A Feminist Review of Nosferatu (2025)

  Nosferatu (2025)

Robert Eggers' Nosferatu (2025) is more than just a reimagining of the classic vampire mythos—it’s an eerie, profound exploration of the complex dynamics between gender, desire, and power. By grounding the horror in the oppressive structures that have long subjugated women, Eggers crafts a feminist critique of toxic obsession, patriarchal control, and the fear of female autonomy. Yet, despite its haunting beauty, the film stumbles in key areas where it could have delivered more nuanced empowerment.

1. The Monster as Patriarchal Power

At its core, Nosferatu is a story of predatory male fixation. Orlok’s obsession with Ellen isn’t a romantic yearning—it’s a destructive hunger. Eggers leans into this by portraying Orlok as the embodiment of patriarchal entitlement: an undead force driven by the belief that a woman’s life and body can be possessed, controlled, and drained of vitality.

What sets this version apart is Ellen’s resilience. She isn’t a passive victim but someone quietly resisting a system that demands her submission. However, while her defiance shines, the narrative leans heavily into the trope of the sacrificial woman without interrogating it enough.

2. Female Autonomy and the Sacrificial Trope

Ellen’s sacrifice, though framed as noble, feels shaped by coercion. She is trapped—cornered by terror, societal expectations, and the ineffectual protection of the men around her. A powerful contrast to this can be found in Erin Greene’s arc in Midnight Mass, where her sacrifice feels like a deliberate act of empowerment.

Erin faces death as a conscious choice rather than an inevitability. She could flee, hide, or survive, but she chooses to fight. Her acceptance of mortality asserts her control over her fate, making her the architect of her story rather than a pawn.

In comparison, Ellen’s sacrifice reads as tragic resignation rather than true agency.

3. Dehumanization as a Control Tactic

Orlok’s most terrifying weapon is his ability to strip Ellen of her humanity. He tells her she is "not meant for the human world," positioning himself as the only one who sees her "truth": that she is soiled, wicked, and marked by his influence. This tactic, often used by abusers, isolates Ellen and makes her believe she is monstrous simply because she is desired.

The horror Ellen faces isn’t just about death—it’s the fear of being seen as grotesque by those she loves.

4. The Missed Opportunity of Female Friendship

Perhaps the greatest tragedy in Nosferatu is the underdevelopment of Ellen’s friendship with Anna. In a story defined by isolation, Anna, Ellen’s closest female companion, could have served as a lifeline—a powerful counterbalance to Orlok’s dehumanization.

Instead, Anna’s role is reduced to surface-level comfort—brief moments of kindness without depth. She offers small gestures of support but never becomes a true confidante who engages with Ellen’s fear and isolation. Their friendship feels distant and one-dimensional, serving the plot rather than enriching Ellen’s character.

What if Anna had been written as someone who could see through Orlok’s manipulations and remind Ellen of her intrinsic worth? What if she had been a mirror in which Ellen saw herself as strong and capable rather than fragile and tainted? A deeper portrayal of their bond could have highlighted the resilience that women draw from each other.

In gothic horror, isolation is often weaponized to strip female characters of their power, but friendship can act as rebellion against that isolation. Anna’s absence as an active ally reinforces Ellen’s loneliness, making her resignation to fate feel inevitable rather than a true choice.

5. Ineffectual Love and the Illusion of Protection

Ellen’s husband, Thomas, is the classic "protector" archetype—well-meaning but blind to the complexity of her struggle. His love is genuine but superficial, more symbolic than actionable.

• Lack of Understanding: Thomas sees Ellen as someone to be saved, not as a person with her own agency and fears. He dismisses her distress as hysteria, assuming that love and reason will shield her from what he can’t comprehend.
• Protection as Possession: His form of protection is paternalistic, rooted in sheltering her rather than empowering her to make her own choices.
• Inaction in Crisis: By the time Thomas realizes the danger, Ellen has already made the ultimate decision. His passivity leaves her to fight alone.
• Self-Centered Heroism: Thomas’ attempts to "save" Ellen seem motivated by his identity as a "good husband" rather than her well-being. His performative love contrasts with Ellen’s quiet, self-sacrificial strength.

Ultimately, Thomas’ arc centers his emotional reckoning, while Ellen’s becomes a tragic device in his narrative.

6. Albin: The Silent Ally

Albin is one of the film’s more surprising dynamics. He is the only male character who offers Ellen respect and a sense of autonomy. Rather than trying to control her, he listens, trusts her instincts, and refrains from imposing his will.

Yet, his support is too little, too late. Albin’s quiet belief in Ellen’s strength stands in stark contrast to Orlok’s domination and Thomas’ ineffectual love, but it is overshadowed by the louder forces of isolation and fear. This reinforces the idea that survival cannot rest on fleeting support from one individual—it requires structural change and meaningful connection.

7. The Power of Naming and Belonging

Orlok tries to define Ellen as something monstrous and unworthy of life. Thomas, despite his devotion, fails to challenge this narrative. Albin’s support offers a glimpse of what affirmation could look like—recognizing Ellen as strong and whole rather than fragile and broken.

However, without the reinforcement of genuine solidarity—whether from friends like Anna or a partner who understands her inner world—Ellen is left to bear the weight of resistance alone.

Conclusion: Consent, Coercion, and the Responsibility of Horror

At its core, Nosferatu is a story about control—about how coercion can masquerade as love, devotion, or destiny. Orlok’s manipulation of Ellen strips her of agency by convincing her that she has no real choices left. Her "willingness" to sacrifice herself is not born of true autonomy but of a system designed to trap her in isolation and fear.

In contrast, the most compelling horror stories—like Midnight Mass—acknowledge the critical difference between consent and coercion. They depict characters who, even in the face of overwhelming odds, retain their ability to make meaningful choices. Ellen’s story, while hauntingly beautiful, falls short in this regard. Her sacrifice feels inevitable, shaped by external forces that deny her true agency.

High-budget cinema, particularly horror, has an opportunity to challenge these narratives. It can reflect the realities of coercion and oppression while offering glimpses of resistance and hope. Horror thrives when it terrifies us with truths about the world, but it transcends when it empowers us to imagine something better.

Nosferatu succeeds in capturing the grim realities many women face—being forced into sacrifice, battling shame, and enduring silence. However, it misses the opportunity to fully explore how consent and autonomy can transform these stories. To truly empower, horror must go beyond mirroring oppression; it must dare to rewrite the rules.