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Deep dive – The history of folk horror in cinema

Robin Hardy’s THE WICKER MAN (1973). Courtesy: Rialto Pictures/ Studiocanal

The lens of folk cinema captures the evil beneath the soil that haunts the land and infects those who rebel against it. Those unfortunate souls who dare taint the grounds suffer greatly, leaving devastation in its wake and causing hysteria and havoc amongst worried souls, simultaneously cultivating rich growth for the horror in lore, myth, and legends. It is an alarming yet alluring ethos that propagates the success of folk horror. 

Over the years, folk horror has seen a significant boom in popular horror cinema, with the likes of The VVitch (2015) and Midsommar (2019) and the equally successful but far more underrated Kill List (2011) and The Ritual (2017). With these films holding supreme status in modern horror, a deep dive into the origins of the folk horror subgenre has never been more pertinent. 

Where to begin… 

Folk horror holds its roots in nearly every country. It isn’t easy to pinpoint a specific religion that holds the key to folk cinema, with the genre belonging to many cultures. Folk derives from folklore, translating to individualised mythology from various societies. What has become known in mainstream media as ‘folk horror’ with all of its iconography and archetypal symbolism is, at the crux, derivative from British lore. For example, the bones of folk horror that audiences have come to know and love today are birthed from Pagan rituals; it’s the profound meaning of life and death, the cycles of nature, and the importance of worshipping a higher power that amalgamates with the genres eerie rhetoric that provides such influential works. 

The Unholy Trinity

Every reign of horror has its champions. Folk horror’s genre-defining entries can be found in The Unholy Trinity, consisting of Witchfinder General (1968), The Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971) and The Wicker Man (1973). Mark Gattis first coined the term in the BBC docu-series A History of Horror in 2010, which was soon adopted as the official definition of folk horror’s primary instigators. Each entry into the Trinity is entirely unique and somewhat different from one other despite their blanketing together (which can be quite the metaphor for how broad the scope is on folk cinema). 

Michael Reeves’s Witchfinder General chronicles the self-appointed witch-hunter Matthew Hopkins (Vincent Price), following his misdeeds throughout small rural villages across East Anglia. The cruel barbarism that follows in the wake of Hopkin’s actions creates a structure that can only be described as a mob-like ruling where sovereignty is not earned and equally placed but instead stolen by whoever holds the most power. Witchfinder General depicts Hopkins as he storms in and does not simply command authority but instead takes it from his victims. 

British folk horror storylines thrive in the social divide seen in the likes of Witchfinder General; the films allude to how the most significant threat does not strictly adhere to paranormal entities and ghoulish ghosts; instead, it’s the same civilisation that one belongs to. This essence of fearing your fellow neighbour and evil lying within the home is further explored in Piers Haggard’s The Blood on Satan’s Claw. 

The motivations behind much of the folk horror seen in the mid-1970s surrounded the hippie counterculture that dominated the landscape during that time. The decade saw a rise in young people declaring a belief system that went against the common consensus. They protested the war, dabbled in the increasingly popular substances arriving in the common market, and openly expressed the desire to change the system. The Blood on Satan’s Claw follows a group of young people in a small village being overcome and possessed by the devil himself after a skull is found underneath the town’s ground. 

The cult of demon-worshipping children is shown infiltrating and recruiting other members to the group until eventually banding together to cause ultimate destruction. The film can be easily read as an on-screen recreation of the disharmony that was arising at the time, with the notion of sudden societal uproar being one of the critical themes of the film. 

Out of the trinity and the entire catalogue of British folk horror, one of the most crucial, successful, and effective films has to be The Wicker Man. Robin Hardy’s classic follows the residents of Summerisle as they complete a ritualistic sacrifice for the land to ensure a fruitful harvest. The Wicker Man remains the most influential folk film and one of the most important horror films in general across British cinema. Throughout the film, the main character is Summerisle. It’s a symbolic living and breathing organism that devotes itself to the people, and in return, the residents nourish it with sacrificial flesh, blood and bones.

