In the canon of great horror films, everything can essentially be traced back to the German Expressionist movement, particularly those helmed by directors who used the burgeoning artform as a platform for their own psychological curiosities, most notably in how they utilized a unique blend of visual style and narrative. Perhaps the most iconic film to come from this movement, at least in terms of horror, would be Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror, the incredible quasi-adaptation of Bram Stoker’s legendary Dracula. F.W. Murnau captured pure, unhinged terror in that film and essentially set off a century of directors who aspired to present such uncontrollable horror in their films. However, the stories – or rather the myths – surrounding the production of Nosferatu are often just as compelling in terms of frightening audiences, so it only makes sense that E. Elias Merhige’s astonishing attempt to dramatize the making of this iconic film would become something incredible in its own right. Shadow of the Vampire is an astounding work of filmmaking, a deft blend of biographical drama and unrestrained horror, a haunting dark comedy that blurs the boundaries between fact and fiction in a way rarely done so well. It’s not a coincidence that this hasn’t only come to be seen as something of a cult classic, but also a work that has fundamentally changed the way we discuss fiction – inherently postmodern (especially in how it looks at metafiction, a fascinating concept in its own right, and something I’ve discussed at length in the past), and incredibly playful, albeit within reason, Shadow of the Vampire is the best kind of madness, a gloriously deranged work that takes an ambitious approach to an already challenging subject and turns it into one of the most quintessentially brilliant works of recent horror – and it remains just as fresh and invigorating twenty years later.

What is fear? Where does it come from, and how do we recognize it? For anyone interested in horror, these are questions artists in a number of mediums have been investigating for centuries. Despite its popularity, horror is a fundamentally difficult concept to define – it’s a genre that may appear to be built simply on the intentions of frightening viewers, but there’s so much more that goes into it. E. Elias Merhige is a name that many might not be entirely familiar with, but for aficionados of the genre, he’s a filmmaker whose debut film, Begotten, has been considered one of the most horrifying works of visual storytelling ever made – and while the film itself may be a bit of a challenge (and shouldn’t ever be approached without complete apprehension and caution, since it’s not a particularly pleasant experience), what it stands for is even more fascinating. A director compelled to go back to the silent era, where allusion and the visual form were used together to create unforgettable images that cauterize themselves into the viewer’s mind, evoking the simple but elusive concept of utter fear. He employs these same ideas into Shadow of the Vampire, which is another interesting work (and a far more palatable one), and throughout the course of what turns out to be one of the current century’s most fascinating horror films, Merhige deconstructs the genre is some surprising ways, venturing deep into the fabric of what it is that makes these films terrifying, while in the process creating a truly unsettling work of fiction in itself. It’s always an admirable achievement when a work of art isn’t only able to critically explore a certain genre and its embedded conventions, but also become a part of it as well. This kind of self-reflectiveness is difficult to come by, but a significant reason towards the brilliance that persists throughout Shadow of the Vampire, which is a film bolstered by an audacious premise and a consistent effort to be utterly original every step of the way, from conception to realization.

Throughout Shadow of the Vampire, we’re presented with such an abstract sense of horror – we know what we’re seeing is absolutely terrifying, but it’s never clear what precisely it is that makes it so scary. This is a testament to Merhige’s direction, Steven Katz’s masterful script (and whose writing is so essential to the success of the film, with the blend of crackling dialogue and darkly subversive humour being pivotal to the story finding its own artistic voice) and the incredible manner in which the film establishes a tone and consistently revisits it throughout. This is partially a vampire horror film, but also a profoundly fascinating documentary-style account of the making of arguably the first truly iconic horror film (The Cabinet of Dr Caligari excepted), taking the form of a behind-the-scenes drama that not only readily admits that it is taking artistic liberty, but openly embraces it, taking full advantage of the freedom allowed to it in a way that is quite remarkable and truly gripping. Shadow of the Vampire begs to ask the question of whether anything, even the most outright truths, can ever be truly reliable. This film doesn’t waver from openly challenging reality, outright twisting it in ways that deviates entirely from the actual story of the production of Nosferatu – but this works, precisely because no one here was interested in a by-the-numbers biographical drama, regardless of how interesting it may have been. Instead, the seed of an idea – fueled by rumours that Max Schreck was a vampire – became the impetus for this film, with Merhige and Katz managing to craft an incredibly compelling piece that doesn’t test the confines of fiction as much as it proudly eviscerates them. Their method was absolutely genius, starting the film as a straightforward drama with a lingering dread, and which gradually begins to take over, enveloping the film and infusing it with a sense of inescapable horror. The undertones of darkly comical humour only bolster it, since not only does it help ground this film in a recognizable reality, but also highlights the absurdity of the piece.

