History That Doesn't Suck - 168: Halloween Special IV: Nosferatu and Silent Horror

Episode Date: October 21, 2024

“His Lordship from Transylvania would like to purchase a nice house in our small town . . . it will take a bit of effort . . . a bit of sweat and perhaps . . . a bit of blood . . .” This is the story of the Great Death in Wisborg in 1838.  Nosferatu is a 1922 classic horror film, one of the first ever made. It sort of recalls Bram Stoker’s Dracula—enough to build a copyright lawsuit—but, fortunately for us, Nosferatu weathered the controversy via unlicensed copies and has survived into the twenty-first century. The film isn’t just Dracula revamped though, it contributed brand new techniques to the horror genre. The cinematography is also state-of-the-art for the 1920s, tastefully employing physical film tricks (à la Georges Méliès) and practical effects.  We’ll take you through the film so you can truly appreciate it, following Herr Thomas Hutter and his young wife Ellen as they meet Count Orlok and face the consequences. Without spoiling too much: it gets bloody.  ____ Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com and go deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendations join discussions in our Facebook community get news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette  come see a live show get HTDS merch or become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks. HTDS is part of the Airwave Media Network.  Interested in advertising on the History That Doesn't Suck? Email us at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with iGaming Ontario. Red One. We're coming at you. Is the movie event of the holiday season. Santa Claus has been kidnapped? You're gonna help us find him. You can't trust this guy. He's on the list.

Is that Naughty Lister? Naughty Lister? Dwayne Johnson. We got snowmen! Chris Evans. I might just go back to the car. Let's save Christmas. I'm not gonna say that.

Say it. Alright. Let's save Christmas. There it is. Only in theaters November 15th. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and as in the classroom, my goal here is to make rigorously researched history come to life as your storyteller. Each episode is the result of laborious research with no agenda other than making the past come to life as you learn. If you'd like to help support this work, receive ad-free episodes, bonus content,

and other exclusive perks, I invite you to join the HTDS membership program. Sign up for a seven-day free trial today at htdspodcast.com slash membership, or click the link in the afternoon, June 1st, 1929. We're in New York City's Greenwich Village, just walking up to the newly opened Village Film Guild Cinema, located at 52 West 8th Street. The blue, silver, and henna-colored cinema certainly isn't as flashy as some of the entertainment venues we've been to in recent episodes,

but that kind of comes with the territory for a place that the Daily News describes as a, quote, home for artistic film endeavors, close quote. In other words, this isn't a Hollywood film sort of place. In fact, it doesn't even show talkies. Yep, today we're going old school. This is a silent film. Now, before you protest, let me remind you that we enjoyed plenty of silent cinema

before the jazz singer made talkies all the rage only two years ago. I enjoyed attending that premiere with you back in episode 162, but trust me, you'll like this one today as well. Let's just get our tickets, and I'll fill you in on the film once we're seated. Yeah, it's on me.

No worries at all. Besides, silent films are so cheap now. 70 cents covers both of our tickets. Entering the theater, it's hard not to feel a bit of nostalgia, isn't it? I mean, sure, the pre-movie chatter will always be a thing, but look, we have live musicians in that orchestra pit. Man, you know places like this just won't be around much longer.

Yeah, this is us down front, center of the row. So now that we're seated, this is what they're calling the American premiere of the German film Nosferatu. Yeah, a silent film and foreign film, but remember, the title cards will be in English. And this is a rare opportunity. American theaters have been trying to get Nosferatu since its Berlin debut seven years ago, but legal issues have kept it out of the States. See, while the movie isn't a scene-for-scene lift from Bram Stoker's 1897 novel, Dracula, it's close enough that Bram Stoker's widow, Florence, sued the German

film company, Prana, for copyright infringement. She got a court order to destroy every copy of the celluloid, but it was too late to stop bootlegged copies from getting as far as Saskatoon in Canada. In fact, the copy we're about to watch isn't exactly legal, but that's for lawyers to worry about. Oh, and the projector's rolling. It's starting. Now, we don't know which cut of the film our cinema is showing, but as our live musicians, likely dominated by a pipe organ, start to play, it's possible that our first title card is in German, reading Nosferatu, Eine Symphonie des Grauens. Or in English, Nosferatu,

