Cleansing the doors of cinematic perception since 2006, or earlater

Wednesday, March 02, 2016

The Goat of Menses and the Fox in the Atheist-Hole: THE WITCH

Shrouded in portentous gloom and ominous droning electric cello, THE WITCH (2015) is the first great woodsy pre-Salem devil film in 300 years, a SHINING for the ANTICHRIST x BLOOD ON SATAN'S CLAW subdivision of the HAXAN community (with a dash of the recent HONEYMOON if you're keeping track). Set in 1630s New England on a small patch of farm and field surrounded by deep (if leafless) woods, it's a character piece that delves into the same dark patch of the soul that many witch and devil movies make feints at but then run away from, i.e. the actual dark superstitions and folk tales, court records, and the twisted folk horror stories of zonked-out American mystics like Hawthorne, Poe and Ambrose Bierce. First time-writer/director Robert Eggers has a unique flair for the milieu--everything feels authentic including the natural lighting (candles and fires), and thin grey light at early evening's onset in the deep quiet woods. He makes the simplicity of the narrative work by being straightforward with both the paranoia and the reality. Not unlike ROSEMARY'S BABY, THE wITCH functions on both conscious and unconscious levels; it's an historical look at repressed female psychic energy under dogmatic patriarchy and the validation of that patriarchy's overwrought fear of the dark.

Anya Taylor-Joy stars as Thomasin (above, amidst deepdreamgenerator pareidolia), a naif to the menstrual age, who prays valiantly for deliverance from sinful thoughts but nonetheless falls prey to shady woodsy pagan strangeness, especially once the baby disappears on her watch. Kate Dickie, brilliantly unhinged, is the salt of the earth mom slowly dissolving into the dirt from the loss; the loving yet ineffectual dad (the nicely deep-voiced Ralph Ineson) can do nothing but try and fail and shy away from all blame; the son, Caleb (Harvey Scrimshaw), is the sacrificial Barleycorn offering of a young lad starting--since there are no other options--to lust for his developing sister. Running rings around them all are moppet evil twins and a strapping horned goat named Black Phillip, possibly the embodiment of Goat of Mendes i.e. Baphomet or maybe just a buck in heat or in the early stages of rabies. Somehow that crazy goat steals the show and miraculously never seems CGI fake or badly cut-in to appear to not be doing naturally the eerie stuff he's up to. There's also a rabbit and a raven, filmed in such a thin grey light we feel the ominous ambivalence in their empty eye that they might remind you of being a small child terrified by some animal you'd consider harmless once you grew to full size, but as a tyke wandering the creek at a picnic, a territorial goose can come at you like a Harryhausen scorpion, chase you clear across the street--as happened to me. That THE WITCH conjures such tremulous memories via just showing a frickin' hare just sitting there in the deep dusky woods--staring at us out of the corner of its all seeing ambivalent monster eye--speaks to the film's unholy power.

Above and beyond the naturalistic approach to horror and steady relentless camera movement, THE WITCH evokes THE SHINING in its deft maneuvering through the forest between sane rational perceptions (when you know it's real), hallucination (which is when you know it's not real but still see it), and madness (when you don't know which is which). Rather than go the 'lascivious magistrate condemning innocent hotties to the pyre' route, or the 'witch vowing revenge on her tormentor's descendants' (or both), Eggers take the period Salem road seldom before traveled, as it turns out, in film, almost  because it's too direct. Ancient superstition/folklore is here visualized in a straightforward narrative wherein some unnamable ancient power proves too strong for a weak patriarch to confront when isolated from his community's fort, leaving his family spiritually vulnerable as well as physically and mentally. That it's set in a time before rational western objectivity existed helps explains its power, because it sticks to that time's frame with admirable focus --you genuinely feel there isn't an electric light for miles and centuries, and you desperately want one, because darkness all the time eventually becomes things. If you've ever seen things move in the distance when it's getting dark and you're too far away to turn on the light or not ready to go inside, and the things in the distance do actually look like they're moving, and even knowing consciously they aren't doesn't stop you from seeing them move, you'll be like damn, THE WITCH gets that right. What's weird is that not even THE SHINING figured that trick out. This is the first damn time.

So see the movie and understand at last why patriarchal science and religion are both such hardheaded dicks and why Christian zealotry has never not been on the rise and women are always considered a zone outside of western rational objectivity; yet only a few times over the years have beautiful women visions materialized out of the darkness of the woods or gleam of the bathtub to seduce hapless men; irresistible a warm slug of whiskey in an unfriendly wilderness, our willpower too far shot,  we lower our lips towards their hearth and then suddenly these figures grab onto us as if with clawed tentacles and thorny paws and in the mirror we see for the first time that actually they are not hot and young at all, but decomposing and very old. You've been tricked, son of Adam! The distance of time between that first kiss, the wedding bells, funeral chimes, cold ground worms boring through rotten pine box walls collapses into a single Donald Sutherland gasp.

