The film Nosferatu eschews the dignity of vampirism, leaving no room for interpretation of its disgusting monster as anti-hero. This monster, this Count Orlok, an abomination and insult to Dracula, bears no resemblance to humanity. He does not even pretend.
“I am an appetite, nothing more,” he says. Absolutely foul. Never have I so loathed a creature. I stepped to the screen and spat at him. I beseeched my fellow audience to reject this evil from our modern zeitgeist. I was told to return to my seat or leave if I did not like the film, but my curiosity would not allow it.
I endured the remaining runtime, keeping my shouts of “BOO!” and “CACK!” at Orlok as quiet as I could. But I could not contain my rage when we were finally subjected to him bedding his victim, to his repulsive bare back and body mounting and devouring the young heroine.
I vomited. That this evil should have his way with anyone was sickening enough. But he was granted the subject of his greatest longing? I vomited until I was heaving air. I cursed this film and called to the gods to erase it from my mind. I choked and strangled my popcorn's bag and wept for us all, for the art world and its duped consumers. My suffering on earth had surely peaked.
I charged down the aisle and took one more look of morbid fascination. Dawn came over the awful scene. Orlok was not expecting the sun. It was he who had been duped! The heroine sacrificed herself at just the right moment, just before daylight would rise and fry her hideous attacker beyond death.
I cheered through the end credits. The satisfaction of seeing his end undid all my hatred for this film. If I was not blacklisted from the theater, I would go back to watch it again this night.
☆☆☆☆☆