A Symphony of Horror. The credits end, and then we're greeted with English as a title card tinted in a sickly green and made to look like the opening page of an ancient book reads A Chronicle of the Great Death in Wiesburg in 1838. Another

putridly-tinted card follows, Nosferatu. Does not this word sound like the call of the death bird at midnight? You dare not say it, since the pictures of life will fade into the dark shadows. Ghostly dreams will rise from your heart and feed on your blood. A final card tells us that the story begins with two residents of Wiesburg, Hutter and his young wife, Ellen. The tent fades from green to a golden yellow as we're greeted with the scene of the idyllic town of Wiesburg in Germany and meet a dashing young man with a well-set jaw, piercing eyes, and flowing

locks. Yes, this is Thomas Hutter, whom the title cards refer to only as Hutter. He swoons at the mere sight of his wife, the beautiful, dark-haired, and doe-eyed Ellen. She's playing with her cat next to the door. Hutter goes to her with hand-picked flowers. The two lovingly embrace and kiss. The whole scene conveys their youthful innocence. Later, at work, Hutter's boss, a hunched-over, gangly old man with enormous white eyebrows known as Herr Nock, cackles to himself while examining a letter

written in a strange cipher. He calls Hutter over and tells him, Count Orlok, his lordship from Transylvania, would like to purchase a nice house in our small town. It will take a bit of effort, a bit of sweat, and perhaps a bit of blood. Hutter grins. An odd phrase, but that must simply be how Herr Nock talks.

Hutter looks at a map, thinking of the journey to meet this client as his eccentric boss goes on. He wants a very nice, deserted house. That house, opposite yours, just offer him that one. The decrepit old man then urges his

trusting young employee to get to it. Travel quickly, travel well, young friend, to the country of ghosts. Ellen isn't happy about the news, but there's a fortune to be made. Hutter mounts his horse and rides. He travels many dusty roads until he reaches the glowing peaks of the Carpathian Mountains. Arriving at a small inn, Hutter shouts out, Hurry the meal! I have to go to Count Orlok's castle! A hush falls across the inn as all eyes turn to the naive young German. Everyone warns him not to go out tonight.

A werewolf is roaming the forests. Hutter laughs at these superstitious locals. No problem though. He gets a room and goes to sleep. While shivering in the cold room, Hutter notices a bedside book of vampires, terrible ghosts, magic, and the seven deadly sins. As Hutter reads, we see a page that declares,

Out of Belial's seed appeared the vampire Nosferatu, who lives in feeds of human blood. He lives in terrifying caves, tombs, and coffins. These are filled with goddamned soil from the fields of the Black Death. Our disbelieving protagonist simply laughs. The next morning, Hutter sets off for Count Orlok's castle in a hired horse and buggy. Under the towering, red-tinted mountains, he presses on until the Sun sets but finally the driver refuses to go on he will not be on this mountain road after dark he tells the young German you could pay us anything we are not going any further

cutter laughs again at these superstitious Transylvanians fine he'll Fine. He'll walk. But as he presses on, a buggy driven by a mysterious cloaked figure and pulled by likewise cloaked horses comes his way. Despite the cloak and a hat, we can see the pale man's deep, set eyes and hook nose. Nor can we miss his dagger-like fingernails. He pulls up to Hutter and points at the cab of his buggy. No words are exchanged as Hutter trustingly climbs inside. The mysterious figure drives his horses at lightning speed and as night falls the film's tint shifts to the negative giving the mysterious driver a pale and ghostly appearance. They arrive at the castle. Hutter looks up to see its tall white stone tower with small carved windows.

Bats flutter all about it, but no time to think. As he exits the buggy, the driver points to the castle sternly, then speeds away. Hutter lumbers toward the gated entrance, only for the doors to fly open before him, all on their own. Dismayed, the trepidatious youth nonetheless advances and soon encounters the man he's come to see, Count Orlok. The Count stands perfectly still and tall in a fine black suit that shows his corpse-like body. Clasping his own bony hands, the Count stares at Hutter through his bushy, shadow-casting eyebrows

and down his hooked nose. Hutter is drawn into his deep-set eyes, and despite his mix of confusion and fear, when the Count points him into the depths of the castle, the young German can do nothing but follow into the depths of the castle. The young German could do nothing but follow into the darkness. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. Welcome, children of the night, to this fourth annual HTDS Halloween special.

