A Question of Adaptation: When is a Dracula a Nosferatu?

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By most estimates, there have been significantly more than 200 filmed versions of Bram Stoker’s Dracula in one capacity or another in the last century, a tally that includes not only movies but TV series, miniseries, radio productions, stage plays and more. Part of the reason why is pure copyright law: The character of Dracula and events of Stoker’s original 1897 gothic horror novel have been in the public domain in the U.S. ever since 1930, a fact that led directly to Universal’s development of their iconic 1931 film version starring Bela Lugosi. But of course, something so trivial as “rights to the character” never stopped enterprising German filmmaker F.W. Murnau from making the first iconic (and unauthorized) adaptation of the novel as 1922’s silent Nosferatu – Eine Symphonie des Grauens, as we once covered in Paste’s Century of Terror project. Together, these two depictions of literature’s most famous vampire informed classical vampire cinema for the following century, but as director Robert Eggers’ new Nosferatu remake approaches, I find myself pondering enduring questions of adaptation and marketing. What is a Nosferatu remake, exactly? Or to put it another way, when is “a Dracula” in fact “a Nosferatu?”

Answering that seemingly simple question essentially requires some kind of codification of what the content of F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu, a 102-year-old, silent German Expressionist horror film, actually means to us today in 2024. Does the name imply a certain, specific filmmaking or aesthetic style, or is it defined by that style? Does it imply a time period, or place of origin? And how much does the cynical calculation of Hollywood marketing agencies and producer feedback enter into this equation? What value do those people see in the name “Nosferatu,” and is it different from what they would associate with “Dracula”?

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Because let’s face it: Cinema’s most famous vampire has popped up in various, eclectic incarnations quite a bit in recent memory, from Renfield to Abigail, Last Voyage of the Demeter and even Netflix’s Castlevania. It’s not difficult to imagine Hollywood studio execs sitting around a table, arguing with each other that “Dracula is played out.” But ah, what about the title Nosferatu? That’s something audiences might kinda-sorta recognize, right? Maybe it could even entice someone who’s had their fill of “Dracula” stories? Far flimsier rationales have been offered for the making of a feature film than this.

This is not to say, by any means, that I doubt the sincerity of Robert Eggers, or his passion for adapting this particular story. I’m sure he has a very specific idea in mind for what makes a Nosferatu adaptation its own, distinct thing, even though the original was indeed an unauthorized version of Dracula, one that barely survived the court-ordered destruction of its original prints to make it to us today. But regardless of the definition Eggers is working from, it’s also true that his version of this story will doubtlessly be unlike any of them that came before, which is what makes the circumstances of its adaptation fascinating.

That’s at least partially because there really haven’t been many specific takes on this property under the title of Nosferatu, with the only two major examples being Murnau’s 1922 silent original and Werner Herzog’s faithful (but more emotionally charged) 1979 remake Nosferatu the Vampyre. In a rather incredulous bit of coincidence, though, there’s oddly enough another remake of the same film arriving THIS WEEK on Apple TV+, directed by David Lee Fisher and starring veteran creature performer Doug Jones as the vampiric Count Orlok. This additional, lower-budget version, which has been in production for almost a decade, painstakingly splices in modern performers against green-screened reproductions of the original 1922 film’s backgrounds to create something oddly familiar, off putting and otherworldly. And frankly, I feel kind of bad for the folks who made it, given that it will almost assuredly be entirely overlooked in the build-up to Eggers’ high-profile film.

Still, there’s only been a few proper “Nosferatu” movies to date, and all the major examples have shared some things in common, traits that Eggers’ film won’t necessarily try to replicate. The two major, theatrical versions, for instance, are both from German directors in the German language: Does that imply that “a Nosferatu movie” needs to reflect some kind of Germanity to be authentic, that its place of origin or language is in some way essential to its identity in order to carry on the torch of Murnau or Herzog? Eggers’ film was at least filmed largely in the Czech Republic, so perhaps that suffices.

What about the time period? We’ve seen adaptations involving Dracula crammed into every possible social setting, from the perspective of various socioeconomic castes, or even hurtled forward far into the future. But meanwhile, all prior versions of Nosferatu have been strictly period pieces set in the 1800s, something Eggers’ version will maintain. Does this imply that a modern Nosferatu simply isn’t a compatible concept, that the film’s particular visual aesthetic is suited only to the dimly lit rooms, starched collars and oil lamps of the city streets from 200 years ago, and not the modern day? Screenwriters have had no problem at all putting Dracula into ridiculous settings, such as hurtling through space on a starship, but it would seem that Orlok (perhaps unexpectedly) has a bit more dignity than that. Or perhaps he’s just too ghoulish-looking from a design perspective to imagine existing anywhere in modern society, and thus the sort of monster that we instinctively feel belongs in our collective past.

The argument I can most easily get behind, at a root level, is that the most significant defining aspect of “a Nosferatu adaptation” is primarily that implied aesthetic and art style. The first few trailers of Eggers’ film have made it clear enough that he has drawn significant inspiration from the use of elements such as shadow–particularly in shots like the symbolic hand of the vampire extending its darkness over the entire city–that he is channeling at least some aspects of the German Expressionist style that is synonymous with F.W. Murnau’s film. There’s probably someone out there who would object to this, calling it appropriation, but at the same time it doesn’t seem like one could really make a “Nosferatu adaptation” while entirely abandoning this sort of element in favor of purely contemporary visual styles. And it’s not like we police the use of something as esoteric as German Expressionist visual stylings and cinematography, right? I’ve never seen someone try to make the case that The Night of the Hunter is less of a masterpiece because Charles Laughton was English and had no business swiping a German art style of the 1920s. The question perhaps is the following: How far can a modern version of the film diverge from the template of Murnau (and to a lesser extent Herzog) before it’s no longer … “Nosferatu”?

One thing I think we should be able to agree on is that a Nosferatu adaptation can’t hinge on something as simple and elemental as the design of the vampire himself–just because a vampire looks like Orlok, that doesn’t necessarily mean it has much of anything to do with Nosferatu. And indeed, this has been a popular subgenre of vampire design for going on a century now, with the elongated nose, front teeth, ears and fingers being replicated in formats as varied as legitimate horror films like Salem’s Lot, comedies such as What We Do in the Shadows, and even a well-loved 1990s episode of Nickelodeon’s Are You Afraid of the Dark? This signature, Orlok-like appearance likewise tends to be associated with a notably different personality and temperament than depictions of Dracula–where there are many depictions of Dracula that are suave, charming and magnetically personable, you would likely struggle to find any version of an Orlok-style vampire (other than Herzog’s to some extent) that is alluring, or even vocal. This is the vampire in its more ancient and bestial form, though that hasn’t stopped writers from using this appearance for laughs just as often as chills.

In the end, I can only imagine that Robert Eggers is the kind of artist–as evidenced by The Witch, The Lighthouse and others–who not only sees concepts like “a Dracula movie” or “a Nosferatu movie” as very different things, but prioritizes capturing the essence of the latter on screen in a way that audiences will be able to distill and define once they’ve seen it. At the same time, though, I can’t help but wonder if the likes of its studio execs see the film as more of a means to an end, a way to splash yet another vampire story up on the screen in wide release by taking advantage of a recognizable word that is simply something other than “Dracula.” Whether general audiences can truly discern between the two–or are more interested in one or the other–remains to be seen, but Nosferatu is sure to make its bloody mark on this year’s holiday film season, regardless.

Jim Vorel is Paste’s Movies editor and resident genre geek. You can follow him on Twitter for more film writing.