Scared Sacred: Idolatry, Religion and Worship in the Horror Film [First edition] 9781999373818

Table of contents :
Editors' Note
Foreword
Introduction: Reading Religion in the Dead of Night
Onward, Christian Soldiers: Eyes of Believers in The Conjuring (2013) and The Conjuring 2 (2016)
Catholicism, Satanism and the Role of Predestination in The Omen (1976)
As God Is My Witness: Martyrdom in The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005) and Martyrs (2008)
The Purgatorial Testament and Redemption of the Hell Priest in the Hellraiser Mythology
Needful Things: Buddhism and Gender in Onibaba (1964) and Nang Nak (1999)
Regression, Restitution and Soul Transmigration in The Dybbuk (1937) and Demon (2015)
From Stake to Sanitarium: Taming the Disruptive Feminine in Haxan (1922) and Antichrist (2009)
Monstrous Realism: Irreligious Religion in H.P. Lovecraft's Cosmic Horror
Christianity, Korean Shamanism and Reincarnation: Whispering Corridors (1998) and The Wailing (2016)
The Image and Anxiety of the Religious Cult in the Made-for-Television Film
The Horror of Faith in The Ninth Configuration (1980) and The Exorcist III (1990)
The Last Temptation: The Amityville Horror (1979) and When the Lights Went Out (2012)
A Taste for Blood and Truth: Bill Gunn's Ganja & Hess (1973)
Zoolatry and the Feline Fatale: Cat People (1942) and Kuroneko (1968)
Faith and Idolatry in Abrahamic Religions: Security Through Symbols in Seytan (1974) and Jinn (2014)
Prophetic Voices and the Lethal Hand of God: The Religious Zealotry of Frailty (2001)

Citation preview

SCAR E D SACR E D

SCAR E D SACR E D

Idolatry, Religion and Worship in the Horror Film

foreword by doug bradley

edited by rebecca booth, valeska griffiths & erin thompson curated by r f todd

© 2020 House of Leaves Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Front cover image © House of Leaves Publishing Original artwork by Jeremy Thompson, inspired by the designs of Simon Sayce. Digitally enhanced by John Sowder and Euan Monaghan. Chapter illustrations © John Sowder Designed and typeset by Euan Monaghan Printed in the United Kingdom First Edition ISBN 9781999373818 (hardback) ISBN 9781999373801 (paperback) House of Leaves Publishing www.holpublishing.com The views expressed in this publication belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of House of Leaves Publishing.

EDITORS’ ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Scared Sacred simply wouldn’t have been possible without the following people: Our writers and artists, who have collectively conjured something magical and beautiful within these pages. Scared Sacred’s inspiring editorial team—Erin, RF, and Valeska—and the many hours of consultation, consistent hard work, and friendship. Chris, Dan, Gemma, Jason, Jon, and Mark. For every (horror) film night and discussion, the countless laughs, and always being there to listen and give advice. Ryan, Betty, Elaine, Julie, Belinda, Sean, and Megan. I dedicate my part in this book to you: “Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind. Or forgotten.” Finally, this book belongs to the reader. Thank you, all, for joining us on this journey. —Rebecca Booth

I’d like to acknowledge a few people whose kindness and generosity of spirit bolstered my contribution to this project. My friend and creative partner Joe Lipsett, who is forever iii

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pulling me (kicking and screaming) out of my comfort zone and whose brilliance inspires me to constantly challenge myself to do better. Mike Rogers, whose calming presence, unwavering support, and infectious humor buoys me when deadlines threaten to pull me under. The wonderful CC Stapleton, who is always standing ready with an adorable dog picture and a ghost story. My long-time lifeline, George Stratigacos, whose organic hummus fuels me. My fellow co-editors, whose skill and determination continue to amaze me at every turn. And my mother, Barbara Griffiths, who, to this day, is still thrilled each time she sees my name in print. Now, she can see hers, too. —Valeska Griffiths