This year, we continue our annual tradition of historical horror through creative works by breaking away from the page to experience terror in that new medium enveloping the United States in the 1920s. Yes, the movies. We talked about the development of the motion picture back in episode 162, and now at this haunted time of year, we'll enjoy one of the era's most iconic horror films, Nosferatu.

Now, I realize the film has already begun, but it wouldn't be HTDS if we didn't get a little analytical. So, having just finished act 1 of Nosferatu, yes, the film is divided into acts, we'll take a brief intermission to situate vampires in folklore and literature to better enable us to appreciate the Transylvanian terror to come. We'll also look at the wider landscape of early 20th century silent horror films,

from Georges Méliès' special effects specters to T.A. Edison's Frankenstein, and more, capping our analysis with a look at how post-Great War realities and expressionist art also impacted Nosferatu. And then, we'll be well prepared to return to Transylvania and discover what happens to Herr Thomas Hutter. Loosely speaking, aspects of the vampire have long spanned the globe. Tales of blood-connected, revived, or undead entities range from Scandinavia's Dragoor to a few varieties of goddesses found among various Native American peoples. Meanwhile, the oldest known example comes from a several thousand-year-old Babylonian prayer. That being said, it is in Eastern Europe where Romanian tales of Strigoli conjure up what you and I, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and actually,

according to one 2012 Hollywood film that I trust I don't have to point out is fiction, an axe-wielding undead hunting Abraham Lincoln would best recognize as vampiric. And yet, Romanian folklore has a number of names for these undead bloodsuckers, one being Nosferatu. These creatures of the night became the thrill of every tabloid in the 1730s when word came to London of, quote, certain dead bodies called vampires who killed several persons by sucking out all of their blood, close quote. Indeed, Europe was so bitten, sorry, smitten with the idea of the vampire that famous philosopher and playwright Voltaire wrote in Paris, nothing was spoken of but the vampires. Meanwhile, back in the British capital, terror

gripped Londoners reading and hearing stories from war-torn Serbia of husbands coming back from the dead to brutally attack their families. These stories inspired many a creative mind, particularly as John Polidori, Lord Byron, and Mary Shelley held a fun little horror writing contest with themselves in 1816. Yeah, that contest produced a lot of awesome, but right now, I'm referring specifically to how it culminated in John's book, The Vampire. This gothic tale of a seductive aristocrat with power over both men and women laid the track for the most influential piece of vampire literature to come at the end of the century in 1897 bram stoker's dracula if you've never read it it totally holds up based on collected legends folklore and some history irish author bram stoker tells the ultimate vampire tale

framed primarily around a few characters journal entries, we follow Jonathan Harker to the Transylvanian castle of the vampire, Count Dracula. The Count then uses Jonathan to get himself to London only to then prey on the young professional soon to be bride, Mina. That opening sounds familiar, doesn't it? And not to spoil anything ahead for the uninitiated, but you'll notice more similarities as we continue with today's movie. In other words, as glad as I am that the film survived, it's easy to see why Florence Stoker sued the makers of Nosferatu.

So now that we've got our background on vampires, what's the origin of horror movies? Arguably the United States. I trust you recall from episode 162's Tale of Silent Cinema that Thomas Alva Edison was quite the filmmaking pioneer. Well, on that very same black box set where the Edison boys broke New Jersey law to film heavyweight champion, gentleman Jim Corbett beating Peter Courtney in a boxing match, Edison employees William Heiss and Alfred Clark also filmed Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots in 1895. The short film astonished audiences. They watched Mary get decapitated. Ah, but the male actor depicting the Queen, Robert Tomei, most certainly didn't lose his head. It was just a trick of editing. Special effects pioneer Georges Méliès then took these trick edits to a whole other level.

