I’ll always be indebted to Robert Eggers for the unforgettable experiences he’s given me with The Witch (2015) and The Lighthouse (2019) . With this latest project, he firmly plants himself alongside those two, proving once again that his vision is as uncompromising as it is compelling. The difference here is that Eggers isn’t holding back—there’s a sense that the studio gave him carte blanche to execute his ideas, and it shows.

Any issues I have likely stem more from the source material than the film itself. Eggers is a powerful storyteller, and frankly, this material feels a little beneath him, which can sometimes limit its impact. Horror has evolved significantly since the original Nosferatu in 1922, and Eggers himself has been a force in that evolution. But what makes this Nosferatu feel distinct isn’t just its lavish, grotesque beauty—it’s how it embellishes the female perspective, giving Lily-Rose Depp’s character true agency.

Rather than a passive victim, she becomes the film’s beating heart, anchoring its descent into obsession and horror with a performance that is as tragic as it is commanding. This Nosferatu isn’t just about the monster lurking in the shadows; it’s a meditation on toxic relationships, on possession and power, told in the most theatrical, bloody, and gruesome way possible.

At first, I wasn’t entirely sold, but after stepping away from it for a few hours, I was already thinking about seeing it again. It stuck with me. And in the end, that's what counts.

I’ve been sober for nine months, but this film made me feel like I was completely wrecked. At one point, I even had to double-check if the N/A beer I was drinking had alcohol in it. Visually, it’s spectacular—every frame meticulously crafted—but watching it is an exercise in frustration. It’s incoherent, confusing, and seemingly uninterested in making sense.

In the end, it gets a profound “Boo!” from me.