Shadow of the Vampire
In a medium like cinema, or, even more so, like silent cinema, that which the camera doesn’t see doesn’t exist. Or so one would think. Under the right circumstances, the unseen assumes more terrible power than anything within the frame.
As F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu progresses, its vampire, alarmingly embodied by Max Schreck, becomes ever more unpleasant to look upon. It’s been suggested that the filmmakers prevented audiences getting used to their monster by gradually increasing the severity of his monster makeup: certainly, introducing him in a kind of skull cap allows him to appear even more sinister when his bald dome is revealed. (No offense to bald people is intended: not all baldies are scary. Max Schreck bald is uniquely scary. The luxuriant hair sprouting from his elvish ears doesn’t help.)
At the film’s climax, Murnau seems to give up depicting “Graf Orlok” directly at all. We see him spying on the heroine from the window opposite (like the bandaged figure in Polanski’s The Tenant, years later), then he exits frame sideways, like a hieroglyph, but when he starts up the stairs he’s been reduced to a hunched shadow. Or increased.
The vampires of Eastern European mythology don’t cast shadows, but movies have found that hard to portray (stopping the camera’s shadow from intruding into shot is tricky enough) so have allowed them to be reflectionless while using their shadows dramatically whenever possible (Gary Oldman, in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, can apparently make his shadow move independently, like Peter Pan, though why he bothers is never explained).
At the top of the stairs, Orlok’s shadow reaches for the doorknob to gain access to the heroine’s room. His hand itself never comes into view, so it’s implied, I think, that his shadow opens the door. This will be more or less confirmed moments later…
Leading lady Greta Schroder reacts with terror to Orlok’s entrance - which we never see - then collapses on the bed, where the shadow of that long-taloned hand starts making its way up her white nightdress. As it reaches her breast, the hand clenches, throwing her into a spasm of pain.
It’s obvious to me that Orlok hasn’t just grabbed Greta’s tit. His shadow, though visible on the outside of her clothing, is apparently both present and substantial under her skin, and has taken hold of her heart. We have to conceive of the phantom limb being both solid enough to grasp the organ, and yet intangible enough to easily penetrate solid flesh, like a ghost passing through a wall. Nothing like this had ever been shown in a film, and not a word of explanation is given. But we understand.
My question is: how did Murnau know? What business had he, expecting us to grasp such an abstruse and complex supernatural assault?
What did he know that he knew, that we only know, without knowing?
by David Cairns