You might recall this since we caught his film Le Voyage dans la Lune or A Trip to the Moon in episode 162, but this French filmmaker didn't stop there. He flooded America's kinematograph parlors and Nickelodeons with other special effects extravaganzas. Georges depicted the depths of hell in Le Manoir du Diable, or The Devil's Castle. He made what catalogs called the most mystifying of the black art pictures

with The Mysterious Urn. Meanwhile, L'Archimiste Paraphara-Garamus ou L'Arc-Cornu Infernal, released in the US as The Mysterious Retort, was advertised as a, quote, terrifying film in its grotesqueness, close quote. But as the art of film became more complex with changing technology, so did the stories. That's what enabled Edison Studios to release their adaptation of Frankenstein in 1910. To quote the Moving Picture World's review of the film, the formation of the monster in that cauldron of blazing chemicals is a piece of photographic work

which will rank with the best of its kind. Now, one last note before we return to our Germanic film relating the tale of Hutter and his mysterious castle-owning host on how the Great War impacted German art. If you recall episodes 147 and 150 about the aftermath of the Great War, you'll remember that the Weimar Republic that replaced Kaiser Wilhelm's imperial Germany struggled under the heavy economic reparations imposed on it by the Treaty of Versailles. We left off with the German people shocked, angry, and even confused. Well, it was in that environment that two bitter and cynical pacifists, Karl Mayer and Hans Janowitz, turned to angsty and emotion-conveying Expressionism to vent their anger at what they

considered their nation's meaningless loss of life and deceitful wartime leadership. If you're not familiar with Expressionism, this early 20th century originating art movement sought to depict feelings rather than reality in art forms from paintings to dance, and it deeply impacted Karl and Hans as they tapped into post-war German anxieties with their 1920 film An International Sensation, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Following the story of a madman who uses hypnosis to make a brainwashed sleepwalker kill his enemies, what really stands out is the movie's dreamlike jagged sets, mixed with curving lines and deeply contrasted black and white color schemes that pop on the screen,

even with the film's color-changing tints. And so, it was in the wake of Dr. Caligari's success that the theater director termed film director F.W. Murnau decided to retell the story of Bram Stoker's Dracula in Germany with a new vampiric Transylvanian count, Count Orlok. And likewise, Murnau is drawing from expressionism. Think about the descriptions I gave you of the odd, exaggerated, and, yeah, even jagged appearances of Herr Nock, and more importantly, our antagonist, that grim, mungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and gargoyle-like Count Orlok. Moreover, might Nosferatu's tale of an innocent young German who trusts his real estate-dealing

employer only to later learn that his mission will bring death and misery be a nod to the dutiful millions of German youth who died fighting for the Kaiser? Well, I'll just plant that seed. You do with it what you will. And we'll see what other possible nods to the post-Great War world might appear as the film goes on. And with that background, I'd say we're more than ready to enjoy the rest of this silent Germanic vampire film

finally coming to the United States at the tail end of the 1920s. So let's head back into the theater for the duration of this episode and see what's next for Herr Thomas Hutter now that he's inside the castle of the mysterious Count Orlok. History That Doesn't Suck is sponsored by BetterHelp. One of the most haunting screen portrayals of the vampire legend is from the 1922 German silent film Nosferatu. We talked about this film in this year's Halloween special.

Staring at the ghostly black and white image of the pointy-eared, gargoyle-like Count Orlok still sends a shiver down the spine. While writing that episode, I was reminded of how fear is such a powerful emotion. of the pointy-eared, gargoyle-like Count Orlok still sends a shiver down the spine. While writing that episode, I was reminded of how fear is such a powerful emotion. Fear isn't just something we experience while watching a scary movie. There are a lot of things in life that can frighten us, but sometimes we've got to face

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that brought the young German here in the first place. As they sit, one dining, one reading, Hutter warily eyes the Count, whose rat-like spindly figure is only made more pronounced by the dining room's unnaturally thin and tall chairs. The hungry house guest grabs a loaf of bread. As he cuts a slice, a skeletal cuckoo clock chimes midnight. The distraction causes Hutter to accidentally slice his thumb.

As blood seeps out, Count Orlok goes wide-eyed and arises, his clawed hands reaching voraciously for Hutter's thumb. A title card appears. You've hurt yourself. The precious blood. Grabbing Hutter's hand, Count Orlok pulls the bloodied thumb to his mouth, but Hutter, terrified, pulls away.

