#queer lens

To begin with, I must clarify that a queer reading of Nosferatu is not an external introduction. While that lens may be applied to any narrative, given a thorough enough discussion of gender roles, sexuality, and cultural context, it has always been a natural - if sometimes unspoken - component of gothic horror. Elements of it are observable in classics like Frankenstein (Shelley), The Picture of Dorian Gray (Wilde), and even detective fiction offshoots like The Hound of Baskervilles (Doyle), etc; and within the vampire subgenre, it is practically a requirement.

That, like many other things, may be ascribed to Lord Byron and his ever-enduring cultural legacy. In the year 1819, at the Villa Diodati in Switzerland, he challenged his illustrious group of friends to each write a ghost story; and while only two achieved any sort of prominence, that much was sufficient to alter the history of the horror genre. One of these was Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; the other was The Vampyre by Dr. Polidori.* As the title suggests, it was the first Western work of fiction that featured such a monster - and, in doing so, it set the blueprint for countless others to follow. Since then, the genre has been defined by the shape of the dark, hedonistic, and dangerous Lord Ruthven, who was unmistakably modelled after Byron himself.

As a character, Ruthven is confident, dominant, manipulative - and brooding, on occasion. His interpersonal approach is defined by a sort of hypnotizing, seductive, possessive, most certainly ill-advised allure. The overall impression is devilish; and that is indeed the point. Within the thematic framework of The Vampyre, Ruthven represents temptation of all kinds. He never hesitates to indulge himself; and so, once he is bored with cards and brothels, he has no qualms about fixating his appetites on Polidori's main character, Aubrey.

Their relationship is notably homoerotic. Despite - or, perhaps, even complemented by - Polidori's amateurish style, the text demonstrates a genuine, striking sensuality between them. In 1819, this easily fell in line with the rest of Lord Ruthven's characterization; and, following The Vampyre's a rapid rise to popularity, vampirism became a shorthand for any "sinful" - or, socially forbidden - sexual expression.

Given the numerous restrictions of the time, most of which persist today to a degree, this includes not merely abusive or incestuous, but also queer, interracial, and extramarital relations - as well as anything involving kink dynamics. From Ruthven, we get Carmilla (LeFanu), Dracula (Stoker + adaptations), and even relatively recent installments like Lestat (Rice).**

The premise of Nosferatu is no exception. One of the most famous cases of copyright infringement, and a triumphant testament to the historical/preservationist value of media piracy, Murnau's 1922 silent film survives - against explicit orders of the Stoker estate; and, being the literary bastard child of Dracula himself, Orlok maintains many of the same characteristics as his predecessor.

Among these is his implicit and classically vampiric queerness. Like the rest of the film, it is amplified in 2024 - and especially prominent in the first act, in which Thomas Hutter arrives to Orlok's castle.

It is evident from his earlier characterization that Thomas is a repressive type. More so than Aubrey or Jonathan Harker, he keeps his head down, obstinately ignoring the web of fears that shape his daily existence; and it is a monster's narrative duty to expose and realize every single one.

Granted, social circumstances do play a role in this situation. Aubrey has wealth and status; Jonathan Harker has friends and a stable, loving marriage; and Thomas Hutter has neither of those things. Without the benefit of money or community, he lives within a world that is almost as restrictive as Ellen's. His personality is defined by his similarly desperate desire for respect; and his behaviour throughout the film is informed by that underlying pattern. It manifests, most prominently, as a near-compulsive, yet formulaic, adherence to social expectations. He chases after a promotion, marries, gives his wife flowers she didn't want - and, in the same breath, dismisses her "childish fantasies", not out of any malicious intent, but simply because it is supposed to be his duty as a man and husband. It is a destructive cycle of indignity and overcompensation - and I believe it is essential to acknowledge that it's motivated, in great part, by his financial insecurity. As a self-described "pauper," Thomas is anxious to prove himself to his ruthless, unforgiving society - because if he does not, he runs a very real risk of losing even the few comforts he has managed to scrape together.

This threat of destitution is an act of violence. Implicitly, constantly, in consequence of daring to exist, Thomas is being held hostage - unless he conforms.

