80 Culture The EconomistFebruary 26th 2022
The birth of the undeadOut for the count
O
ne hundredyears ago, in March 1922,
the first major film adaptation of Bram
Stoker’s “Dracula” had its premiere in Ber
lin. Not that it was called “Dracula”. The
filmmakers hadn’t asked for permission
to adapt the famous vampire novel of 1897,
so they changed the characters’ names.
Jonathan Harker, the estate agent who ven
tures to Transylvania, was renamed Thom
as Hutter (and played by Gustav von Wan
genheim). Harker’s fiancée, Mina, became
Hutter’s wife Ellen (Greta Schröder). Count
Dracula is Count Orlok (Max Schreck). And
the film, directed by F.W. Murnau, luxuriat
ed in the shiverinducing title “Nosferatu:
A Symphony of Horror”.
No one was fooled. Stoker’s dogged
widow, Florence, sued the producers for
copyright infringement, and the courts
ordered all copies of the film and negatives
to be destroyed. If it weren’t for a stray
print that turned up in Paris, one of the
masterpieces of Weimar cinema would
have been lost for ever. (Today viewers can
stream it on Shudder, a service dedicated to
horror and thriller titles.)
A century on, “Nosferatu” is still re
vered for its experimental techniques—
shooting on rugged locations as well as in astudio; using stopmotion animation and
fastmotion footage—and for the glut of
horrormovie conventions it established.
The film includes villagers in a tavern who
warn the hero not to proceed, and the con
ceit that vampires are burnt to ash by sun
light. It is the archetypal “Dracula” film.
And yet its most strikingly modern aspects
are those that leave Stoker’s novel behind.
One departure from the source material
is that when Orlok travels from Transylva
nia to Germany, he brings along a swarm of
plaguecarrying rats. Crosses are chalked
on doors in the fictional town of Wisborg; a
line of coffins is carried down the main
street. After the influenza epidemic that
began in 1918, these images would have
chilled audiences as much as did the grisly
count. They remain chilling today.
Another change is the omission of Stok
er’s macho band of vampireslayers. While
the men in “Nosferatu” bustle around,
achieving nothing, it is Ellen who consults
a book of undead lore, against her hus
band’s instructions, and she who sacrifices
herself to defeat Orlok and save the town.
Ellen even shoos the useless Hutter out of
the house so he won’t get wind of her plan.
The producer, Albin Grau, wrote an arti
cle in 1921 describing the first world war as
a “cosmic vampire”, and some critics see
“Nosferatu” as a response to the wartime
slaughter that helped push women into the
workplace. Whatever the reason for Ellen’s
courage, this feminist twist on Stoker’s
story established another horrormovie
staple—the woman who deals with a hei
nous villain singlehandedly.
Think of Ridley Scott’s interstellar vam
pire film “Alien” (1979). After the male crew
members unwittingly invite a toothy pred
ator into their spaceship, ignoring the ob
jections of Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), it is
up to her to destroy the thing herself. It
may be a coincidence that Ripley’s first
name is Ellen, too. But these two heroines,
decades apart, are united by a core belief:
monsterhunting is women’s work.nAs “Nosferatu” shows, killing monsters
has always been a job for womenhome
entertainmentThe Nixon presidencyWatchdog barking
F
ifty years ago this month, Richard
Nixon embarked on his historic trip to
China. Nixon loved planning it, recalls
Dwight Chapin, an aide who helped pre
pare the visit. Mr Chapin’s ghostwritten
memoir captures the excitement of the
mission, as well as his awe at the presi
dent’s strategic vision. “We are going to
China”, Nixon said at the time, “because in
50 years we will be adversaries and we
must be able to talk to one another.”
Those were heady days for Mr Chapin,
brought up on a farm in Kansas and now
witnessing greatpower politics, being
served duck brain at a banquet with Zhou
Enlai and, at just 30, impressing the Chi
nese premier with his youth. Thanks to his
loyalty and organisational flair, he had
progressed from working as an advance
man on Nixon’s failed bid for California’s
governorship in 1962 to occupying an office
next to the president’s. His secretservice
codename was “Watchdog”. As Nixon’s ap
pointments secretary, he kept his daily
schedule, “working with five of the most
impressive words in the English language:
‘The White House is calling’.”
After China came Russia. Mr Chapin
helped organise the first trip by an Ameri
can president to Moscow, where Nixon
signed the Strategic Arms Limitation Trea
ty and his aide found himself admiring the
beauty of the American ambassador’s resi
dence. Mr Chapin began to harbour plausi
ble thoughts of himself one day becoming
an ambassador in a place like this.
Then it all came crashing down. In De
cember 1972 Mr Chapin was abruptly fired
from the White House in an effort to kill a
growing scandal. He would become the
first official to be indicted—on four counts
of perjury—in the Watergate affair. As he is
at pains to point out, he had nothing to do
with the burglary at the Watergate building
and played no part in its coverup. But he
had hired a former college roommate to
carry out dirty tricks on Democrats (he
calls them “political pranks”), at the sug
gestion of Nixon and Mr Chapin’s mentor,
the chief of staff, Bob Haldeman. A court
decided he had lied about the shenanigans
to a grand jury. He spent nine months in
Lompoc penitentiary in California.
Looking back, Mr Chapin has no re
grets. He considers himself to have been a
political prisoner, the victim of a campaignThe President’s Man.By Dwight Chapin.
William Morrow; 480 pages; $29.99 and £20