Nosferatu (1922) – Creeps, kale, and a weird summer night in Sveg

So Nosferatu, yeah. That old silent flick from 1922 with Max Schreck as the vampire that probably haunted half of Europe for decades. Directed by F.W. Murnau, one of those early German fellas who knew exactly how to mess with your head using shadows and creepy-ass castles. No orchestra, no explosions. Just a bald guy with freaky fingers creeping around like your weird uncle at midsummer.

I first saw it on a tiny TV at my cousin Björn’s place up in Sveg, sommaren ’95. We’d picked up the VHS from a little second-hand in Östersund, half because of the cool cover art. We watched it at 2 AM, lying on a worn-out couch eating dejt-stenlösa chips and drinking Pommac. I remember Björn had to pause it when Count Orlok *pops up* from the coffin like a spring-loaded corpse — scared the rosthål outta us. We ended up sleeping with the lights on, both of us 18 and totally pretending we weren’t rattled.

It’s odd, ‘cause the film’s nearly 100 years old, yet parts of it feel more disturbing than modern horror with flashy effects and sad violin music. Maybe it’s the grainy footage or how Max Schreck doesn’t even look like he’s wearing makeup. Like, maybe he wasn’t?

But fair warning: it can feel suuuper slow if you’re not in the mood. No dialogue, title cards that look like they were written by someone with a hangover, and plenty of staring. Still, the atmosphere’s thick like kalops. Murnau had a way of making shadows feel alive, actually *alive*, not in that artsy pretentious way but in a properly eerie “is that thing moving behind me?” kinda way.

It’s not perfect. But it’s a cold wind down your neck in the middle of July. Some films haunt you. This one just hangs around like an unresolved tax debt.

Go see it. But maybe not alone.

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