What if the new "Nosferatu" was an analysis of female sexuality?

«Come to me». Come to me. The first three words of Nosferatu by Robert Eggers are enough to understand the key with which the author wanted to revive the legend of Count Orlok. Sexuality is central in the work of the American director and screenwriter, who returns two years after the contentious The Northman and rediscovers his imaginative power, refusing to yield to the big Hollywood studios despite staying within Universal. In Nosferatu, Eggers focuses on the feminine dimension—as he did with his 2015 debut film, The Witch, starring Anya Taylor-Joy—making Ellen, played by Lily-Rose Depp, the protagonist. The director successfully rewrites the vision of the blood-sucking monster, highlighting concepts such as desire and shame, conflicting emotions often tied to a carnality historically reproached in women. During the Victorian era especially, women were forced to succumb and suffer under the prejudices and restrictions imposed by society. Eggers’ Nosferatu remains classically set, with the story taking place in the heart of the 19th century. However, this time, the relationship between the female character and evil is not limited to superficial attraction but fully absorbed into Ellen’s disoriented and submissive nature. Her seizures and epileptic attacks evoke an Italian tradition studied by Ernesto De Martino, characterized by the rituals of tarantism. While every cinematic version of the Prince of Darkness so far has hinted at a mystical and ambiguous bond between the maiden and the vampire, Eggers intensifies the complete involvement of one with the other (and vice versa), making the monster literally the most scandalous, languid, and sinful part of the female character.

The melancholy of Ellen, repeatedly referenced in the film, mirrors that found in numerous anthropological studies which link surface-level limitations and constraints to the inner turmoil experienced by countless young women, especially in contexts of poverty and stringent religious observances. These young women, seeking to release their repressed sexuality and break free from societal chains, would enter trance-like states where dancing and uninhibited body movements symbolized a liberation from conventions that defined them merely as daughters, mothers, and wives—always reserved and composed. Unsurprisingly, Robert Eggers’ Ellen considers Nosferatu her shame, expressing a raw and pronounced sexuality surpassing even the prevailing and enveloping eroticism of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, as directed by Francis Ford Coppola. «I am filthy», the girl declares, simply because, in the solitude of her childhood, she sought solace in carnal pleasure. This repressed need, turned into a dirty and unspeakable secret, reignites within Ellen when her newlywed husband is sent off to the Carpathian Mountains to sell an old estate to an eccentric and elderly count (or, as many would call it, for «a grand adventure»). Instead of spending a longer and sweeter honeymoon together, the couple is prematurely separated, and the distance rekindles the bride’s inner demons.

The curse is unleashed, the body has needs that cannot be fulfilled, and thus Nosferatu arrives, whose attachment to Ellen is just as powerful and aphrodisiacal as the girl hesitates to admit. Framing the story within dynamics of repression tied to guilt and Christian modesty—for a film that is fundamentally Christological, with repeated mentions of “redemption” and “providence,” culminating in Ellen renouncing Nosferatu for three nights before giving in, much like the apostle Peter at the crowing of the rooster—Eggers imbues his vampire tale with vivid imagery, where the monster disturbing our peace is ultimately a reflection of ourselves. In Nosferatu, Eggers draws upon the Expressionist cinema tradition and pays homage to it in the first part, later transitioning to a haunting and evocative horror. While it may not reach the mythological esotericism of The Lighthouse, the visuals flow unnaturally and magically across the screen, with much credit due to editor Louise Ford. The prologue encapsulates all the horror that will unfold, and Bill Skarsgård’s Count Orlok is as much off-screen as he is present, utilizing one of the most transformative acting talents of his generation and a voice that does most of the work in portraying the undead. A parasite that, true to its nature, decays every morsel of life it encounters while the characters of Nosferatu attempt to halt the spread of his curse. The cast is not limited to Thomas Hutter—played this time by Nicholas Hoult—or the vampire, but includes an entire ensemble of talent. Supporting characters are given their moments to shine, from Friedrich and Anna Harding (played by Aaron Taylor-Johnson and Emma Corrin, respectively) to the servile and macabre Mr. Herr Knock (Simon McBurney). Ultimately, Nosferatu is a work about primal instincts and how suppressing them risks turning them into nightmares—the very kind that can be unleashed in a movie theater.