I have been lucky enough to have a fantastic support system during the creation of this book. Each member of the editorial team has been a wonderful collaborator, from bouncing ideas to sharing resources and suggesting leads on chapter research. Our writers have been an undying pleasure with which to work. Our wonderful readers deserve a special thank you as well—you gave Scared Sacred a happy home. Most importantly, I need to thank the wonderful people in my life who support me at every turn: my best friends Jeremy and Cate, my wonderful daughters Sophia and Molly, and my

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editors’ acknowledgements

amazing partner Dan. Without them, I would not be writing these thank you notes. —Erin Thompson

Scared Sacred would not exist without the fantastic team of editors we have: Erin, Rebecca, and Valeska. Each has faced obstacles both professionally and personally during the editing process of this book and overcome them with grace. I couldn’t be prouder of all three and am forever grateful for their expertise. I’d like to thank my family and friends for their help in bringing the book to life: Mark and David, who always make me laugh; my dad, Samuel, who is always there to listen and give advice; and my mum Elizabeth and sister Robyn who keep me grounded. I would also like to thank Becky, without whom I would be lost. With that all said, I would like to dedicate my part in this book to my nanny, Theresa Wilson, who made me the man I am today. —RF Todd

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Table of Contents

xi Editors’ Note 1 Foreword Doug Bradley 7

Introduction: Reading Religion in the Dead of Night Prof Douglas E. Cowan

Section One: Christianity 17

Onward, Christian Soldiers: Eyes of Believers in The Conjuring (2013) and The Conjuring 2 (2016) Alexandra West

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“I don’t know if we’ve got the heir to the Thorn millions here or Jesus Christ himself”: Catholicism, Satanism and the Role of Predestination in The Omen (1976) Dr LMK Sheppard

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As God Is My Witness: Martyrdom in The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005) and Martyrs (2008) Andrea Subissati

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83

The Last Sin Eater: The Purgatorial Testament and Redemption of the Hell Priest in the Hellraiser Mythology Rebecca Booth

Section Two: Mysticism 111 Needful Things: Buddhism and Gender in Onibaba (1964) and Nang Nak (1999) Erin Thompson 133 Between Two Worlds: Regression, Restitution and Soul Transmigration in The Dybbuk (1937) and Demon (2015) Rebecca Booth 157 From the Stake to the Sanitarium: Taming the Disruptive Feminine in Häxan (1922) and Antichrist (2009) Valeska Griffiths 187 Monstrous Realism: Irreligious Religion in H.P. Lovecraft’s Cosmic Horror Anya Stanley Section Three: Occultism 207 “Not everything that moves, breathes and talks is alive”: Christianity, Korean Shamanism and Reincarnation in Whispering Corridors (1998) and The Wailing (2016) Frazer Lee 235 Deprogramming the Program: The Image and Anxiety of the Religious Cult in the Made-for-Television Film Amanda Reyes

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255 I Believe in Death: William Peter Blatty and the Horror of Faith in The Ninth Configuration (1980) and The Exorcist III (1990) Samm Deighan 281 The Last Temptation: Demonic Warfare and Supernatural Sacrifice in The Amityville Horror (1979) and When the Lights Went Out (2012) Erin Thompson Section Four: Beyond Belief 303 A Taste for Blood and Truth: Bill Gunn’s Ganja & Hess (1973) Dr John Cussans 341 Zoolatry and the Feline Fatale: Obsession, Femininity and Revenge in Cat People (1942) and Kuroneko (1968) Joseph Dwyer 361 Faith and Idolatry in the Abrahamic Religions: Security Through Symbols in Şeytan (1974) and Jinn (2014) Neil Gravino 381 Prophetic Voices and the Lethal Hand of God: The Religious Zealotry of Frailty (2001) Chris Hallock

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Editors’ note

Language, which embodies social values and preserves thought constructs and ways of life, allows for the examination from various perspectives of the literature and drama and the concrete or imaginative reality it reflects. (Elior, 2014, p. 9)

