Conjuring a film permeated with a terrifying, unforgettable tale is Sins of the Father, a work of mysticism from the director of the Oxford Comma Film Cooperative, Vanessa M.H Powers.
Aden (David Michaeli) and his mother, Sarah (Nora Targonski O’Brien), are faced with the daunting task of selling their old family home, a place filled with troubled memories. In the midst of making the house barren, they discover a mass of menacing secrets…
The film’s diegesis is utterly imbued with an omnipotent nature that calls to one of cinema’s finest keynotes – folk horror. The horticulture of folklore that runs throughout Sins of the Father creates an enchanting landscape brimming with eerie lighting and an unearthly sense of isolation that makes the film’s sinister reveals even more threatening. Seconding the nexus of deadly folkloric tones is the intricate writing from Tristan M. Corrigan, whose blisteringly chilling script absorbs us into the foreboding antics and creates a beyond ominous experience we won’t ever forget.
It is to no avail that independent film is the backbone of cinema, purporting the veins of filmmaking and ensuring that the brilliant minds such as that of Powers are able to translate their visions. When it comes to Sins of the Father, we can see the beauty of homegrown horror on every inch of the screen. The performances are powerful and an ode to dedicated acting, the setting is quaintly complex, and the cinematography is intense, as each frame seizes our attention.
The labyrinth of distressing familial undertones is perfectly suited to the likes of Hereditary (2018) and Relic (2020), particularly in the sense of how the deeply embedded lines of generational trauma can have the ability to inflict a sense of harm across every inch of one’s life. Sins of the Father is uncomfortably confrontational, taking heed of its own uneasy atmospheric tone to create a film wrapped up in terror and trepidation.
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One of genre cinema’s biggest classics meets its 50th anniversary this year. Within these past five decades, the already beloved hit has managed to soar further than ever and gain a reputation that many films can only dream of. The grand slam in question is none other than Robin Hardy’s The Wicker Man (1973).
The Wicker Man follows Sergeant Howie (Edward Woodward) as he lands on the grounds of Summerisle, a small Scottish island, to investigate the disappearance of a child. Howie’s puritan ways are tested after being shocked at the Islander’s worship of pagan Celtic gods and behaving in an open frivolous manner, leading Howie to suspect that something suspicious lurks around the corner.
This eerie, dark, and bewitching descent into the greatest monster of them all, humanity, is a momentous feat in the world of folk horror, the genre responsible for creating the most haunting of films. In an ode to classic folk horror, The Wicker Man battles with evil grounds, sordid land and its lust for sacrifice. The 1970s hit thrives in these quintessential folkloric themes that have been utilised and weaponised for decades, yet rather than the film weaken overtime with multiple watches; it manages only to get better, which is equally thanks to the stellar performances and the film‘s unique method of building fear.
Production began in the early ‘70’s after the film’s screenwriter Anthony Shaffer and acclaimed actor/ Hammer Horror legend Christopher Lee began discussing the potential to collaborate on a film that went against the grain of the popular trend of ‘monster movies’. Soon joining Lee and Shaffer was the eventual director Robin Hardy, who was more than on board with creating a horror film surrounding cult and mythology. Looking for inspiration, Shaffer brought David Pinner’s 1967 novel Ritual to the table, which chronicled a religious police officer who travels to a small village looking to solve a sacrificial murder. After negotiations, Pinner sold the rights and production ensued.
For any ‘Ritual’ fans, it may be noted that The Wicker Man is not a direct adaption of the book, but more of a starting point, with the film, eventually forming into a tale about the woes and intrigue of paganism. The Wicker Man poses that the screen did not need to be filled with blood, guts, and gore to obtain a genuinely horrifying response from its audience. Instead, the terror alludes to the animalistic and horrific nature of the Summerisle residents. The film raises its atmosphere solely through methods of intent and interpretation, letting the viewer’s imagination conjure it. Despite how unnerving The Wicker Man’s conclusion may be, the lasting atmosphere is not one of disgust but deep-seated fear and trepidation that the most peaceful environments hold the darkest secrets.
