Kinoeye| German film: Werner Herzog's Nosferatu

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Vol 2
Issue 20
16 Dec
2002

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HORROR
An adaptation with fangs
Werner Herzog's
Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht
(Nosferatu the Vampyre, 1979)

http://www.kinoeye.org/02/20/chaffinquiray20.php

Werner Herzog's
Nosferatu: Phantom
der Nacht
(Nosferatu the
Vampyre, 1979)

Detailing the cultural background,

production history, and critical reception
of Herzog's Nosferatu remake, Garrett
Chaffin-Quiray explains the film's
complex relationship to the horror genre
while providing insight into the
filmmaker's "purposefully austere
aspiration to beauty."
Strangeness has always been Herzog's major theme. A
friend of mine once told me that she heard Herzog
claim he wanted the world to appear in his films as it
would to a Martian who just arrived on Earth. His
method for achieving this is incongruity. [1]
A view from today

On 26 October 2002 I visited Manhattan's Cathedral Church of

Saint John the Divine for the "Halloween Extravaganza &
Procession of Ghouls." An annual production, the conclusion of the
night's program was a puppet parade. Directly preceding this
exhibition, though, was a screening of Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau's
1922 classic Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (Nosferatu, A
Symphony of Horrors) with a live organ accompaniment.
Having previously seen Murnau's film, I anticipated a creaking relic
of histrionic acting and anachronistic special effects. Indeed, I
watched the film while listening to alternating snickers of
disappointment and simultaneous thrills of wonder in a crowd
several hundred strong. As a result, I was reminded of the
importance of context concerning Nosferatu with some eighty years
having passed between now and its original release.

SEARCH
go

Subsequently I binged on all things of unholy origin. I read reviews,

fingered library books and compared images handed down through
a lifetime spent consuming vampire movies. In so doing, I
completed the Nosferatu trifecta.
After attending the Cathedral Church screening, but only after

HORROR IN
KINOEYE
Films

Claire Denis'
Trouble Every
Day (2001)
Jrg Buttgereit's
Nekromantik
(1987) &
Nekromantik 2
(1991)
Oliver
Hirschbiegel's
Das Experiment
(2001)
Carl-Theodor
Dreyer's
Vampyr (1931)
and Lucio
Fulci's E tu
vivrai nel
terrore
L'aldil
(1981)
Werner
Herzog's
Nosferatu:
Phantom der
Nacht (1979)
Agustn
Villaronga's
Tras el cristal
(1986)
Ingmar
Bergman's
Persona (1966)
Ulli Lommel's

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reading Bram Stoker's 1897 novel Dracula, I watched Werner

Herzog's 1979 adaptation, Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht and
finished off with E Elias Merhige's insider-peek-cum-alternativehistory, Shadow of the Vampire (2000). What follows, then, is the
result of my dive into the subject at hand.
Frames of reference

What we recognise as das neue Kino, or the New German Cinema,

was a movement born from generational conflict. Following
Germany's defeat in World War II, the coherence of its national
identity was split among occupying allied powers, just as the
country was riven with foreign cultural products, sold piecemeal to
external combines and dwarfed by memories of its former status
under Adolph Hitler.
Along with the rapid Americanisation of West Germany confronting
Soviet-styled East Germany, there was a coincident malaise about
the unassimilated Nazi past, the "unbewltige Vergangenheit."
Turning the war generation against its offspring, another baby
boom, Germany's future was a portrait of contradiction, not least
because the Holocaust prosecuted during the war led directly to the
post-war Economic Miracle.
German cinema, itself a reflection of national sensibilities, exhibited
these tensions on-screen. Decimated by an exhausting war effort,
filmmakers in the 1940s largely produced works of narrow interest.
Continental development and the popularity of television expanded
the canvas just as a backlash against Hollywood's control over local
movies was unleashed.
At the Oberhausen Film Festival of 1962, "an acute sense of
alienation and anomie"[2] bubbled to the surface. Alexander Kluge
and Norbert Kckelmann, both filmmakers and spokesmen for the
unrest, shaped the moment and lambasted the conventional system.
One result was the Oberhausen Manifesto aimed at disrupting
then-current cinematic practice.
Finding American dollars easy to secure for distribution and
exhibition channels, though not for investment in local movie
production, the Oberhausen group envisioned a way out from under
their cultural colonisation. Lobbying the Budestag, or West German
parliament, they successfully set up the Koratorium Junger
Deutscher Film (Young German Film Board), to support funding
and distribution of members' work along with establishing film
schools in Munich and Berlin and an archive in Berlin. From
1965-1968, the Koratorium supported the debut of several dozen
new filmmakers. Yet the fundamentally inconsistent source of film
finance continued to haunt das neue Kino.
One method to solve the problem was the Film Frderungsanstalt
(FFA), which gave money to film producers according to fairly