This powerful motif, the 'young-old predatory woman' reflects the tradition of the sidpa bardo in the Tibetan Book of the Dead, the level of purgatory where you see and notice only undulating lovers like flames in an otherwise all-consuming darkness. If you let yourself be drawn too close to them you run the risk of finding yourself stuck like a fly in the frozen web of the woman's newly-fertilized embryo, like being sucked over a waterfall. Then devouring demon rock below shred your current construct of self into a million pieces, until only the core I AM remains, trapped in that sticky embryonic web- and soon you've forgotten you were ever anywhere else-- the 'you' you believed yourself to be is shaved away like your hippie hair under the electric razor of a FULL METAL JACKET barber. All that's left is unpartitioned, wiped-clean hard drive consciousness, all ready to be filled again.

On the other hand, how 'new' are the files going to be, really?

But big question isn't that. What you want to know--what everyone's wondering--is is THE WITCH really scary? No. But I'm glad the Satanists like it. (1) They need a LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST to call their own. As far as dredging up and biting down on the BLAIR WITCH primordial fear cortex, though, maybe if you came to it thinking it was just going to be another low budget horror movie at another indie festival, you'd be floored by its clarity of focus and freedom from all the tired tropes we're used to. And sometimes a movie just has to be better at what it's doing than 95% of all the other movies that do it too. It's good enough that it will make you want to dust off some of the other classics in your library: THE DEVIL'S RAIN, maybe, then DEVIL RIDES OUT, maybe, RACE WITH THE DEVIL, definitely. Why definitely? It's set in the USA, and North America is where the devil never left. The tribes, the entheogens, the art; the wendigos called into existence by long dead tribal shamen to wreak vengeance on the progeny of some long dead, cruel cavalry officer; the Ouija-summoned demons still loafing around dusty basement air hockey tables and candle-wax covered wooden planks, never sent back by the kids too freaked out at their floating planget to say goodbye; the demons speaking backwards through heavy metal music lyrics to impressionable teens who huff meth when mom's at work. We here in the States know what it is to be frothing at the mouth and running naked in the woods after one toke of jimson weed or a PCP-laced cigarette. We know too--from waaay back in the 15th century--what it is to be hungry and afraid and lost in woods so dark and weird they've yet even to be on any map; we know what it is to see things we have no name for ywr, and so have to invent our own, even if we were 60% sure what we saw was just a shadow twisted into life by fear and hunger. That's why calling yourself a starving artist is almost a redundancy. As the brain gradually runs out of fuel it short circuits the electric fence circling our inner infernal pit. Man's natural condition is maybe to be insane on hunger and psychoactive side effects from when--in starving desperation--we ate whatever leaves or roots we found within reach of our trembling, emaciated pilgrim claws. Ask any ghost show on TV and they'll tell you... right after the break. Paint this wagon! Huff the paint first, in a closed and crowded room. See a red door and want to paint it black.

I well know too well that condition, and also the profound sense of deliverance prayer offers to the terrified woods-dweller. When I was around 14 I spent a summer at a Presbyterian summer camp in the woods of Maryland, and all it took was one mention of local devil creature 'the Goatman' crunching around in the leaves outside our 'hogan' the night before and he became our collective obsession for the entire rest of the trip. The crunching leaves at night news spread from fire to fire until the whole camp was infected with Goat Man fever and the counsellors thought we were all crazy. Our terror-fueled whistling in the dark at night led to sleepless prayers, first light of dawn gratitude, afternoon boasting how we weren't scared really. The arts and crafts room became a goat man shrine. We all slept with our bibles. By day we all laughed --me more than anyone-- but late at night after the fire had gone out we weren't laughing or even mentioning the Goatman in anything but a terse whisper. We prayed instead and--as we sang around the campfire the "One Tin Soldier" / Godspell repertoire at night--grateful transcendent tears would stream down our faces.

We were delivered.

Neither the religion nor terror lasted beyond the end of our two-week stay (needless to say, there were no actual Goatman murders, tracks, or even glimpses), but I thought of those Maryland woods after seeing BLAIR WITCH and again after mulling over THE WITCH. There's other weird things that it seems to dredge up to me, personally: the mom, played by Kate Dickie, looks an awful lot like my own mom (Nancy), who died last February. She used to volunteer at the local 4H goat farm. Shortly after she died they named a newborn goat 'Nancy' in her honor There's a goat in THE WITCH, too. That's three distinct goat references connecting me, mom and America. Furthermore, as the onscreen mom went crazier and crazier onscreen I kept marveling at my own mom, a victim of the destructive dogma of her own cult religion, Christian Science. If she'd gone to a NYC doctor she'd still be alive today, via the miracle of digitalis, which is derived from foxglove, and there's no atheist in a foxhole, which is why God made war and why the fox in ANTICHRIST says "chaos reigns" because a fox in an atheist hole is just another word for the devil. Maybe. On the other hand it could be just the very painting of my fear, to paraphrase Lady Macbeth. 

