As is tradition, whenever a hot new genre film hits the scene, fans can’t help but pit the two cinematic marvels against each other and debate which one is better. Those two films of the moment, at least as far as horror is concerned, are Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu and Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein.

Instead of giving in to that cinephile debate-bro impulse, fans should take a “holy shit, two cakes” approach to the phenomenon of getting two remarkable remakes of classic horror cinema practically back-to-back. After all, why should two icons be compared when they are, in fact, the best organic outcome of that lofty shared dark universe properties initiative that never got off the ground? To scope out where this is going, the secret to their success was that they emanated self-respect, treating themselves as art rather than a play for established intellectual property (even though they are, at the end of the day, both distant franchise “cousins”). They stood ten toes down on creative vision, uncompromising freedom, and a tight script—things that feel old hat nowadays and should be celebrated for it.

So let’s do that. I’ll start.

The Problem With How Contemporary Pop Culture Films Are Made

The film industry, as we know it, has gone pop culture crazy, mimicking the decades-long release calendar rollercoaster of box-office success that Marvel and the DC Universe had every studio exec fiending to jerry-rig with whatever intellectual properties they had in the cut. But the problem with that, as many comic book fans who cry superhero fatigue have reckoned with, is how artless the whole rigmarole has come to feel. Like a Fortnite-ification of cinema, properties have been treated like toys in a grander toy box, where the exercise of mashing them together would be bound to pack theaters and stuff pockets. Space Jam 2 did it and was a giant airball. The Monsterverse Godzilla and King Kong movies (while a fun exception) are doing it.

And now, in the wake of ever-expanding, interconnected comic book universes, everything is turning into studios champing at the bit to weaponize nostalgia into films that are films in name only: They’re feature-length advertisements. Take the lineup of films Mattel, hot off Barbie, is planning to make, including:

• American Girl Dolls
• Bob the Builder
• Hot Wheels
• Magic 8 Ball
• Masters of the Universe
• Matchbox Cars
• Monopoly
• Polly Pocket
• Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots
• Uno
• View-Master

Suppose it’s not making toys into feature-length movies that punch above their weight at a poignant theme without ever actually saying anything. In that case, it’s legacy sequels that ultimately wind up doing the same thing—jingling referential keys in fans’ faces—to justify their existence. And yes, all those bargain bin horror reimaginings of childhood characters no one asked for, like Winnie the Pooh and Steamboat Willie, are a short walk from the same artless trough of movies I’m griping about.

Somewhere along the way, in chasing the dragon of Marvel and DC success, product placement—whether literal or the symbol of a broader brand—became film fodder. And it sucks that the same, now-dated commodification impulse to appease audiences is still in effect today—despite repeated failed attempts along the way. To bring things back to Nosferatu and Frankenstein, take the “Dark Universe,” for example. This cinematic universe combusted before it even got off the runway. A would-be film universe that would’ve combined the canceled Bill Condon’s Bride of Frankenstein, Tom Cruise’s The Mummy, and a Johnny Depp-led The Invisible Man. Now, whenever the phrase “Dark Universe” is uttered, it’s immediately followed by jokes about what went wrong in blogs and YouTube videos. The answer is pretty obvious: they were a backward way of making films as products rather than art, and, hoisted by their own petard, they failed before seeing the light of day.

Whether it’s the Dark Universe or the endless stream of movie announcements that will flood the internet long after this blog is posted—leaving readers scratching their heads about why it’s being made into a film before the inevitable dollar sign pops into view—all of these contemporary films end up following the same track. Too often, movies don’t feel like they’re allowed to simply be movies anymore.

Of course, the success stories in this regard are still chugging along. Marvel films are announced like Moses descending from Mount Sinai at comic conventions, with a slate of logos and concept art (but no script). They cart out hot actors or directors riding the momentum of a newly released genre film during award season, assume notoriety will guarantee greatness, and then staple them onto projects—gesturing to the past as an assurance of future success under their banner.

Sometimes, they never even materialize. Other times, their creation-by-committee approach to art just doesn’t hit for layman audiences. But rather than blame the studios for their helicopter-parent planning and meddling, the same actors’ and directors’ faces are plastered across thumbnails as patsies for their Sisyphean failures.

Frankenstein and Nosferatu‘s Successes Should Be the Blueprint

Nosferatu and Frankenstein, despite being remakes and adaptations themselves, feel so novel because they weren’t made as content meant to linger in the catalogue of a streamer. They were made as films. You can see the craft patched into every frame. Be it the use of miniatures, insistence on period piece accuracy, or its creator’s disdain for the buzzword du jour of Hollywood: AI. Decisions, both big and small, are night-and-day evidence to audiences that Nosferatu and Frankenstein are films cut from a different cloth—hence the ongoing online debate over which is the best—because their status as films that prioritize craft over commodity is undeniable.

Sure, their late-fall/Christmas releases lend credence to points of comparison. Their shared promoting of the film in a way that doesn’t give the whole game away from frame one of its trailers is another shared quality they have—a vibe that most other films can’t seem to shake, being unsure of themselves by giving the whole game away, spoilers or no, to get butts in seats. Instead, both films teased the familiar monster characters without leaning too hard into their mythic tropes. But what’s got everyone so gung-ho on these films is that they feel like something to chew and stew on as pieces of art, to rewatch and arrive at new meaning, rather than something meant to be passively watched by as many people as possible, made with signals that are so homogenized and samey that they feel more like laminated cinematic experiences in comparison to the visual and thematic tactility of Frankenstein and Nosferatu.

And who can blame fans for turning these films into their personalities? Eggers’ Nosferatu thrives in the macabre, combining gothic atmosphere with sexual repression, turning the story into a meditation on acceptance, reconciliation, and redemption. On the flip side, del Toro’s Frankenstein distills horror into something deeply relatable: generational trauma and the burden of ending cycles of abuse. Those are incredible feats for both films to achieve, elevating them from mere remakes to statement pieces in their own rights, with messages that are still on the audience’s minds to this day.

Because of these reasons, Nosferatu and Frankenstein shouldn’t be pitted against each other in some gladiatorial “pick one” scenario. They should be celebrated together. Both works went for it. Both embody freedom, creation, and artistry as films. They should be the blueprint for how pop culture films should be made. By that same token, we shouldn’t look to these directors to helm new film adaptations. They should inspire Hollywood to take a chance on hungry creatives to make future horror film adaptations of their ilk—a Carmilla, The Picture of Dorian Gray, or a Phantom of the Opera—that embrace that same boldness Eggers and del Toro were allowed to display—not off their tenure as creatives, but as a means of making films that strive to be resonant rather than commercial. Horror films often get shafted in the court of “serious” film discussion and awards circles, dismissed as disposable, but these prove they can be beacons for new voices. We can have it all.

Nosferatu and Frankenstein should be cold water to the face of Hollywood—a reminder that creatives must be allowed to create, not forced into monotonous cycles of rehash and reheat in a desperate attempt to capture lightning twice. These films prove that remakes of classic horror, when freed from rights-holding obligations and the keep-the-car-warm navel-gazing of blockbuster logic, can feel inspired and moving rather than exhausted.

Upcoming works like Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Bride! and Eggers’ own Werwulf promise to carry that momentum forward, treating monster movies as art instead of content. That’s the lesson here: celebrate them not as rivals, but as reminders that films should be allowed to be films. Not just numbers ticking upward, not just filler for a streaming catalogue, but works that feel tapped in—works that let the freak flag fly, unapologetically, and remind us why even pop culture films matter.

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