Unable to escape the Count's gaze, he backs himself toward the fireplace. Towering over Hutter, tall and gangly, Count Orlok simply smiles, then suggests that they sit and talk as if nothing had happened. In this same title card, the Count says, Sunrise is far away, and during the day I have to sleep, my friend. As if in a trance, wide-eyed Hutter sits as ordered. Waking the next morning in the same chair by the fireplace, Hutter stretches and examines his thumb.

He feels something on his neck. Grabbing a hand mirror, he finds two small spots. Wounds, in fact. Huh. He dismisses them as mosquito bites, as we see from a letter he writes to his wife. Unconcerned, Hutter enjoys the starkly empty halls of the castle throughout the day. That night, as the castle returns to its ghostly, shadowy condition, the young German with flowing locks finds himself back with Count Orlok. As Hutter rummages through his things to grab needed papers, a portrait miniature of his

wife Ellen spills onto the table. The Count's large eyes lock onto it. He sweeps it up, pulling it close, mesmerized. A title card appears. Your wife has a beautiful neck. Suddenly, Count Orlok snatches a pen and signs the papers to close the real estate transaction, saying, I am buying the house. That fine, deserted house. The one across from yours. Potter snatches up the paperwork.

Back in his room, the young German rifles through his bag, finding the book he took from the inn. It warns him that, at night, Nosferatu drinks blood to, quote, beware so that his shadow cannot burden your sleep with horrible nightmares. Close quote. With his reading interrupted by the skeletal cuckoo clock shining midnight, Hutter is now too scared to dismiss superstition. He goes to the door and flings it open only to find the sunken and pale-faced Count standing motionless at the end of the hall and staring straight at him.

Hutter slams the door. He runs to his window for escape, but the fall from such a precipice would surely kill him. He dives onto his bed, like a child trying to escape an imagined monster, just as the door swings open all on its own. Then, slowly, Count Orlok enters. Framed by the entryway, the dark undead figure's wide eyes gaze at Hutter, who can do nothing but hide beneath the covers

as the Count draws ever closer. The scene cuts to Wiesburg, Germany, where, at the very same moment, Ellen awakens in a trance. She walks to the terrace just off her room, arms outstretched, then climbs atop the banister and steps along it, seemingly guided by an unseen force.

Ellen's friend, Harding, emerges, saving her just before she falls. He calls for a doctor. Back at the Transylvanian castle, Hutter lies unconscious as the Count's shadow creeps over him. As the silhouette of undead, claw-like hands descend toward him. In Visburg, Ellen awakens, springing forward shouting, Hutter!

We cut again to the castle where the blood-lusting Count stops and looks back as if he heard Ellen. Did he? Can he see Ellen despite the 1,500 miles between them? We don't know for sure, but the Count leaves the room, drawing the door closed behind him with the same unseen force he used to open it. Potter springs awake in the morning and begins to investigate.

Descending into the depths of the castle, he finds a coffin. Peering through its rotten wood, he sees Count Orlok. Oh God, the legends are true. Hutter flings the lid off, exposing the ghastly corpse-like figure lying wide-eyed and motionless. Back in his room at the castle that evening, Hutter looks out the window. He sees Count Orlok moving at an unnatural speed, loading six coffins onto a horse-drawn cart. The Count climbs into the last coffin. The lid then rises into the air, placing itself on the occupied coffin,

only for the driverless cart to speed away. Hutter is terrified, but left alone and realizing he sent a monster to Visborg. He knows what he must do. Get back home. Get back to Ellen. Tearing the bed linens into a rope, Hutter descends out of the window

as far as he can before dropping. But when he lets go and falls, he's knocked unconscious. Meanwhile, a raft transports the six coffins along a river. The raftsmen have no idea what horror lies within their cargo as they unwittingly facilitate the first leg of the Count's journey to the doomed town of Visburg. The faster money and data move,

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and only make left turns where it's safe to do so. Be alert, be aware, and stay safe. Senseless and hospitalized, Hutter is recovering from his fall. Meanwhile, Orlok and the coffins are loaded onto a double-masted schooner, the Impusa. The order for delivery to Weisberg states that the coffins are filled with dirt for experiments, but when the crew opens one, they find it filled with dirt and rats, interpreted by some critics as a symbolic representation of the early 1920s post-war fears of disease and immigration. But regardless of the scene's interpretation, the Impusa sets sail that very night. Revived and recovering, Hutter declares,