His sojourn at Orlok's castle is, therefore, peppered with evidence of his superstitions, his social class, and his weakness. Orlok - whom he eventually finds slumbering in the dungeon, the symbolic core of the building itself - is its culmination. What Thomas sees after opening the casket is a nude man, always and never dead, who is trying to take away his wife and imprison him, like a damsel, in a castle. He is horrified; and the implication is blatant. In context with everything else, the deeply sensual, lingering brutality of Orlok's attack is symbolic of the one last thing that Thomas is repressing - and has been for so long that facing it is unthinkable. Still, he can do nothing to resist Orlok - who pushes him to annul his heterosexual marriage, subdues him, bites him; and drinks from him, night after night.

Even during daylight, Thomas fails to destroy his tormentor. In the story sense, he cannot do it because Orlok is a vampire; on the symbolic level, we understand that he cannot kill his own nature.

It goes without saying that this experience is violent; it is both grotesque and shockingly, blatantly lewd. It is traumatic. It is euphoric. It is a form of sexual assault, as far as the biting - a naturally penetrative act - is concerned; and, crucially, it is also Thomas' own repressed desire forcing him to know it. His fear and self-disgust are made flesh in Orlok. Unwanted Desire versus Unwanted Advances; it is a classic gothic paradox - and, in the end, he is unable to accept it. He flees, back to Ellen and the familiar comfort of repression.

Curiously, Ellen herself - who is also distinctly queercoded - presents a depiction of an alternate path.

Like Thomas, she begins the film rigidly repressed and doing her utmost to conform to the established heterosexual social standards. The most prominent factors behind Ellen's oppression are ableism and misogyny - both rooted in things she cannot possibly hide. Her seizures are extremely noticeable to say the least, her neurodivergence affects every conversation she has with the people around her, and all of them perceive her as a woman first and a person never. As the film goes on, it becomes increasingly clear that this emulation of a happy marriage requires constant and agonizing effort to sustain; but while she is also blatantly queercoded, and this queerness definitely contributes to the way she is treated (e.g. by Harding, who views her as a threat to his own marriage), her struggle in maintaining her union with Thomas is not necessarily rooted in a lack of sexual attraction.

The issue is, rather, its "inappropriate" manifestation. Ellen is sexually dominant. Her desires are carnal (and, as the original script implies, mildly sadistic). In a society that expects women to be both innocent and submissive, limits their financial opportunities, and threatens the nonconforming with institutionalization or abandonment, she is caged.

Unlike Thomas, she is aware of that and resents it accordingly - which is not to say that she doesn't feel overwhelming guilt in regards to her sexual inclinations. She absolutely does; and it is interesting to note here that her own pain, in this case, manifests as attacks on her husband and Anna.

This is the part of the story that actively deals with Ellen's queerness. It is evident that she has lived her entire life with the idea that such feelings themselves are sinful; her desires are already unacceptable, even within the sanctity of a heterosexual marriage - thus, actively pursuing another woman would be monstrous. In this interaction, however subtle or unspoken (and, on Anna's part, likely unrecognized), Ellen perceives herself as an aggressor. This is the reason her friend is attacked directly after they share a private, tender moment together - true to the classic gothic vampire tradition, Orlok is, consistently, the direct manifestation of Ellen's shame. He drinks from Anna's breast (the characteristic bite notably favoured by Carmilla - the original lesbian vampire); he destroys the Hardings' perfect nuclear family; and Friedrich Harding blames Ellen and her "fairy ways." Symbolically, their suffering is her punishment - both for feeling a brief moment of queer affection (guilt, fear - direct, setting-driven), and for refusing to indulge it (self-acceptance, rebellion - metaphorical, represented by Orlok).