Beyond The Unholy Trinity

Amidst the horticulture of the well-renowned Trinity was a string of TV specials that have become ingrained in the thesis of British folk horror. Television, possibly more so than cinema, is entirely reflective of its audience. Britain is known for its blunt and bleak outlooks and humour, meaning that much of the fictitious media to come from the country relies on the nation’s unique nihilistic framings. 

Whistle and I’ll Come to You (1968), Penda’s Fen (1974) and Red Shift (1978) are just some of the many television specials that captured Britain’s gloomy atmosphere with the traditional folkloric spirit. With these television specials also came a form of notoriety that allowed folk horror to be available to a broader audience than film allowed. When speaking of the times, not everyone had the time or ability to go to the cinema and view these fantastical folk films. However, many had access to a television set where these spooky entries would interrupt the standard Saturday night entertainment specials to display the most tempered and sinister of frights. 

It was a time of paranoia, with the events in the news being scarier than any film or book anyone could have ever witnessed. With this, a level of immunity was stripped back, children would walk past paper stalls with the sinister headlines in full sight, and the daily news report would blare on the radio over breakfast. The presence of these shows was momentous. It was a chance for ghastly stories to enter the home and invade the keep calm and carry on attitude. Folk horror uses the presence of rural locations, familiar faces, and supposedly ‘quaint’ bonds as a vessel for actual, brutal disharmony to break through. The prettiest village harboured the most terrible secrets; ancient curses lay underneath the silent fields, and the longheld family unit could be disrupted anytime. 

Today’s context

Folk horror has never been more alive. The messages and symbolism seen in the likes of the Trinity still resonate from a contemporary perspective. For example, The Wicker Man is celebrating its 50-year anniversary this year, yet its connotations are more significant now than ever. With every harvest, the Summerisle residents must offer a human sacrifice to appease the ground’s thirst. In its rawest form, the film’s discourse surrounds how society’s actions profoundly affect earthly structures; the soil beneath us is not forgiving and requires care. Similarly, if we take a look at the whole Trinity, the entire pathology of every film can be sourced back to how the ecological landscape holds great power, and with great power comes a right to respect. 

This aspect of the Anthropocene is and will always be a landmark in understanding folk horror. The relationship between land and human intervention is at the heart of many folk entries. As The Wicker Man implies, the people no longer live on Summerisle as simple occupants. They are intrinsically connected to the land. They must offer a sacrifice; otherwise, their well-being will wither with the ground beneath them. 

Legacy 

Folk horror has birthed an entire subset of movies. Even films that do not necessarily fall into the lines of folk horror weaponise the standard folk format to convey its harrowing message. Take, for example, In the Tall Grass, the 2019 horror based on Joe Hill and Stephen King’s 2012 novella. The film implies that crops hold some form of supernatural power over those who dare to step foot on the land. Even The Blair WItch Project (1999) has a folkloric undertone, with the group of explorers being purposefully misled in a forest due to a presence that controls the woodland. Akin to nature itself, folk horror is everywhere, it’s inescapable and has never been more potent.

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Forty five years on – I Spit on Your Grave

“This woman has just cut, chopped, broken, and burned five men beyond recognition – but no jury in America would ever convict her!”

I Spit on Your Grave was considered so heinous, so ludicrously cruel, that it earned its spot as one of the most notorious video nasties that caused a tidal wave of commotion in Britain circa the 1980s. However, whilst it is now a celebrated classic and an iconic exploitation-revenge horror, Meir Zarchi’s career-defining film is still radically controversial. 

This quintessential genre film follows Jennifer Hills (Camille Keaton), a writer from the bustling borough of Manhattan, looking for some solitude to write her first book. Jennifer’s rented cabin in the rural countryside proves quaint and peaceful until a local group of barbaric misfits line her up for the most disturbing fate. In what can only be described as the unholiest actions, the gang repeatedly assault her and leave her for dead. This simple revenge story is one that is now rather commonplace for many movies, particularly those on the darker side, and whilst this arc has been through its fair share of cinematic cycles, I Spit on Your Grave remains one of the chief instigators of this gruelling subgenre. 

