One of cinema's greatest was released a hundred years ago (March 8, 1922): F.W. Murnau's (once "unofficial") screen adaptation of Bram Stoker's Dracula, under the menacing title, Nosferatu.
I viewed a condensed version of the classic in elementary school, just before summer break, and recall how my fifth-grade class (in particular the gals) squirmed and leapt about at the sight of Max Schreck's nightmarish Drac, aka Count Orlok. Ah, such sweet, sinister memories!
In truth, I knew the film well in advance of the classroom showing, having caught photos of Schreck in monster books and mags. Indeed, his repellent appearance had already made me a fan. (I later discovered that Schreck was a pretty normal looking chap, which makes his stark, undead semblance all the more remarkable.)
As the years passed, I came to appreciate Nosferatu as the epitome of German Gothic expressionism. The movie's surreal shadows are impossible to shake: an amazing accomplishment, considering that Murnau's deft cinematographer, Fritz Arno Wagner (abetted by trusty Gunter Krampf), only had one camera to operate.
Because of its unearthly charm, Nosferatu has infiltrated pop culture from a number of artistic vantages, having inspired Werner Herzog's acclaimed '79 remake, with Klaus Kinski in the lead; Reggie Nalder's morbid Master Barlow in Tobe Hooper's take on Stephen King's Salem's Lot; and then there's that crafty movie-within-a-movie, E. Elias Merhige's Shadow of the Vampire, in which Willem Dafoe turns the enigmatic Shreck into more than just an actor. (Also, a slew of Nosferatu/Schreck collectibles have been produced through the decades, all geared to chill one's décor.)
Beyond question, Nosferatu's unearthly influence lives on and isn't likely to perish anytime soon. If there's any movie that can trigger a devilish penchant, it's Murnau's macabre masterpiece.
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