Zrtlichkeit der
Wlfe (1973)
Victor Trivas's
Der Nackte und
der Satan
(1959)
Lars von Trier's
Forbrydelsens
Element (1984)
Maurice
Tourneur's La
Main du diable
(1942)
Roman
Polanski's Le
Locataire
(1976)
Rumle
Hammerich's
Svart Lucia
(1992)
Ji Svoboda's
Proklet domu
Hajn (1988)
Guillaume
Radot's Le Loup
des Malveneur
(1942)
Stefan
Ruzowitzky's
Anatomie
(2001)

Themes

The
international
reception of
Hannibal
Jan
vankmajer's
"agit-scare"
tactics

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loose standards and which led to soft-core porn and sex comedies.
The second method was an FFA reform, the Filmberlad der Autoren
(Author's Film-Publishing Group), a private company intended to
distribute members' films with monies collected from television
network subsidies and tithes, and to ensure artistic products with
careful sponsorship. A fertile period resulted and the world was
introduced to filmmakers like Wim Wenders, Rainer Werner
Fassbinder and Werner Herzog, although they were typically only
celebrated abroad in countries like France and America.
The youngest of these prominent three, Wenders, was born on 14
August 1945. Stylistically his work tends to blend Hollywood genres
while thematically exploring the Americanisation of post-war
Germany in pictures like Der Amerikanische Freund (The
American Friend, 1977) and Der Himmel ber Berlin (Wings of
Desire, 1987).
Fassbinder, the middle child whose death is commonly regarded as
the end of das neue Kino, was born on 31 May 1945 and overdosed
on 10 June 1982. Multi-generic in scope, his movies reference
1950s Hollywood melodramas overlaid with spot-on social
criticism. Detractors malign his prolific output as indistinguishable
from Hollywood's conventions while admirers argue he both
satisfies and subverts spectatorial expectations in films such as
Angst essen Seele auf (Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, 1974) and Die Ehe
der Maria Braun (The Marriage of Maria Braun, 1978).

Italian wax
dummies as
inspiration for
horror
Of mad love,
alien hands and
the film under
your skin

Festivals

Brussels
International
Fantastic Film
Festival
Lupo Frightfest,
London

Interviews

Horror Actor
Reggie Nalder

Herzog, the oldest of the trio, was born Werner Stipetic on 5

September 1942. A "holy fool," [3] he possesses a legendary need
to confront danger. His well-documented production difficulties
forever shadow his work, in which fans admire grand landscapes
and enigmatic heroes while detractors see self-indulgence,
recklessness and failure of storytelling.

"King of
Schlock" Roger
Corman in
Europe

Though his biography is riddled with hyperbole, the general facts

suggest he grew up in a remote Bavarian village, wrote his first
script at 15 and made his first short film at 17. To earn money he
worked blue-collar jobs. Eventually he earned a Fulbright
scholarship to the University of Pittsburgh, where he studied film
and television. In 1964 he won the Carl Mayer Prize for promising
screenplays, finally making his feature debut four years later with
Lebenszeichen (Signs of Life, 1968).