Despite the harrowing brutality of it all, I Spit on Your Grave has quite a bold backstory. It all started when filmmaker Zarchi came across a young woman who had been raped in a public New York park. Bloodied and stripped of her dignity, Zarchi helped the woman to the police station in hopes of justice. However, the officers nitpicked her statement by criticising her slurred speech, despite the fact that the attack had left her with a broken jaw and unable to speak. From this moment on Zarchi was compelled to tell a story of such great injustice with a horrific twist that many argue offers a warped sense of vengeance and a bold take on catharsis. 

The film’s venom-filled storyline helped infuse Jennifer’s character arc with a level of brutality that oozed throughout the whole film, with I Spit on Your Grave’s cinematic detailing offering covert signalling and interesting gazes that positioned the horror in a rather confrontational perspective. This aspect of antagonising the viewer and making them see the true horror of the crimes completely banished the video nasties’ campaign claims, which included warnings that films such as I Spit on Your Grave were a sadistic “poison”. 

Even all of these years later, it’s clear to see that I Spit on Your Grave is a far cry from tempting. For example, during Jennifer’s mistreatment, the camera continuously shifts the lens to focus on the perpetrator’s face at a low, flat angle as if the camera were taking on the victims position – the spectator becomes physically aligned with Jennifer with the assailant symbolically lying atop of the viewer. It is an assaultive and unforgiving lens that does not lend any prowess to Jennifer’s situation. The audience is exploited, they are made to feel victimised. It’s a horrifying fate that forces a reaction of gut-wrenching terror, it is undoubtedly dreadful. Zarchi’s cinematic detailing abandons any suggestion that the film is titillating and encourages similar crimes. Alternatively, I Spit on Your Grave is so utterly cruel that it makes the viewer recoil in shock at the mere thought of such a reality. 

And it’s this exact reason as to why I Spit on Your Grave is considered a definitive example of classic horror cinema 45 years later. The harrowing scenes are far from influential, they are in fact so antagonistic that the very thought of it becoming a reality is sickening. Everything from the aforementioned cinematography to the commendable performance from Camille Keaton is what allows this 1970s triumph to be unforgettable. It’s a brutal film that manages to stand the test of time and still inflict filmic wounds upon its audience. 

I Spit on Your Grave was eventually given a DVD release with a sign-off from the BBFC in 2001, with the censorship officials enforcing necessary cuts to tone down the now-debunked eroticisation. In 2010, the organisation took another look and admitted that the cuts were overboard, yet they still concluded that nearly three minutes of edits were needed. Just three years ago in 2020, the board were brought back to the table to discuss the infamous film, and yet they still refused to officially release the entire uncut version in the UK. 


Despite the rather rocky reputation that I Spit on Your Grave has obtained over time, the film has blossomed into a franchise, with the well-received remake hitting screens in 2010. Over the years, another three movies were made, all detailing the archetypal revenge storyline that Zarchi’s original helped established. With the influx of vengeance horror’s dominating a large part of the genre, it’s essential that we must not forget its ancestry, including films such as The Last House on the Left (1972), Death Wish (1974), and I Spit on Your Grave (1978).

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Retrospective: Sleepaway Camp (1983)

(WARNING SPOILERS AHEAD!!)

The finale, the third act, the big reveal. These are all desperately important points in a film that opens the door for renowned reputations and unforgettable experiences to be had. Psycho (1960) revealed that Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins) was acting as his dead mother all along, and The Sixth Sense (1999) unveiled that Bruce Willis was in fact a ghost for the whole film – both memorable and commendable. However, amidst all the ghostly apparitions, slasherific slayings, and zombified herds, no other horror makes the viewer as bewildered and utterly bemused as Sleepaway Camp (1983). 

