<< Back 7/3/02 PictureShow By Gary Carden Nosferatu Directed by: F. W. Murnau Cast: Max Schreck, Gusav von Wangenheim and Greta Schroeder. Music by The Silent Orchestra. Time: 81 minutes. (DVD) $22.49 Directed by: Werner Herzog Cast: Klaus Kinski and Isabelle Adjani Time: 107 minutes - 1979 (DVD) $31.48 It has been over a century since Bram Stoker published Dracula, yet the curious and misshapen offspring spawned by the Irish novelist continues ... and grows in popularity. Certainly, there is a an avid audience for any variation on the theme of creatures that come in the night to drink our blood, and the movies have managed to depict them in astonishing variety. From Max Schreck, the shambling, jug-eared, white-faced Count Orloc (no fangs, mind you, but twin, needle-pointed rodent teeth) through the suave, impeccably dressed Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee to silky, sensual Frank Langella (who can move just like Spiderman) to kinky Klaus Kinski and world-weary Gary Oldman. There have been some minor pretenders to the cape, of course, that quickly faded. (I’ve always thought Jack Palance’s savage, sexy and very “historic” version was under-rated.) However, my favorite by a Transylvanian mile is Werner Herzog’s 1979 “Nosferatu, the Vampyre.” Certainly, it has the most interesting history. From the opening sequence in which Herzog’s camera moves slowly over the dusty, petrified bodies of a grotesque line of naked mummies in a catacomb until the final shot of Jonathan Harker, infected with the Black Plague, galloping off to spread the disease to the unsuspecting residents of the next town, Herzog makes this “old horror tale” a film that is both lyric and compelling. In addition, the photography is magnificent with many scenes that contain the composition of a painting — ruined castles, fog-wrapped mountains, surging rivers and mountain passes in moonlight. (Many of these scenes are Herzog’s attempt to reproduce actual paintings by the German artist, Caspar David Friedrich.) Herzog turns the story of Dracula into a kind of dark fairy tale. The town of Wismar is depicted as idealized and perfect. It is a time of prosperity (1850) and handsome Jonathan Harker is depicted as a man who has everything — a totally devoted, beautiful wife, a household that reflects prosperity in a town that seems smug and self-satisfied. It is a sea port and the town bustles with a kind of “controlled energy.” Neat, well-kept and orderly. The town and its citizens seem to be basking in security of a blissful, materialistic Eden. But then, things change. Jonathan’s wife, Lucy, is troubled by bad dreams and awakens one night to find a bat in her bedroom. Jonathan grows irritable with his own prosperity and complains that the scenic canals of Wismar “don’t go anywhere.” When his supervisor at the real estate office offers him an exotic journey to Transylvania, he eagerly accepts. The purpose of the trip concerns a Count Dracula who has expressed an interest in a ruined Wismar castle saying he wishes to “relocate.” Further, he has offered an astonishing sum of money for the moldering ruin — enough to make both Harker and his supervisor, Renfield, wealthy for life. All that is needed is for Harker to take the count the deed and get his signature — a four-week journey across the Carpathian Mountains. So, he goes, despite the misgivings of his wife. It is a strange, dream-like journey. Harker meets a band of gypsies who advise him not to continue. They whisper of the “nosferatu,” the undead who haunt the mountain passes, but Harker, the man of logic and education, laughs at them. Abandoning his exhausted horse, he continues on foot until he is picked up by a sinister coach that carries him through the darkness to the gates of an ancient ruin. The doors open and a white-faced figure greets him. “Welcome. I am Count Dracula.” Klaus Kinski’s Dracula is disconcerting. He is painstakingly modeled after Max Schreck in the 1922 version — shaved head, cavernous eyes and needle teeth. His most disconcerting feature, however, is his fingernails — long and lethal-looking, they move restlessly, clattering like castanets, writhing about each other like some misbegotten species of sea-crab or tarantula. He is one spooky fellow! When Jonathan accidentally cuts his finger, Kinski pounces like a rabid terrier to suck the blood from the wound. Well, the rest follows the predictable format but with some memorable improvements. Harker becomes disoriented, wandering aimlessly through the strange, convoluted corridors of the castle. Days pass and he discovers