Special issues

During this period, vacillating (as the rest of his career always has)
between documentary impulses, poetic grandeur and epic journeys
into the souls of madmen, Herzog offered a pithy aphorism about
the cinema for which he is famous: "Film is not the art of scholars,
but of illiterates." [4] Such an idea is useful for unpacking Herzog's
fascination with Murnau's silent classic.
Cognisant of his fame, with its particular focus after Aguirre, der
Zorn Gottes (Aguirre, the Wrath of God, 1974), Herzog recognised
the shifting climate of film finance and production. Namely, "a

Strach
Czech film's
love affair with
fear and horror
Blood poetry
The cinema of
Jean Rollin
Assault on the
senses
The horror
legacy of Dario
Argento
The hidden
face of horror
Georges

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major problem for the filmmakers of das neue Kino was

distribution. While the Film Subsidies Board generously supported
independent production of all sorts, the films of the New German
Cinema grew too elaborate and too numerous for the exhibition
outlets available to them." [5] To fill the void and continue making
movies, many enterprising, even exploitive, filmmakers like Herzog
cultivated international co-financing deals coupled with certain
artistic concessions, especially yoked to Hollywood. As Timothy
Corrigan writes,
The connection with the Hollywood circuit and the
audience it controls throughout the world is...a crucial
dimension not only of Herzog's work but of the entire
New German Cinema. As much as its filmmakers were
nurtured by their strained relation with their pre-war
forefathers like Lang and Murnau, the historical and
economic roots of contemporary German film were,
formed during the postwar 1950s when American
occupation of West Germany fostered a peculiarly
displaced relation between the two cultures. [6]
Werner Herzog's
Nosferatu: Phantom der
Nacht (Nosferatu the
Vampyre, 1979)

Franju's Les
Yeux sans
visage
Three from
Mario Bava
Three on Tesis

Archive

Visit Kinoeye's
Horror
Archive

Enter Nosferatu, a recognised title

in the cinematic pantheon, a
European co-production between
Werner Herzog Filmproduktion,
Gaumont and ZDF, and with a fully
enabled distribution channel
provided by Twentieth Century
Fox.

The boon was a production budget

of DEM 2.5 million (USD 1.4
million), the biggest in Herzog's
career to that time, [7] along with
an international release to existing
syndicates and a cast and crew
ready to risk the remake. The
sufferance, however, was a
dual-language production shot simultaneously in English and
German, maintenance of the irascible Klaus Kinski as star and an
ongoing struggle to live up to Murnau's original upon which
Herzog's picture could be pilloried.
Child of the night

Unable to shoot in Bremen, as Murnau did in 1922, Herzog

contracted the Dutch town of Delft. Embittered over memories of
Nazi occupation, though, the Delft citizenry were less than
enthusiastic about hosting a German production crew. When
Herzog finally announced plans to release 11,000 rats for a
particularly important scene, Delft's city fathers refused him after
citing their extensive efforts to rid the city of vermin.

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Inconvenienced, Herzog moved his production, along with its

Hungarian-bred white lab rats painted gray for the sake of realism,
to the more accommodating Dutch city of Schiedam.
At the same time, Kinski was enduring several hours of daily
make-up to enliven his part as Count Dracula, although he was also
weathering a personal hell. Estranged from his third wife, he
laboured under the knowledge she was about to divorce him, taking
with her their son. Everywhere mythologised as being wildly manic
in his habits, Herzog managed to help channel his star's private pain
into a form of helplessness more conducive to the part.
The resulting film is not a clear copy of its source, though it does
offer an occasional shot-for-shot echo. "It is an homage to the 1922
Murnau classic of the same name, from which it is freely adapted,
and is thereby a tribute to the purity of vision of the silent cinema
and also a lament of the loss of innocence represented by Bram
Stoker's original 1897 novel, 'Dracula.'"[8] Developing the idea of
lost innocence, Herzog's version makes a careful nod to female
empowerment, offers a dystopian finale suggesting total failure and
employs the relative richness of colour film stock and a recorded
soundtrack.
Opening in Wismar, we meet Jonathan
Harker (Bruno Ganz), a property clerk newly
wed to Lucy (Isabelle Adjani), for whom he
wishes to provide a comfortable home. When
a large commission is offered to him for
transacting with the far-off Count Dracula
(Kinski), Jonathan eagerly accepts the job.