Shadow of the Vampire is quite a surreal piece, and much of its tone and atmosphere doesn’t only come from the ideas that underpin it, but also the actors tasked with bringing them to life (no pun intended). In this regard, the film has two performances that stand as among their respective actor’s best work, with their unique talents fitting in perfectly with the world Merhige is creating, almost to the point where we start to lose ourselves in the reality the film is presenting, based entirely on these two performances. John Malkovich is at his peak in the part of F.W. Murnau, tapping into the unhinged insanity that has often defined his career, but also venturing deeper into the darker recesses of the part, finding the more haunting side of a filmmaker who is often canonized as an important part of cinematic history, but whose efforts in authenticity could’ve harboured a much deeper sense of bleak curiosity. It’s undeniable that Malkovich isn’t recreating who Murnau actually was (by all accounts, he was far less-sinister than he is here), but playing a character based on a fictional side of the filmmaker. He’s the heart of the film, the aspect that often gets overlooked in discussions, but who essentially drives everything forward and ties everything together. We often tend to take Malkovich for granted, and while he may sometimes be typecast into one kind of role, Shadow of the Vampire is one of the few times where this actually worked to his favour, as his unique energy benefits the story exceptionally well. The latter half of the film belongs almost entirely to him, and his final scene, where he succumbs to both his drug-addled neuroses and delusions of grandeur, and feverishly directs the final scene of his film, is amongst the most chilling I’ve experienced – heightened but entirely authentic, Malkovich is giving such a complex performance, and one that has often been forgotten when discussing what a talented actor he has shown himself to be on numerous occasions. 

Conversely, all discussion of this film tends to converge on Willem Dafoe’s performance, and for good reason – he is absolutely incredible in the part of Max Schreck, the star of Nosferatu who was rumoured to be a vampire himself. The only difference is, in this film, it’s not a rumour but an unimpeachable fact – and as a result, we have Dafoe giving one of his most unhinged performances, playing the cadaverous Schreck with a blend of sinister malice and eccentric charm. Dafoe is such a gifted actor, but this is a chance for him to truly prove his chameleonic talents – simultaneously unrecognizable and quintessentially himself, he’s delivering such a fascinating performance, interpreting the character in a way that is a lot of fun to watch, but hints at something deeper. Like Malkovich, Dafoe is playing a broad character, but that doesn’t mean his performance is void of complexity – he commands every screen he is in, harbouring a brooding sense of malice that pervades throughout every one of his scenes, and even when he doesn’t have to utter a single word, but rather us his expressivity and physicality to convey a certain message (another merit of the film as a whole is the means through which it doesn’t rely solely on the dialogue to communicate ideas, with the use of silent-era tropes being a wise and worthwhile choice), he is absolutely incredible. Dafoe is the kind of actor who works so consistently and across so many genres, it’s difficult to pin him down to one definitive performance – but Shadow of the Vampire is certainly one of them, with his work here being both profoundly interesting and widely-beloved, which is a testament to his immense commitment to the part, since this film isn’t necessarily the kind that lends itself to widespread adoration.

Shadow of the Vampire is a masterful example of a genre-bending, deeply postmodern work of unhinged artistry that takes a few intrepid risks, and succeeds quite regularly, which is a marvel in itself. Merhige is a profound fascinating filmmaker who seems to have faded into obscurity, at least cinematically. This was such a promising sophomore effort, and a movement towards more mainstream work, so his gradual move away from the industry has been concerning, since he proved himself to be an essential voice. However, even on its own terms, his work in Shadow of the Vampire is quite incredible, and rightfully earns its place as one of the most insightful works of metafiction of recent years. Its ability to dismantle preconceived notions of the cinematic process, and rebuild it through its own unique vision is worth it on its own, with everything else about the film being entirely supplementary to the brilliance embedded in the fundamental ideas that underpin it and which are explored so masterfully throughout the film. It’s an impactful work that may not proclaim its brilliance at the start, but rather slowly disseminates it, until we’re fully ensconced in this world, a captive audience to the deranged ramblings of a few creative people who are endeavouring to tell a compelling story of human desperation, the boundaries between art and reality, and the extent to which our nature will force us to go in order to get what we desire. Shadow of the Vampire is insightful, often incredibly funny and, more than anything else, a profoundly harrowing piece of cinema that condenses pure artistic madness into its most abstract form, and allows us to be witness to some of the most revolutionary ideas in contemporary filmmaking – and despite its relatively small-scale production and more intimate appearance, Shadow of the Vampire is a stunning work that transcends genre categorization and instead flourishes as a masterwork of unclassifiable genius.