I must be away, on the shortest path home. But the schooner is already afloat and sailing quickly. Back in Wiesburg, Hutter's employer, Hernock, has gone mad. Sent to an asylum, he eats flies and spiders and declares, blood is life. The now insane real estate broker smiles upon reading in a newspaper that a plague epidemic has spread throughout Transylvania and along the ports of the Black Sea,

with young people dying and always with the same scars on their necks. We're introduced to Weisberg Professor Bollver as he shows his students the Venus flytrap. They watch as this flying spider-devouring plant feeds and compares this dirt-rooted predator to a vampire. Meanwhile, Ellen sits at the beach, longing for Hutter as he recovers and leaves the hospital. But on board the Impusa, the same plague mentioned in the newspaper seems to have struck as a sailor informs

the thickly mutton-chopped captain that a crewman has fallen ill. They tuck him into his hammock. As night falls, and the film again takes on that putrid green tint, the sixth sailor looks up to see a ghostly figure starting to appear out of nowhere. It's the taloned and rat-toothed figure of Count Orlok. Is the sailor experiencing illness or monster-inflicted madness? It doesn't matter. Either way, one by one, the sailors fall victim to that plague.

With only the captain and the first mate left to toss another body overboard, it's time for action. The first mate grabs a hatchet and tells the frazzled-haired captain, I'm going below. If I'm not back in ten minutes, he can't finish. But the captain knows. Now down in the hold, the courageous seaman stumbles over to a coffin and strikes it with a hatchet.

Rats spill out. He tries to kill them, but then a figure rises from the corner. Stiff, mechanical, inhuman, Count Orlok rises with his yet longer claws and teeth barred. Terrified, the first mate dashes up on deck. The Count reaches for him. The sailor stumbles. The captain looks and sees the man's horrified expression, but from what? Ah, the Count is somehow invisible to him. Meanwhile, the First Mate continues to stumble backward, mounting the railing even. Then, suddenly, he falls overboard.

The Captain stands in shock, yet realizes there is something he cannot perceive. The mutton-chopped seaman grabs a rope and lashes himself to the ship's wheel. But with night falling, he appears to have only played into the talon-like hands of Count Orlok, who slowly walks toward the tied-down captain. The seasoned sailor's eyes tell us that he now sees the Count and his own doom, which is confirmed as the film cuts to a title card declaring, the Death Ship has a new captain. Now, our cast of characters are set to converge. At home and in another trance,

Ellen declares to her sister, I must go to him. He is coming. Institutionalized, Herr Nock declares, The master is close, as he attacks a caretaker and escapes. Meanwhile, our hero and villain are arriving. As the ship and its dead captain drift into port,

Count Orlok sneaks off the vessel, leaving behind dozens of rats while he carries his coffin to his new home. But Hutter's stagecoach gets him to town just in time to stop his entranced wife from going to the arms of the Count. The following day, officials board the death ship. They find the captain's lifeless body, rats, and the ship's log describing the plague. A town crier warns all of Visburg's citizens to stay in their homes. As Visburg reels from the plague, Ellen finds Hutter's book on vampires and discovers a passage stating that it may be that a woman without sin can make the vampire

forget the crowing of the cock. Would she give him freely of her own blood? Looking out their window, Ellen cries, telling her husband that she sees Count Orlok in the building across from them every night. Hutter is despondent, with no plan and no hope.

The days and nights come and go, but death, it seems, only comes. Ellen watches as mournful townsfolk carry a line of coffins down the street. Distressed, she thinks again on the book's passage about a sinless woman's power to sacrifice herself and end a vampire. As she does, desperate townsfolk mob and attack Herr Nock,

mistaking him as the culprit of their suffering rather than realizing he is but another victim of the actual undead predator. It's now late at night. Wide-eyed Count Orlok looks across the way from his home toward the Hutters. Uncontrollably, Ellen springs from her bed, forced to her own window. While Hutter sleeps in a nearby chair,