My mom's religion denies medicine, but for me, well, I take so much medicine I'm back around behind what I was afraid of confronting, so I can see myself and how scared I look. It's not normal, but what is? I am called to the poison path by some witchy gene deep inside me (I'm a descendent of Mary Eastey but on my father's mother's mother's side). Unlike my mom, I believe god dwells in medicinal herbs and tonics. I know that, with the right forest flower, fungus and/or toad enzyme I can seek council from powerful inner guides and fly around the ceiling over my prostrate body. I've done it. That I leave my body behind me during these astral travels is irrelevant, it's still valid, it's not 'cheating' to just bring your astral plane --I'm still flying like a witch on a broom. 

Without the physical aspect of course, there's no proof. The evidence is purely subjective and when subjective description reigns over empirical evidence, western thought breaks down and shows its armor chinks. Lick the right toad, smoke the right flower, chant the right chant for long enough, drink a tea from the right root, eat the right mushroom, or do some combo of them, all in the right measure and at the right moment in your life, in the right company (or alone) --and thou will see far beyond the narrow sliver of the spectrum your senses normally access. You can travel beyond time and space, as sure as you're "born." 

Science can only watch on the dock and say, "that's nice, Erich, but it proves nothing." Habeus Corpus. If you want mom to watch you dive, you have to bring your body to the board.

On the other hand, eat the wrong mushroom or root (or even too much of the right one) and you're dead, which is also a way of moving beyond time and space, but then you'll never even know for sure you went anywhere as you'll have no place to come back to. So, if you're ever empirically dead or just astral traveling, remember: the devil only notices you, only singles you out of the crowd for special abuse and treatment-- if your soul's pure, white and shiny. A little dirt-stain sin is the best camouflage against the shop class bullies, mom, so wash me not, and don't bleat a word to me about my both-ends candle-burning, especially considering your own painfully unmedicated and preventable death. Dying to the sound of prayer is one thing, but refusing yourself the solace of a hospice-strength morphine-benzo cocktail to ease the transition? Mom, in my book, that's heresy. ++
1. I should preface by saying there is no such thing as an 'official' church of Satan; it's not organized enough. Anton LaVey was a genius self-promoter who saw a void and filled it with the C. of S. but he was just a (self-professed, which is why I like him) carny charlatan with a love of whiskey, circus memorabilia  and mannequins. As Aliestar Crowley himself said:
The Devil does not exist. It is a false name invented by the Black Brothers to imply a Unity in their ignorant muddle of dispersions. A devil who had unity would be a God … ‘The Devil’ is, historically, the God of any people that one personally dislikes …
 But devil worship needed a face, for the media to dislike; LaVey knew it, and cannily filled it. 

2. By the same token, fans of HP Lovecraft roll our many eyes when someone mentions seeing a copy of the real Necronomicon, for there is no such book --or wasn't when Lovecraft first mentioned it within his 30s pulp stories (and his fellow Weird Tales writers used it too, like a telephone game chain letter). BUT weirder things have happened, like the Nazi-run Thule Society believing Bulwer-Lytton's Vrill: The Coming Race or Dianetics by L. Ron Hubbard.

Tammy Grimes (Horror at 37,000 Feet) 

Acid's Greatest Horror #1: ANTICHRIST 

Katherine Ross - The Legacy
Give me My Skin! BLOOD ON SATAN'S CLAW and the Devil Films of the 70s (David Del Valle)

1 comment:

  1. I had a pet goat when i was in high school. I used to ride around with him in the passenger seat of my 66 Comet four door. His name was Nad. I liked him precisely because he made people uncomfortable. He wasn't like a dog or a real pet; he couldn't care less if I lived or died. He was just a weanling kid when I got him. At about six months, he started trying to have his way with my six year old half sister, chasing her around and tackling her, then "peeing" on her. My father got rid of the goat then, and I am sure he made for tough bbq or chili somewhere over the tracks. Have you gone to visit your mother's namesake yet? I liked this movie. Wasn't crazy about it, but all the pieces looked great, and I keep thinking about it, days later. Those twins, ugh, straight out of The Brood. The boy's deathbed ecstasy took my breath away. All of the actors looked like they actually lived there. It was so claustrophobic that I felt like I was in their tableau. Good Randy Newman use above.


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