Let me just say this upfront: Nosferatu is so hot right now. If you took a brooding vampire from the 1920s, dipped him in a vat of high-concept art school, and whispered “fierce” into his ear, you’d end up with this movie.
It’s dripping in style, drowning in atmosphere, and starring Willem Dafoe being creepier than a clown at a midnight carnival. (And trust me, that’s saying something.)
Okay, let’s dim the lights and get moody, because the backstory of Nosferatu is juicier than a Type O+ blood bag. Picture this: it’s 1922, and some German filmmakers want to make a movie about Dracula. Only problem? They didn’t ask Bram Stoker’s widow for permission. So what did they do? Changed a few names, slapped on some extra creep factor, and hoped no one would notice. Spoiler alert: she did. But not before Nosferatu introduced the world to the OG vampire aesthetic—long shadows, silent screams, and a vibe darker than my leather pants at a funeral.
The widow sued them with more determination than a barista guarding the last oat milk latte, and most of the prints were destroyed. But just like any vampire worth their cape, Nosferatu refused to stay dead. Fast-forward to now, and Nosferatu takes those stolen vibes and polishes them to perfection, proving that Bram’s legacy isn’t just undead—it’s forever runway-ready.
In the beginning
The movie kicks off with these artsy shots—fog, castles, dramatic lighting—like the director binge-watched my runway shows and decided they needed more existential dread. Clearly, they’ve got a flair for visuals, though let’s be real: they’re no Derek Zoolander. But who is, am I right?
Now, let’s talk about Nosferatu himself. The guy playing him? Total commitment. He’s a terrifying mix of old-school monster vibes and modern chic. He’s got this whole “I’ll drink your blood but make it couture” energy, with nails that scream goth glam and cheekbones so sharp, they could cut diamonds—or at least a tough critic’s opinion.
And speaking of critics, here’s the tea: they’re all swooning. Like, the Rotten Tomatoes score is practically wearing a velvet cape and whispering “iconic” in the dark. Everyone’s raving about how it’s not just a remake but an artistic reimagining. They’re calling it “cinematic poetry,” though let’s be honest, poetry is just words that can’t walk the runway.
The wardrobe, though—oh my goodness. It’s like someone stitched the night sky into fabric and draped it on a vampire. Capes that billow with drama, collars popped higher than my self-esteem, and a vibe so goth it makes my eyeliner look basic. I mean, if Dracula had a stylist, they’d be texting them furiously right now.
The plot dives deep into love, death, and eternal loneliness, which sounds like a Tuesday for me, but here it’s captivating. And sure, maybe Nosferatu could learn a thing or two from me about self-confidence. Like, why sulk in a castle when you could dominate the runway?
Final verdict: Four and a half Smashed Avocados. This movie’s a must-watch for anyone who loves high fashion, moody lighting, and vampires who slay—literally and metaphorically. It’s like David Bowie and Dracula had a cinematic love child, and the world’s a little more fabulous for it.