Ellen and the Count stare at one another through their respective windows. Count Orlok then appears at the Hutter's gate. It opens on its own as Ellen collapses back into bed. Now awake, Hutter rushes to get Professor Bolver. But as he does, we watch one of the movie's most iconic scenes. The tall shadow of Orlok's clawed, inhuman figure ascending the stairs. We watch as the shadow of the Count's hand stretches into Ellen's room. The dark-haired beauty staggers back to the bed, where the

claw-like shadow reaches onward, casting itself over her breast, seemingly seizing her heart with some unnatural force. She's done for. The Count bends down and sinks his fangs into Ellen's innocent flesh, drinking deeply from her blood. A few scene cuts tell us time is passing. Hutter wakes the professor. Herr Nock is captured by the authorities. Meanwhile, the film's green tint conveying night is fading. Yes, a cock crows and we see

the horror now registering on Count Orlok's face as he realizes that he's drunk from Ellen's neck too long. The morning has come. The Count is caught in the sunlight, cascading through the window and into the room. With one clawed hand clutching his own breast,

the other raised to the sky, the Count draws his last breaths, then disappears as if wiped from the world with only a puff of smoke remaining. It's an amazing special effect. And lest we doubt what's happened, the scene cuts to Herr Nock, whose supernatural connection to the Count

leads him to declare, the master is dead. Ellen awakens. She's trance-like, yet smiles, knowing that the Count is dead. She calls out, Hutter. Just arriving with the Professor,

Hutter runs to his wife. They share a brief embrace, finally free of the Count's dark force, only for her to collapse in his arms and die." Yes, as foretold in the book, the sinless woman did indeed kill the undead, but it required her own selfless sacrifice. It appears we just witnessed an early version of the future horror trope known as The Final

Girl. Hutter holds Ellen's lifeless body as the Professor breaks the fourth wall by mournfully looking at us. The final title card tells us that, The wonder truly happened. The great death ended the same hour and before the triumphant rays of the living sun, the darkness of the death bird was blown away. Yes, the terror of Visburg is over, and a final cut to the ruins of the now dilapidated Transylvanian castle further

confirms that this Nosferatu is no more. But with all the death in Visburg, including Ellen, this provides us a complete, yet far from happy ending. Greg Jackson, and Count Will Keene. Production by Airship. Sound design by Molly Bott. Theme music composed by Greg Jackson. Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham of Airship. For a bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit HTVSPodcast.com. HTVS is supported by premium membership fans. You can join by clicking the link in the episode description. My gratitude to you kind souls providing additional funding to help us keep going.

And a special thanks to our members, whose monthly gift puts them at producer status. Andy Thompson. Anthony Pizzulo. Art Lane. Beth Chris Jansen. Bob Drazovich. Brian Goodson. Bronwyn Cohen.

Carrie Beggle. Charles and Shirley Clendenden. Charlie Magis. Chloe Tripp. Christopher Merchant. Christopher Pullman. David DeFazio. David Rifkin.

Denki. Durante Spencer. Donald Moore. Donna Marie Jeffcoat. Ellen Stewart. Bernie Lowe. George Sherwood. Thank you. John Oliveros, John Radlavich, John Schaefer, John Sheff, Jordan Corbett, Joshua Steiner, Justin M. Spriggs, Justin May, Kristen Pratt, Karen Bartholomew, Cassie Koneko, Kim R., Kyle Decker, Lawrence Neubauer, Linda Cunningham, Mark Ellis, Matthew Mitchell, Matthew Simmons, Melanie Jan, Nick Seconder, Nick Caffrell, Noah Hoff, Owen Sedlak, Paul Goeringer, Randy Guffrey, Reese Humphries-Wadsworth, Rick Brown, Sarah Trawick, Samuel Lagasa, Sharon Thiesen, Sean Baines, Steve Williams, Creepy Girl, Tisha Black, and Zach Jackson. And the creators of the popular science show with millions of YouTube subscribers comes the MinuteEarth podcast. Every episode of the show dives deep into a science question you might not even know you had. But once you hear the answer, you'll want to share it with everyone you know.

Why do rivers curve? Why did the T-Rex have such tiny arms? And why do so many more kids need glasses now than they used to? Spoiler alert, it isn't screen time. Our team of scientists digs into the research and breaks it down into a short, entertaining explanation jam-packed with science facts and terrible puns. Subscribe to MinuteEarth wherever you like to listen.