Robert Hiltzik’s Sleepaway Camp chronicles one treacherous summer at Camp Arawak. People go missing only to show up dead, bullies thrive amidst the teenage hierarchies, and one young girl reveals a troublesome, horrifying secret. 

In the fall of 1982, Hiltzik along with a relatively small crew and an even smaller budget took to a quiet lake on the rural side of New York to film a movie far from tranquil. The production was met with its fair share of setbacks, including the storyboard being completely thrown off via scheduling difficulties, and the surrounding forgery turning into an autumn landscape rather than that summer green they had hoped for. However, just as most 1980s horror movies show, Hiltzik was not put off as himself and the crew slugged through the unpredictable path of independent filmmaking. But the reward was certainly worth it, as 40 years down the line its cult following is continuously growing and fans remain awed at the marvellous gnarly slasher that still instils shock value all these years later. 

The film works due to its exceptional practical effects, solid yet ‘unique’ performances, and THAT ending!

As with many films from its time, the post production team were rarely afforded with the luxury of CGI- although as visual evidence supplies, practical effects supremely reigned as champion between the two. Out of all the fantastic effects, two that stand out above the rest are the ‘arrow-neck’ and the ‘boiling pot kill’. Ed French and Ed Fountain, the special effects team, have spoken about the infamous arrow-to-the-throat death, which refuses to rely on cutaways and clever editing to show a sharp arrow piercing through an unlucky victim’s jugular. Due to the duo’s cryptic trickery, it has been heavily debated as to how an effect this realistic and hard to pull off was ever completed in the low budget climate. 

As the decades have gone on, the pair have finally revealed their secret. A Mechanical rig was latched underneath a prosthetic neck, hiding a foldable arrow that would unravel like a springboard when hit with a prop arrow, providing the illusion of a clean cut stabbing. 

The boiling pot kill showcases a drum of ferociously hot oil being dropped all over an Arawak kitchen worker’s body, creating the most disgustingly graphic burns. French and Fountain pulled off this visceral effect with plaster moulding, heavily piled on stage makeup and sticky gelatine on top to give it that freshly peeled skin look. 

Sleepaway Camp is home to two of horror’s most oddest, but fascinating characters – Judy (Karen Fields) and Angela (Felissa Rose). Judy plays Arawak’s resident mean girl, a brutally cruel, beyond bitchy, and impossible not to laugh at character that helps make the film the classic that it is today. Judy is filled with one-liners, with some of the best including “She’s a real carpenter’s dream: flat as a board and needs a screw!”. Field’s cold demeanour and awfully annoying (although deliberate) smirk as she hurls abuse is somewhat equally irritating and entertaining. 

Then there’s Angela. Over the years Rose has become a horror icon, with ques lining her stand at every mass horror movie event. She plays her role with such conviction, and not at any one moment does the viewer understand her actions, Angela’s personality is a true enigma. But of course, there’s a reason why Angela is written as a rather empty, sketchy person… She is the Camp Arawak killer. 

After the film hits its climax and plenty of blood has been shed, Hiltzik ends the film with a silent revelation showing a nude Angela standing tall with the most menacing of expressions, revealing an unexpected penis that stands out amongst her feminine energy throughout the rest of the film. Before analysis resumes, it is crucial to highlight the film’s criticisms. Upon its release 40 years prior, many have noted that Sleepaway Camp can ensue a message of trans people being violent simply because of their make-up. However, the contemporary perspective has allotted Sleepaway Camp as being a welcomed, queer-coded film that instigates an important conversation. 

Sleepaway Camp’s opening illustrates a fatal incident, with two men, John and Lenny, taking John’s children (Angela and Peter) on a boating trip, which results in a boat crash leaving only one of the offspring alive. After the event, the tragically orphaned ‘Angela’ is taken in by their odd Aunt Martha, who seems suspicious but fairly caring. The third act reveals that the surviving child was not Angela, but instead Peter. Martha did not wish to care for a boy, she wanted a little girl, leading to Martha raising Peter as his dead sister Angela. 