Werner
Herzog's
Nosferatu:
Phantom der
Nacht
(Nosferatu the
Vampyre, 1979)

After an arduous month traveling through the

Carpathian Mountains, he stops at a roadside
inn for refreshment before meeting the
Count. Mentioning his client by name, the
establishment falls silent before Jonathan listens to rumors of
Nosferatu. He discounts such talk as peasantry run amuck and soon
meets the Count, a lonely and unloved "man." Very quickly,
Dracula becomes fascinated by a photograph of Lucy and accepts
Jonathan's offered property, which makes them neighbours. Long
nights ensue and the Count begins feasting on his clerk before
sailing for Wismar, bringing with him death and the plague in an
army of rats.
Jonathan belatedly realises Dracula's threat but loses his memory
while returning home because he is gradually stricken with
vampirism. Arriving after the plague has already been loosed,
bodies pile up in the city square and Jonathan is delivered into
Lucy's care, vegetative and absent of any love for his bride.
Werner Herzog's
Nosferatu: Phantom
der Nacht (Nosferatu

Faced with the destruction of her

world, Lucy contacts Dr Van Helsing
(Walter Ladengast) requesting help,

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but is ultimately forced to act alone.

She researches Dracula's whereabouts
and uncovers his weaknesses, killing
him through self-sacrifice as a sensual
meal under the cast of morning
sunlight. Unfortunately, Jonathan is already made the Count's
successor and is last seen riding into the stretch of tomorrow,
unmarked by his past life or the original ambition that drove him to
the Count in the first place.
Werner Herzog's
Nosferatu: Phantom
der Nacht (Nosferatu
the Vampyre, 1979)

Then versus now

Enjoying a debut in Paris on 10 January 1979, Nosferatu was a

mixed viewing experience. Though it received the Berlin
International Film Festival's Silver Bear for Outstanding Single
Achievement in production design for Henning von Gierke and a
nomination for the Golden Bear for Herzog, and though Kinski
received a German Film Award for Outstanding Individual
Achievement in acting, critics and viewers alike were troubled by
the picture.
Perhaps best summarising the issue, William Wolf wrote,
"Unquestionably Herzog's version is a stylistic triumph. But do we
need yet another encounter with the count?" [9] Vincent Canby
echoed the sentiment and wrote, "Mr Herzog has done what he set
out to do, but when you come right down to it, one wonders if it's
worth the trouble. Dracula, after all, is not Hamlet or Othello or
Macbeth. He's not some profoundly complex character who speaks
to us in more voices than most of us care to hear. Dracula is Santa
Claus turned mean. He's a fairy-tale character. Though he
represents something vestigially scary, he's not endlessly
interesting." [10]
Given these indirectly complimentary remarks responding to a
late-1970s spate of vampire motion pictures (including John
Badham's Dracula [1979] and Stan Dagoti's Love at First Bite
[1979]), and a certain reverence towards Murnau's original, the
critical reaction divided among those preferring 1922's version to
that of 1979. Pondering the adaptation, Ernest Leogrande asked,
"What was its special fascination for Herzog?" [11] before serving
judgement: "Murnau's version still stands above Herzog's. The 1922
movie is a tidy little package that causes viewers to marvel at the
sophistication of its technique even when they're laughing at the
broad-stroke silent movie acting, acting that incidentally adds to he
movie's charm." [12]
His pleasure at outmoded acting styles notwithstanding, Donald
Barthelme roughly agreed, writing, "The problem here is that
Herzog was unable to bring new life to his much-handled material."
[13] "But comparisons are unnecessary in sizing up this new
Dracula tale as a major disappointment, often pictorially striking but
singularly unengrossing," [14] continued a Variety reviewer who

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equally placed the film in a wider social context. "The renewed