Still, despite her fear and guilt, Ellen knows that she has done nothing wrong by following her "nature." Her queerness is inherent to her - much like her disability, or her psychic gift; and it is no accident that, among the human characters, the latter is only truly identified by the remarkably eccentric, disgraced, flamboyant, cat-loving, unmarried, bohemian Von Franz. Even though he might be better-adjusted to their surrounding society than her, he still decidedly exists on its outskirts. There is a familiarity of recognition between them, as well as the particular dynamic of a fresh and uncertain fear vs a resigned bitterness that alludes to an interaction between two different queer generations. Even as he is unable to promise her a happy ending, he confirms that she was meant for greater things than the world around them would allow; and that, in my opinion, marks a turning point.

Prior to her conversation with Von Franz, the only validation Ellen has ever received was from Orlok - which posed a moral complication. He was and is a monster, and as such, she believed him to be, fundamentally, a "deceiver." Because of this, she could not bring herself to entirely accept what he was saying; but, conveniently, Von Franz provides an alternate opinion. He stresses that her gift is not only powerful, natural, and inevitable, but also inherently beautiful and sacred.

This is a drastic shift from the way Ellen is normally perceived by humanity. The story consistently demonstrates that the other characters dismiss, infantilize, or condemn her out of turn; however, in this new philosophical context, her night of passion with Orlok - or, the city's only hope for salvation - becomes a supremely important, adult, and holy act. In a spiritual sense, it is equivalent to a marriage; and the film frames it as such.

Like a father, Von Franz gives her away. Despite his well-established monstrosity, Orlok is tender with her to the point of reverence; and she pulls him close - as unnecessary or selfish as that may be. It is, after all, a metaphor. By embracing the Vampire, Ellen embraces the physical representation of everything she had once considered ugly in herself. In regards to her queerness (as well as her psychic power/neurodivergence/disability/personhood), it is a triumphant moment of self-acceptance.

Ellen's arc therefore ends in sublimation. Meanwhile, Thomas is left behind; over the course of the film, he has been unable to let go of the structures that have directed his thinking and behaviour throughout his life - and yet, at the same time, he has also seen them fail, over and over. Knock betrays him, Sievers is out of his depth; Thomas himself cannot be a hero, and Harding - his glittering ideal - crumbles, consumed by grief and madness. The finale, therefore, leaves him on a precipice.

It is a classic moment of deliberation - epitomized, perhaps, by The Matrix (Wachowski Sisters, 1999), in its iconic "red pill/blue pill" scene. As much as the interpretation of it has been twisted over the years, the fundamental, intentional meaning of it is inherently queer; it is about weighing the danger and value of awareness against the meaningless bliss of ignorance. These narrative points are most frequently framed as a beginning - but for Thomas, that is how the movie ends.

He could return to the prison of his daily existence, repress everything he truly feels once more, and suffocate himself in a stranger's life. Before him, Ellen and Orlok depart into a "sea of fog" - an unknown, terrifying, beautiful alternative. It is a promise of freedom and a guarantee of struggle. He sees an example of what he could become, in them and in Von Franz. Their society - and ours, to a degree - is unforgiving of deviation, yes, but the story has also forced him to recognize that acquiescence is not the only option; nor is it actually enough to protect him or his loved ones. Within an oppressive society, safety is always subject to an implicit transaction; and as the finale of Nosferatu makes painfully clear - Orlok may have been in covenant with the Devil, but Harding is the one who sold his soul. The question, now, is whether or not Thomas can bring himself to ignore that.

I know what I would personally wish for him - a full and vibrant life, somewhere on the edges of polite society, that allows him to delve into the eccentricities he never knew he had. He could get into the occult himself; maybe even meet a dashing vampire hunter who would sweep him off his feet and shock his lingering sensibilities every morning (and if the man's a cowboy, even better). However, the point is that we do not know what he will do or what will happen. A life is always in flux. Regardless of our circumstances, there are still a few things we get to choose for ourselves, and a precipice is also sometimes an opportunity for a leap of faith.

I hope, most affectionately, that Thomas Hutter jumps off a cliff.

*POLIDORI - Dr. John William Polidori, who may indeed be considered the creator of the modern vampire genre, graduated from Ampleforth College in 1815 with a thesis on sleepwalking. It's not exactly relevant; but, in the context of Nosferatu, rather apt. I would've really liked to see his thoughts on it, seeing as it's such a perfect intersection.