With Lee already on board, they needed to cast the role of Sergeant Howie, the hard-mannered officer. When actors Michael York and David Hemmings declined the role, the reputable television actor Edward Woodward was welcomed onboard. With a solid story and an even sturdier cast under its belt, The Wicker Man began filming mainly along the Scottish coast before wrapping up and editing, which is a whole story within its own right…
From a contemporary perspective, many can confirm that The Wicker Man is a ‘perfect’ movie with no noticeable flaws. However, the post-production indeed travelled across rocky terrain. The studio, British Lion Films, had bought the film, and after seeing the ‘burning man’ conclusion, they demanded heavy cuts to the ending as Howie’s death was too horrid to put on screen. They suggested that the scene should continue, but instead, halfway through, a sudden downpour should occur in which the rainstorm puts out the fire. Luckily enough, the crew outright refused to make this edit and instead negotiated to cut out roughly twenty minutes of build-up scenes.
Adding to the turbulent release journey was the film’s lost footage. After the film had been released, Hardy was determined to restore his vision to its original edit, seeking the complete, original footage to restore it fully. However, he was informed that the negatives were lost, that is, until director Roger Corman (and one of the previous potential distributors) still had a copy, saving the day and leading to a ninety-six-minute version being released in 1979. As time has gone on, multiple versions have been released – an extended cut released by Canal+ in 2001, a limited edition signed version from Anchor Bay in 2005, and most recently, The Final Cut from StudioCanal, which Hardy described as one of the most accurate representations of what he wished The Wicker Man was when it was first released. Unfortunately, the exact carbon copy and precise original cut still have not been found, but that does not hinder what we already have.
With all of the commotion and re-edits, where does The Wicker Man stand 50 years later?
The Wicker Man boomed onto the scene with reviews from prestigious outlets, including Variety, The New York Times, and Los Angeles Times, all praising the film’s slow-burning dread and evocative atmosphere. Decades later, distinguished sources such as Empire and The Guardian ranked the film as one of the best horror movies ever, and for a good reason. The film is not only a genre-defining piece of cinema, a folk horror classic, and a definitive part of British film and media; it is also an intense, burdensome, and wholly unhinged example of how aura and a menacingly slow buildup can leave a lingering mark of fear that does not rely on jumpscares, but our own worst enemy – the imagination.
There are multiple ways to read The Wicker Man, which are all equally frightening. There’s the aspect of nurturing nature, feeding the land souls to prevent disruption. Then there is the religious perspective, where one could comment on how the film elicits fear based on the infatuation of high powers and cults, leading to the abandonment of moralities to serve a spectral being. And then there is the more sinister realisation – forget about individualising fear within the sins of the land, forgo the collective power of cult thinking. What truly makes The Wicker Man claw at the viewer’s skin and then nestle its horror within their being is how mundane the film portrays monstrosity to be. Recalling back to early production stages, Lee, Shaffer, and Hardy wanted the uncanny to thrive amidst a background of sincerity where there were no ghosts, zombies, or knife-wielding maniacs. The horror needed to come from within the Summerisle residents’ souls, not via a weapon or some dressed-up ghoul. The film’s manifesto speaks to the horror within the everyday, an apparent typical atmosphere that holds unearthly secrets. The Wicker Man makes you uncomfortable and on edge from the very first moment. However, it is not until the very last scene that our suspicions are confirmed, and an epiphany reveals itself.
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Robin HardyÕs THE WICKER MAN (1973). Courtesy: Rialto Pictures/ Studiocanal
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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The newly widowed Harper (Jessie Buckley) embarks on a solo trip to the countryside to escape from her worries. However, once she arrives a string of bizzare events unravel a world of horror…
Folk horror justifies the human body to be connected to an ethereal being that is one with nature, as if the soil beneath a character’s feet is a reasoning, an aid in their emotive flow. Men, Alex Garland’s latest feat, is an earthy experience that assaults the viewer’s senses through compartmentalising what they may or may not have believed about gender politics, and how the very source of a threat runs deeper than anyone may have previously understood.