that he is alone and he is changing ... into something else. Leaving Jonathan locked in the castle, Dracula sets sail for Wismar on a ship with blood-red sails. His cargo is coffins and plague-carrying rats. Dracula decimates the crew, of course, and the “empty” ship arrives in beautiful Wismar, laden with death. Dracula and the plague-infected rats disembark in the night and fall on the complacent town. Herzog manages to convey the idea that Weimar and all of its inhabitants are destroyed because they do not believe in “things that they cannot see.” Lucy alone understands and warns them. They smile tolerantly, amused at such fanciful ideas as vampires in their logical, scientific world — they become fat, sacrificial lambs and in a matter of days, their perfect town becomes a ghost town. Coffins litter the street and the spotless doors of their neat houses are marked with plague signs. Logic deserts them and the dwindling survivors dance and sing amid the rats, while cattle and swine wander the streets. Weimar’s sense of order is gone. Harker escapes from Dracula’s castle and returns to Weimar, feverish and hallucinating, unable to recognize his own wife. In most ancient stories of supernatural evil, the darkness and demons must be “invited” to move in. So, Harker and Weimar invite Dracula. In Herzog’s version, the resolute Dr. Van Helsing is reduced to a smug scientist who does not believe in Dracula until it is too late. Jonathan Harker is transformed into an instrument of evil and sweet Lucy becomes the sacrificial victim and the sole means of defeating Dracula. Renfield, as in all previous versions, becomes a servant to Dracula — a kind of gibbering idiot that capers, cavorts and eats flies and rats. He invariably has a disconcerting laugh. In Herzog’s version he giggles like a mischievous child. (Actually, I prefer Dwight Frye’s demented laughter in the Lugosi version.) It is fortunate that a gifted poet and novelist, Paul Monette, developed a novel based on Herzog’s script. In general, novels based on screenplays have little to recommend them. Monette’s novelette is a rare exception. There is much in Herzog’s film that is ambiguous and there are a goodly number of unanswered questions. Since Monette had the advantage of knowing Herzog, he provides answers. (For example, Dracula explains his odd behavior after attacking poor Harker’s bleeding hand. He says his cutlery is old and tarnished and might possibly infect his guest with blood poisoning. The count was doing him a favor!) It is a wicked little work, and it is clear from the beginning that the novelist perceives Weimar as overfed and smug. Monette reveals a kind of delight in chronicling the corruption of the self-satisfied. He also injects an element that is largely missing in the film. In Monette’s treatment, the tale throbs with sexuality. Indeed, Lucy’s sacrifice at the end of the tale involves more than the loss of her blood. Herzog’s approach to Nosferatu was greatly influenced by F.W. Murnau’s old silent version by the same name. Since Herzog considered Marnau a genius, he designed his own film as a kind of tribute to the original. In fact, when it was possile, he actually used the same set and location. Beginning with the town of Wismar, Herzog uses the same streets and buildings, the same trail to Dracula’s castle, and throughout this haunting journey, the viewer finds himself looking at the same ruined buildings, courtyards, inns and streets as were featured in the old black-and-white silent film. In view of the damage done by WW II, it is an astonishing feat. If viewers are puzzled by the peculiar names in F. W. Murnau’s 1922 version — Orlok for Dracula, Hutter for Harker, Wisborg for Weimer, etc. — the name changes were an inept and transparent attempt to avoid a lawsuit with the Bram Stoker estate who didn’t want the film made. Murnau was sued anyway and the entire production was plagued with problems related to expenses. Despite the film’s status as a classic, it has a number of unintentionally humorous scenes. (My favorite is the hyena masquerading as a Transylvanian werewolf!) Gustav von Wangenheim’s acting sometimes borders on parody and manic Renfield must be seen to be believed. All of this, of course, is a long way from our current crop of Draculas who, aided by special effects, soar, morph, vanish and materialize with slick efficiency. Oddly enough, the sense of dread and foreboding is gone, replaced by geysers of blood and decapitated heads. I had rather watch Klaus Kinski slither through the streets of Weimar, followed by a rippling sea of rats.