadows seem to take on a life of their own. Harker is greeted by Kinski's terrifying Dracula with uncomfortable courtesy. He searches the castle one day to find Dracula sleeping... in a casket.
While Jonathan is incapacitated, Count Dracula makes his way to Wismar on a ship. Mysteriously to the crew, they're all dying off. The ship carries hoards of rats. Is it the plague the captain ponders? When the ship finally arrives, everyone on board is dead. Dracula emerges, with him the rats.
To continue to harp on about the story is at this point an exercise in redundancy. We all essentially know what follows - Renfield is Dracula's minion, and the vampire is in love with Harker's wife, Lucy. Herzog changes things up a bit for the end, but it's Herzog and Kinski's execution that sets the film off. It has a terrifying strangeness. The locations are unforgettable - something to be expected from a man who famously declared that he directs landscapes. Delft (in Holland) served as Wismar. Its canals throughout the town are haunting, especially as the death ship squeezes its way through. The castle scenes are filmed at Castle Pernstejn, which I'm told still looks much like it did during filming.
The film's opening sequence is of real life mummies in Mexico, which can still be visited. Another strange and surreal moment comes when Harker wakes up to a young boy playing violin above him. It's one of those great Herzog moments that seemingly serve no purpose other than as beautiful oddity. The film's creepiest sequence, and one of the most unforgettable and brilliant scenes I've ever seen, takes place as Lucy walks through the town square. Pigs and grey rats wander freely; the remaining townsfolk dance around the coffins; one group sits down for a nice meal in the wake of a plague. Lucy fights to escape those trying to dance with her, as the soundtrack plays a choral piece. The result is a purely visceral and delirious sequence that has never left my memory.
Herzog has said he prefers the German version of Nosferatu over the English. I'm inclined to agree. As the years pass, and the viewings increase, any problems I initially had with the film only seemed to add to Nosferatu's greatness. Some say that in order for a film to be a true masterpiece, it has to be flawed. Herzog's films are filled with little flaws, many due to working with next to no funding. They're deeply personal, and were understandably emotional. And working with Kinski was always a volatile affair. But that's what does make them so endearing. There are many technically "perfect" films. Yet many of them that don't have that endearing quality. It's films like these that seem to stick with you, for better or for worse. For their flaws, or for what they achieve in spite of them.
Some movies stick with you, for better or worse. I like it when it's for the better. Werner Herzog's 1979 version of the classic vampire tale, Nosferatu, is one of those films that has stuck with me. Thankfully it's been for the better. In fact, my appreciation has only continued to grow with time. It's one Herzog's more seen films, thanks to Kinski's reputation and the fact that most versions are in English, but in my opinion, it's one of his more overlooked and under-appreciated.
Bram Stoker's Dracula has been adapted countless times, but only a few are really noteworthy. Probably the most widely seen is Coppola's 1992 version. It is not without merits. Gary Oldman is a fine actor, and does a good job with his version of the vampire, and Coppola flared the film up with an interesting visual style. The most respected and also well known version though is the first, FW Murnau's silent Nosferatu: eine Syphonie des Grauens. It reserves itself a spot on any film aficionado's must see list for Murnau's expressionist artistry. It was an assuredly constructed film with brilliant imagery and an unforgettable turn by the preternaturally creepy Max Schreck. Many will tell you that while having the highest respect for Murnau's film and its stunning achievements, they found it something of a dull affair. And I include myself in that category. There was also Todd Browning and Bela Lugosi's 1931 version, though it's perhaps more of a cult classic than an artistic masterpiece.
And then in the wings is Herzog's version. It too is respected by those who've seen it, and is itself something of a cult classic. It stars the volatile Klaus Kinski, with whom Herzog made five films, including Aguirre:Wrath of God and Fitzcarraldo. Friend, documentarian, and the man who infamously won a bet which resulted in Herzog literally eating his own shoe, Errol Morris once referred to Kinski as a bonified "crazy person." That opinion, by most psychological standards, was probably correct. So if there was ever anyone to offer up a performance worthy of comparison to Schreck's original, it's Kinski.
The story follows closely to Murnau's version. Bruno Ganz plays Jonathan Harker, who's called to deliver a real estate proposal to the Carpathian castle of Count Dracula. His wife Lucy is nervous of what may come and has strange dreams. His boss, Renfield is seemingly increasingly drifting further into excited insanity as Dracula's arrival draws nearer. Jonathan's trip to Count Dracula's castle is filled with tension and foreboding. He lodges for a night where he hears tales of a vampire and warnings, but continues on through the mountains. This act contains one of the film's most memorable sequences, set to Wagner's Prelude to Das Rheingold. It ends as a carriage mysteriously emerges from the fog to pick up Harker and carry him off to the castle.
Count Dracula's castle is the epitome of ominous. The colour palette is lifeless, and of course in tribute to Murnau, shadows seem to take on a life of their own. Harker is greeted by Kinski's terrifying Dracula with uncomfortable courtesy. He searches the castle one day to find Dracula sleeping... in a casket.
While Jonathan is incapacitated, Count Dracula makes his way to Wismar on a ship. Mysteriously to the crew, they're all dying off. The ship carries hoards of rats. Is it the plague the captain ponders? When the ship finally arrives, everyone on board is dead. Dracula emerges, with him the rats.
To continue to harp on about the story is at this point an exercise in redundancy. We all essentially know what follows - Renfield is Dracula's minion, and the vampire is in love with Harker's wife, Lucy. Herzog changes things up a bit for the end, but it's Herzog and Kinski's execution that sets the film off. It has a terrifying strangeness. The locations are unforgettable - something to be expected from a man who famously declared that he directs landscapes. Delft (in Holland) served as Wismar. Its canals throughout the town are haunting, especially as the death ship squeezes its way through. The castle scenes are filmed at Castle Pernstejn, which I'm told still looks much like it did during filming.
The film's opening sequence is of real life mummies in Mexico, which can still be visited. Another strange and surreal moment comes when Harker wakes up to a young boy playing violin above him. It's one of those great Herzog moments that seemingly serve no purpose other than as beautiful oddity. The film's creepiest sequence, and one of the most unforgettable and brilliant scenes I've ever seen, takes place as Lucy walks through the town square. Pigs and grey rats wander freely; the remaining townsfolk dance around the coffins; one group sits down for a nice meal in the wake of a plague. Lucy fights to escape those trying to dance with her, as the soundtrack plays a choral piece. The result is a purely visceral and delirious sequence that has never left my memory.
Herzog has said he prefers the German version of Nosferatu over the English. I'm inclined to agree. As the years pass, and the viewings increase, any problems I initially had with the film only seemed to add to Nosferatu's greatness. Some say that in order for a film to be a true masterpiece, it has to be flawed. Herzog's films are filled with little flaws, many due to working with next to no funding. They're deeply personal, and were understandably emotional. And working with Kinski was always a volatile affair. But that's what does make them so endearing. There are many technically "perfect" films. Yet many of them that don't have that endearing quality. It's films like these that seem to stick with you, for better or for worse. For their flaws, or for what they achieve in spite of them.