Beware spoilers ahead…
Known for Ex-Machina (2014) and Annihilation (2018), Garland’s filmography thrives in the communication between humanity and otherness. That otherness in his previous work has been primarily communicated through science and creatures, and these sci-fi-like stories all have one thing in common- each piece resonates with something higher that can not always be understood in the everyday, where tales of grief, despair, sorrow, and self-condemnation thrives.
Men elicits its own message in a convoluted but mesmerising way. The impactful gut punch swung at the audience within the first scene acts as a warning shot to the entirety of Men’s harsh reflection about the cycles of abuse. With the rest of this narrative portion told in flashbacks, it is slowly revealed that Harper’s escape to the countryside was a means of therapy, a place of solitude to heal from the loss of her abusive husband. A tumultuous debate ensued when Harper informed her partner James (Paapa Essiedu) that she wanted a divorce, with the presumption being lumped on his controlling behaviour. James reacts in a callous manner that far too many people have experienced, touching on the deep wounds from the more ‘quieted abuse’.
He begins with carefully telling Harper that her absence will result in his suicide, coinciding her to being his emotive murderer. Their argument continues after he catches her texting a friend that she is scared of his behaviour, resulting in the discussion becoming heated when he knocks Harper straight across the face, blasting her into the kitchen cupboards and leaving her with a bloody nose. Rightfully so, Harper kicks James out of the marital home before he makes his way to the upstairs balcony and falls (or as it’s suggested) ‘lets himself go’ from the railings, plummeting to his death right in front of Harper.
The suffering experienced in a domestic situation is not always as obvious as soap operas make it out to be. Slowly persuading social exclusion, demanding to see someone’s phone, controlling what attire is and isn’t suitable, and hanging a warning of ominous events over an individual’s head is what can go on behind closed doors without anyone else ever knowing. Men implicates this subtlety that harm can harbour. Harper’s past with James is just the tip of the thunderous iceberg that Men touches upon.
As Harper enters the grounds of her idyllic home for the next two weeks, Geoffrey (Rory Kinnear), the keeper of the manor is introduced. His tweed layered outfit, buckled front yellowed teeth, and upper-class clipped tones all scream true to the country-gentlemen stereotype. Here, as it will become clearer later on, Garland has not fallen trap to easy labelling of a character out of sheer ignorance, Geoffrey’s precise aesthetic and tone is very much deliberate, lathering up the scene for the unbearably gruesome horror to ensue as the film progresses. At first Geoffrey seems harmless, almost awkward, and very eager to make Harper feel comfortable and safe all on her own. Whilst a woman shouldn’t have to wear a metaphorical coat of armour to feel safe when solo travelling, it seems that Geoffrey is concerned that Harper, or Mrs. Marlowe (emphasis on the Mrs.) as he calls her, has not brought ‘hubby’ along for the trip.
After Garland has denoted adequate time to develop the background of Harper’s disposition, the viewer is welcomed into Men’s true motives. Lush emerald fields and abundantly leafed trees frame Harper as she ventures out on a walk through the forest. The land swallows her stature and becomes all-encompassing to the frame, illustrating the sheer vastness of Harper’s seclusion and tethering her to nature, encasing her with the trees as if she is part of the shrubbery. It suggested that Harper has been disconnected from herself ever since her widowing, becoming stricken with the grief and guilt that was forced upon her.
As her journey into the forest deepens, her demeanour becomes lighter and more at ease, finding comfort in the breeze of the cool wind amidst the evergreen architecture. This happiness continues after she makes her way down a muddied trail to the abandoned railway track. The outside of the tunnel is bleak and dauntly lit, highly juxtapositioned against the previous scenes of open brightness. However, her boost of merriment from the walk encourages her to walk into the disused channel where she discovers the echo effect that the tunnel makes. Since she’s finally feeling spirited again, glee takes over and she creates a quaint melody, singing little calls down the tunnel. All is finally well. That is until her vocal sessions receive a reply…A loud screechy reply at that.