vogue for Dracula vehicles will give Herzog's film a certain
commercial success, though there will undoubtedly be many
disappointed spectators. Herzog is being true only to himself, which
will continue to delight his followers and further alienate his
detractors." [15]
Yet while detractors clung to artistic primacy in Murnau, or else to
a general dislike of Herzog due to an avoidance of horror film
tropes conventionalised in the 1970s-including gore, jarring
soundtracks and fast editing for kinesis-fans like David Denby
perceptively gathered how "the young German director has made
not a conventional horror film (there are no shocks) but an
anguished poem of death." [16] Herzog's undead monster is a
threatening force from the deep well of Nature, even as he is an
obviously self-centred killer of men. But he is also a deeply
sympathetic monster spurned by a blood lust of unusual proportion
and buoyed by the desire to die while lacking any method for
accomplishing that end.
For Jack Kroll, "When the Dracula figure lurches ashore in FW
Murnau's classic 1922 'Nosferatu,' carrying his coffin filled with
native earth, it was a chilling premonition of Hitler's imperialism of
death, the desire to necropolize the world. Following Murnau,
Herzog's 'Nosferatu' mixes such resonances with a surprisingly
successful attempt to humanize Dracula." [17] It follows that
Herzog's film "can...be appreciated as a contemplative work of art
rather than as a horror thriller, which it is not," [18] because "the
familiar becomes arrestingly odd; ineffable mystery is presented as
the basic of condition of human life." [19]
Associative editing practices display this
Werner Herzog's
mystery in connecting Lucy with
Nosferatu: Phantom
Dracula, her nightmares of flying bats to
der Nacht (Nosferatu
his hunger suggested in the shadow play
the Vampyre, 1979)
of his fingertips. Beauty thus inscribes
the beast who, for all his cruelty and
deathly intentions, wishes only to
ingratiate himself to the ethereal woman
(Adjani) and receive her honest
affection. "Where the nightmare
exaggerations of Murnau, preditary [sic]
wolves, Venus flytraps, the rat-like
vampire and his kingdom of vermin are
easily recuperated into a scheme of
symbols for a repressed but vital Nature, Herzog's expressionism is
pure spirit, a sulfuric image of hell." [20] Though readable as a
continuous symptom of the unassimilated Nazi past, the alwaysalready present capacity of evil, symbolised by Dracula, is a
condition defining the goodness of humanity, as attributed to Lucy.
What detractors and supporters both remark on is the powerful use

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of images in the film. Arguments about the superiority or inferiority

of Herzog's production are interesting conversation pieces.
Typically burdened by tautological assumptions, however, little can
be gleaned from such comparison since the real value of panning or
praising it comes from noting what it succeeds at over and above
what was possible in Murnau's moment.
Reflecting on the Count

Critic John Azzopardi has claimed that Herzog's Nosferatu is, "one
of the greatest horror films ever made." [21] Though clearly a
judgement call, his remark has merit, especially when one considers
the picture itself and in particular the cinematography of Jrg
Schmidt-Reitwein. Rich in the distinctions of dull colours bleeding
between light brown, yellow, white and occasional splashes of blue,
Herzog's picture moves through Wismar into Transylvania with an
accompanying change in palate. Colours grow darker, red appears,
the Count dominates the screen and time slows to long takes of
shadow and inexplicable shapes in the night.
Also, none of what appears in the film is precisely horrific. At least
not in the way of nightmares or much of what audiences and critics
expected of any self-titled horror movie in 1979. Still, Kinski's
performance, surely one of the richest of his career, is both nuanced
and other. Dracula is obviously pained by his very existence, but
like any animal capable of surviving the gaps between discomfort
and salvation, he consumes his way through the lack of love and is
finally ground up in the sacrifice of an innocent equal to his evil
incarnate.
While a symptomatic reading yields the vampire as analogous to das
neue Kino's relationship with Hollywood, one of endless
colonisation and co-optation of changing local circumstances to its
own end, I think such a reading is off the deep end. So too is the
implicit lesson of how primal human nature can be perpetually
tamed by virgin sacrifice. Even notions about how unbewltige
Vergangenheit appears within the text, informing characterisation,
is far-fetched since the film responds more to the socio-cultural
conditions of the 1970s than it does to World War II, or even to the
post-World War I moment that offered Murnau his inspiration.
Instead, what I find most rewarding is the visual, and to a lesser
extent aural, wash that is Nosferatu's overall affect. Because art for
its own sake is often a dead end, Herzog's purposefully austere
aspiration to beauty still trades on generic expectation to offer
familiar, though slightly unconventional thrills.
Werner Herzog's
Nosferatu: Phantom der
Nacht (Nosferatu the
Vampyre, 1979)

Remembering his attitude about the

cinema being meant for illiterate
spectators, the motive for a
slow-moving spectacle seems
obvious. Images appear and linger,