Sleepaway Camp is rooted within the tragedy of forced gender dynamics, placing Angela (actually Peter) in a body that they do not wish to conform to. The film speaks of the horrors that come from misgendering, and the trauma inflicted on youth who are forced to live in a gender that is socially placed on them. Whether Hiltzik initially interpreted the film to compose such a message, what matters is that from a retrospective view, the queer community has taken the horror film as an important piece of cinema that touches on canonical and wrongly tabooed subjects. Sleepaway Camp was ahead of its time, and it has finally reached a place of acceptance where its recaliment stands for something that rightfully means an awful lot to many people. 

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Retrospective: The Thing (1982)

“Somebody in this camp ain’t what he appears to be” says MacReady (Kurt Russell) as he and his fellow researchers stuck out in the desolate Antarctica squabble over a shape-shifting parasite that takes no prisoners in the quest for power. Rose-tinted glasses are a great shield, but deep down the seedy underbelly will eventually swell, and before you know it, complete hell on earth will be released. The Thing revitalizes that sense of fear over unknown territory that lies beneath every individual to devise one of cinema’s greatest hits. 

When it comes to such a classic, it’s assumed that the road to success was an easy sail, yet, whilst John Carpenter’s terrifying alien feature is a flawless rendition of sci-fi extremes, the production was filled with bumps and jolts. A string of everybody’s favourite filmmakers including Tobe Hooper (joined by writing partner Kim Henkel) and John Landis were all invited to recreate the novella Who Goes There? (1938), which had already been adapted in Christian Nyby’s The Thing from Another World (1951). The arrangements for production were made, but something was missing, that special touch, however, when Carpenter and scriptwriter Bill Lancaster put pen to paper and opted for a touchingly dark and menacingly brutal narrative arc, the cameras began rolling and the rest is history.

It’s no surprise to anyone that the 1980s were a whirlwind of a time for horror, flocks of people were either greedy for the startling nature that horror had to offer, whereas others were actively campaigning for the ‘nasties’ to be axed, done, and dusted. Needless to say, the appetite for The Thing was more than turbulent. And since the mainstream media (which at the time controlled the marketing and awareness of new releases) were not eager to sing Carpenter’s praises, The Thing stayed in the dark for many years. 

The production was no walk in the park either. The twelve weeks of filming in the harsh Alaskan grounds with plenty of mishaps, including camera lenses freezing due to the cold, and actor Keith David breaking his hand the day before filming.

 

To follow on from the turbulent events that came across during production was the unfortunate reputation that clung onto the film thanks to the rocky reputation expressed by unfair reviews and a damning case of word-by-mouth. As soon as The Thing hit theatres the feedback from major outlets including Roger Ebert, Variety, The New York Times, and The Washington Post all obliterated the fine craftsmanship that had gone into making this genre defining classic. The bleak tableau of cynical mindsets and the void of formulaic arcs left a stain on those who were lucky enough to see it in cinemas upon its initial release. Ironically, for a time that would publicly blast horror for not being original and more like a gory slapstick, The Thing’s devotion to marrying intense character dynamics with an analogy-ridden path was simply ‘too much’. From a retrospective point of view, the only thing that was excessive about the film is how much it has to offer; whether it’s the masterful practical effects or the haunting atmosphere, The Thing aims to be *thee* ultimate spectacle. 

The basis for The Thing surrounds an American research station in the faraway and foreign land of Antarctica where snow takes up every ounce of space, and where permanent habitation ceases to exist. The immediate vastness is a daunting facet alone, furthering the velocity of events the team eventually endures. With the aid of an anamorphic lens, the idea of an airy vacant setting is forced upon the viewer, with the stretched, wide frame providing ample space for action to be seen, also subtly showing ‘too much’ bare room around the characters, almost insinuating that there is bound to be someone or something imminently creeping into the frame all of a sudden. 