The cathartic bliss is interrupted within this one single moment. And from this point forward all hell is unleashed. As the film unravels it turns out that the reply Harper heard was from a naked, gaunt man who stalked her back to the cottage. However, as Garland slowly reveals, this stalking event does not take up the entire film, instead this horrific incident is barely a drop in the ocean compared to the following events. This brief climax in the first act opens the door for a string of chilling encounters to occur. The male police officers assisting Harper in dealing with the assailant are easy to shift the blame, the priest who she bumps into whilst exploring the village is quick to judge, a rude schoolboy who she unfortunately meets is rude and threatening, and the male townspeople she witness at the local pub are all majorly eerie, enacting a silent dread that has become increasingly familiar to many over the years.
Despite the rise in awareness and rights, there has been an insurgence of violence towards women, with the primary assailant being men. These antagonists are not always overt boogeymen lurking around corners. No…They could be (as Garland rather unabashedly exposes) a friendly neighbour, a religious vicar, it can be a young boy, a stranger who you may have simply crossed paths with, they could even be a respected police officer-a figure of the law.
Harper’s relationship and the reasons as to why she ends up in the countryside in the first place is just a means to an end, shielding the true meaning that Men possesses. Many have argued that Harper’s damsel-in-distress status is a receding factor in the cinematic representation of women. Her panicking, paranoia, and trepidation is largely seen as steps put in place to make her weak. And of course with Garland being a man himself, Men has become the target point for heavy scrutiny. Yet, one could argue that by constantly pushing on-screen women to be powerhouses, devoid of emotion (especially considering Harper’s circumstances), and completely fearless, then a similar pressure is once again placed upon the female viewer. Audiences want women to be absent of trauma, but at the same time, the true pathology of a person (female or male) depicts a variety of emotions all at one time. The comments degrading Garland’s work, and more importantly Buckley’s performance, as being ‘too-sentimental’ is in itself the sort of criticism that Men actively wants to disavow. Harper feels how she wants to feel, reacts as she sees fit, and is determined to do whatever she wants, no matter who it may displease. In the horror genre fear and anxiety are the driving forces behind the film, so why would Harper not be a bundle of nerves in this situation? I know I would!
Whilst Men can stir passionate debates about representation and the censorship of feelings (as seen above), what also needs thorough examination is the ‘why’s’ behind the film’s message. Rory Kinnear, known for his roles in Black Mirror (“The National Anthem”) and the Daniel Craig saga of James Bond films, plays the role of all the men in the village. Through all of these numerous character performances being synched together by Kinnear’s presence, it’s hinted that no matter the age, career, or appearance the danger is always there. Thus, inflicting an additional layer of context into Men. Its as if Garland is playing on the current social climate’s phrasing of the political standpoint- “Not All Men ”. Of course, these matters deserve more than a mere nod here, but to keep matters simple, in summary it can be argued that Garland decides to target the prolonged toxic masculinity trope.
Moving on, Kinnear is not the only shining star that graces the screen with the presence of pure talent. Jessie Buckley tears the barriers between screen and viewer, persuading us that this film is not a veil or a sheer piece of entertainment, but an important step in modern horror. Buckley willingly goes through such stern emotions of melancholia and utter desolation, and in doing so she drags the viewer directly into the horrid events, heightening the already nervous sense of fear and granting Men with an ubiquitous power.
Men builds a tower of fear through alerting us of the dangers out there, whether that be the everyday threat from the residential creeper, or the seedy underbelly that lurks within the least suspecting character. The entire pretext Men grounds itself within is both human nature and the outdoors itself, with the phallic tree stalks, the dominating masculine presence, and the constant symbolism of ‘father nature’ stalking Harper wherever she goes. In a bold, but refreshing sense these undeniable mankind-like features are purposefully juxtaposed with feminine touches from the rounded ripe fruit that falls from the trees, the red painted innards of the cottage, and the film’s unforgettable conclusion.
Arguably, the mixed reviews reading Garland’s stance towards misogyny as detrimental to any progress made can be sympathised with. However, I would argue that Garland did not set out to make a propaganda piece confirming his stance, instead Men screens a small portion of gender politics as a discussion piece, not a tale that aims to immigrate his own ethos into the mix. We are invited to sit back and witness, and make up our own minds about what we think is going on- making Men more of an experience as well as a film.
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