Nosferatu (2024 film)

After seeing the YouTube promos, I hoped this film would at least offer some visual intrigue. Unfortunately, Nosferatu is yet another example of Hollywood’s chronic inability to produce anything truly unique, beautiful, or innovative. Instead, we’re left with a pedantic, uninspired retread that feels as hollow as it is forgettable.

One online commenter summed it up best: “a retelling of a retelling of a retelling.” This version does nothing to distinguish itself from its predecessors, failing to add anything fresh to the legacy of this iconic tale.

The film’s primary “innovation” is to present the vampire as the historical Vlad the Impaler—complete with mustache. But gone is the grotesque, rat-faced demon of the original, replaced by Hollywood’s latest brooding “it boy,” lurking in shadows without menace or mystique.

The 1922 silent classic succeeded because it juxtaposed greed and lust with innocent protagonists caught in the vampire’s dark machinations. Its exaggerated pantomime gave the characters bold, distinct traits that contrasted sharply with the monstrous Nosferatu. The cinematography was mesmerizing, mysterious, and groundbreaking, crafting a genuinely eerie atmosphere that lingers in film history.

In contrast, this modern Nosferatu is gloomy without being haunting, often aiming for grandeur but landing in mediocrity. It shifts focus to themes of sexual lust through the female protagonist and greed through her husband. For these themes to resonate, we’d need to care about the characters—but the film utterly fails to make them likable or compelling. Modern cinema relies on performances, dialogue, and cinematography to define characters. Here, all three fall woefully short.

Directors today seem to have forgotten how to create characters with charisma and charm. Instead, we’re left with cardboard cutouts, lifeless and uninspired. The female lead could have benefited from a blend of Audrey Hepburn’s joyous vulnerability, Nastassja Kinski’s ethereal sensuality, and Béatrice Dalle’s raw intensity from Betty Blue. Meanwhile, the male lead might have shone with the brooding sincerity of James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, combined with Betty Blue’s impassioned male protagonist—an ambitious but flawed romantic. Sadly, none of this depth or dynamism is present, leaving us with flat performances that fail to evoke any emotional connection.

There’s nothing remotely erotic about the film, and the horror never rises above tepid attempts at unease. Compared to the raw, visceral terror of films like Martyrs, this Nosferatu feels utterly toothless.

The larger issue lies in the constraints of modern blockbuster filmmaking. Anything with a budget exceeding $100 million, aimed at mass-market appeal, is destined to lack true creative ambition or artistic vision. The financial backers and broad audience expectations demand mediocrity, much like fast-food consumers craving synthetic flavors over fine dining. In this analogy, Nosferatu is the cinematic equivalent of bland, processed fare—devoid of substance and artistry.

This modern adaptation lacks the daring, innovation, and bold storytelling that made the original Nosferatu a landmark in cinema. It neither pushes boundaries nor creates the unnerving sense of disquiet that defined its predecessor. What we’re left with is yet another soulless Hollywood product, utterly banal and forgettable.

Suffice it to say, this version of Nosferatu has none of the magic or ingenuity of the original. It’s a disappointment on every level.