This premise of suggestion is a theme that runs throughout The Thing’s veins, with uncertainty, precariousness, and ample amounts of delusion infecting the entire course of reason amongst the characters. Tiptoeing alongside the effectiveness of the atmosphere is the deliberately conspicuous and savage research team including the unpolished helicopter pilot MacReady (Russell), Childs (David) the in-house skeptic mechanic, Blair (A. Wilford Brimely) the paranoid biologist, and Nauls (T. K. Carter) the quick-thinking cook. In what can best be described as a motley crew of personalities is a variety of identities that outwardly play out as clashing souls whose inner dynamics pave the way for disaster to strike, however, internally a much more complex picture is being painted than what meets the eye. 

Each character is assigned a general emotion that protrudes further than any other feeling, the characters are simply puppets in Carpenter and Lancaster’s plot to manipulate the viewer into a state of complete shock and fear over the unfolding narrative. The Thing invites the viewer to go on an emotional rollercoaster, with MacReady’s brash feistiness embodying our fight or flight response, Child’s uncertainty and mistrust representing the hastiness that we feel over every new spectacle, Blair’s irrationality epitomizing the panic experienced as we also learn of the parasite’s ferocity, and Naul’s curiosity sparking our need to unravel the origins and motives of the assimilation.

The Thing plays out with an air of fluidity that seems so natural, and whilst that was the goal, behind the scenes Carpenter meticulously plotted out every little detail to enhance the horror and ultimately conjure a trance-like spell over anyone brave enough to watch it. 

Above everything, one aspect that will forever remain synonymous with The Thing’s cult classic reputation is the outstanding effects. Considering the entire premise surrounds a creature feature show, the design of the monster itself was of utmost importance to Rob Bottin, the lead effects creator. Originally, Carpenter wanted “the thing” to be of one design, a whole being, not a shapeshifting leech. In fact, when Bottin initially expressed his ideas of the various forms the monster would take, Carpenter was more than unsure about going down that valiant route. However, the surreal design soon won him over and the thirty five person team went to work in creating one of cinema’s most infamous creatures of all time. 

The 1980s didn’t have mountains of technology to aid in the graphics, instead handy work and dedicated creative geniuses would spend hours moulding full body casts of actors and glueing together faux flesh to fashion severed bloody limbs. One of the most impressive scenes shows the crew’s dog assimilating into a gigantic extraterrestrial being complete with multiple snarling dog heads crowning the top of a bubbling pile of viscera filled with mutating blobs and more than enough blood and slime. To form such a grotesque but fascinating effect, Bottin enlisted the help of fellow effects artist Stan Winston to construct a large hand puppet from makeup artist Lance Anderson’s body. The puppet would then be layered with latex foam and hooked up to wired legs and radio controlled eyes to force the alien-like movements expressed by the thing. Even the mass pile sat below the creature was given its texture from mayonnaise, melted bubble gum and plenty of K-Y Jelly. 

In true old-school fashion, no CGI blood spurts were to be had, instead, Anderson would have to wear a blood-squib suit which would eject plenty of fake blood on cue. 

Blood, sweat, and tears went into concocting the visual feast that The Thing has to offer, with Bottin being hospitalised from exhaustion over literally working for nearly 24 hours everyday just to achieve the perfect aesthetic for the film. 

Upon a modern perspective, the bumpy road The Thing traveled down for its first couple of the years wasn’t down to poor filmmaking or lack of inspiration, the sole reason was that viewers were just not ready for something so monumentally confrontational, a product that dares to end on a gloomy note and not succumb to the Hollywood flow of moviemaking. The legacy of The Thing is still felt to this day, forty years on. Comic books, video games, miniseries, and prequels have all come and gone within the last twenty years, with Blumhouse Studios even releasing a statement in 2020 confirming that The Thing is getting the now-standard remake treatment. 

In a landscape where seemingly everyone’s true colours can be exposed and evil is more free than ever, John Carpenter’s 1982 showstopper is more important now than ever. 

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