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eliciting a visceral reaction without

having to support cause and effect.
Throughout the film, visual
storytelling takes centre stage away
from a more literary approach
because the script is deliberately
slim. By capitalising on a
well-known narrative, the plot is
thus everywhere revealed through action, movement and the
constantly changing colouring, lighting and emotional pattern of the
cinematic canvas.
Werner Herzog's
Nosferatu: Phantom der
Nacht (Nosferatu the
Vampyre, 1979)

In short, the effort to transport an audience into the space of

reflection and wonder is what makes Herzog's adaptation of Stoker's
monster via Murnau's camera into something of value. Nowhere is
this more obvious than in the dominant image of the film, indeed of
the entire Stoker-derived vampire franchise. When Kinski's tortured
monster first appears, but even more impressively when he hunts
Lucy in her bedroom, he becomes one of the master icons of the
cinema. His extended fingertips and open mouth outline his
monstrosity turned into familiar desire and materialise our repressed
fantasies, neither spoken nor dictated in everyday life. As a result,
Nosferatu is part of us and Herzog's film reflects on this condition
with impressive vigour.
Garrett Chaffin-Quiray

Also of interest

Kinoeye articles on the legacy of Europe's Nazi past as a

horror motif:
Germany's secret history:
Stefan Ruzowitzky's Anatomie (Anatomy, 2000)
A closet full of brutality
Volker Schlndorff's Der Junge Trless (Young Torless,
1966)
Dr Franju's "House of Pain" and the political cutting
edge of horror
Georges Franju's Les Yeux sans visage (Eyes without a
Face, 1959)
Conspicuous consumption:
Ulli Lommel's Zrtlichkeit der Wlfe (Tenderness of the
Wolves, 1973)
Power, paedophilia, perdition: Agustn Villaronga's
Tras el cristal (In a Glass Cage, 1986)
See also:

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Horror film in Kinoeye and on the web

About the author

Garrett Chaffin-Quiray was educated at the University of

Southern California School of Cinema-Television. Having
sponsored a film festival, taught courses on TV and cinema
history and published variously, his research interests include
pornography, American cinema and the 1970s. He is also a
novelist and former information technologist.
return to the Kinoeye home page
return to the main page for this issue

Footnotes

1.Nol Carroll, "Creatures of the Night." The Echo Weekly News

(11 October 1979): 35.
2.David A Cook, A History of Narrative Film (3rd ed) (New York
& London: WW Norton & Company, 1996), 661.
3.David Robinson, The History of World Cinema (revised and
updated ed) (New York: Stein and Day, 1981), 375.
4. Alan Greenberg, Herbert Achternbush and Werner Herzog,
Heart of Glass (Munich: Skellig, 1976), 174.
5. Cook, 681.
6. The Films of Werner Herzog: Between Mirage and History, ed
Timothy Corrigan (New York and London: Methuen, 1986), 7.
7. Ibid, 217.
8. Kevin Thomas, "New 'Nosferatu' a Tribute to Murnau." Los
Angeles Times (29 October 1979): D35.
9.William Wolf, "Nosferatu, the Vampyre." Cue New York (26
October 1979): 19.
10. Vincent Canby, "Screen: 'Nosferatu,' Herzog's Dracula." New
York Times (1 October 1979): C15.
11. Ernest Leogrande, "The chills are hollow." New York Daily
News (4 October 1979): 87.

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12. Ibid.
13. Donald Barthelme, "Nosferatu." The New Yorker (15 October
1979): 182-84 (184).
14.Variety, "'Nosferatu: Phantom Der Nacht' ('Nosferatu, The
Vampire')" (24 January 1979): 23.
15.Ibid.
16.David Denby, "Nosferatu." New York (22 October 1979): 89.
17.Jack Kroll, "Thinking Man's Count Dracula." Newsweek (15
October 1979): 133.
18. Andrew Sarris, "The Real McCoy." The Village Voice (8
October 1979): 40.
19.Carroll, 35.
20. John Azzopardi,"Herzog: Last Breath Of German
Expressionism." Chelsea News (18 October 1979): 11. The writer's
choice of spelling is quoted intact.
21.Ibid.

Copyright Kinoeye 2001-2011

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