Religion and folklore have walked hand-in-hand throughout human history, along ancient paths carved by custom, spirituality, and belief. A response to the recent reclaiming of folkloric, supernatural, and religious themes in mainstream horror cinema, Scared Sacred: Idolatry, Religion and Worship in the Horror Film is a collection of writings exploring this cultural history. The book brings together critics, historians, and writers in the film community to analyze the films included as social constructs, using historiographical frameworks to provide multiple perspectives of the reality the films reflect. In addition to an introduction by author and religious scholar Prof. Douglas E. Cowan, Scared Sacred also features a foreword from actor and author Doug Bradley—who brought to life perhaps the most iconic figure in religious horror cinema, the Hell Priest (or, as he is affectionately referred to in the horror community, Pinhead). Any study of religion requires delicacy and thought. In the spirit of exploration, the lens of horror is an appropriate tool to deconstruct the themes and anxieties of religious contemplations, xi

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and Scared Sacred is both a study and appreciation of religion and horror as cultural siblings. In embracing this nuanced and complex historical relationship, Scared Sacred is thematically divided into four broad areas to provide a carefully curated cross-section of world religions, idolatry, and worship. Beginning with Christianity, Alexandra West focuses on the creeping conservative values at play within James Wan’s The Conjuring (2013) and The Conjuring 2 (2016). Utilizing the controversial real-life figures of Ed and Lorraine Warren as the protagonists of both films, West argues that the series sanitizes their history via filmic nostalgia in favor of upholding conservative Christian values—an attempt to make horror great again.  Dr. LMK Sheppard continues this line of inquiry, addressing how Richard Donner’s The Omen (1976), as a representation of New Hollywood Horror, engages in cultural and religious neo-liberal and conservative debates. In its focus upon the role of free will and its opposites, determinism and predestination, she suggests that the film challenges this liberty of choice to act as both an agent within this sociopolitical environment and a disseminator of its message and values. This is followed by Andrea Subissati’s exploration of modern-day martyrdom, which draws from the term’s etymological origins and traces its redefinition across history to examine the cultural impact of these conceptions in Scott Derrickson’s The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005) and Pascal Laugier’s Martyrs (2008). Rebecca Booth closes this section by reconsidering the Hell Priest’s cyclical journey across the Hellraiser film series (19872018) within a purgatorial framework. Taking into account the historical role of the sin eater, Booth argues that the Hell Priest xii

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inverts the traditional mediatory role of the priest in his condemnation and collection of souls. His ultimate redemption, achieved via a process of regression in which he must consume his own sins, posits that his lost humanity and subsequent mortality is his ultimate desire, and is therefore the central conflict in the films. We then travel the globe to explore Mysticism. Erin Thompson examines gender politics and social customs of spiritual fulfillment and balance amid the background of religious traditions within Buddhism in Kaneto Shindô’s Onibaba (1964) and Nonzee Nimibutr’s Nang Nak (1999). Thompson argues that the films present the disconcerting theme of a female practitioner requiring a male counterpart to achieve full spiritual potential, highlighting and reinforcing a combination of Buddhist perceptions and principles in regards to gender inequality through the devices of the vengeful spirit and the repentant religious. Rebecca Booth returns to compare The Dybbuk (1937), Michał Waszyński’s classic cinematic adaptation of S. Ansky’s play, against Marcin Wrona’s Demon (2015), adapted from Piotr Rowicki’s play Przylgnięcie (Cling or Adherence, 2008), exploring the resonation of soul transmigration in each. The Jewish figure of the dybbuk is used as a folkloric construct in each film to frame and dissect the sociopolitical history of Polish-Jewish relations. In particular, the chapter examines the marital unions in both films as a site of tension between traditional and cultural values, and thus how the past informs the present—even when buried. Valeska Griffiths surveys the historical perceptions of witchcraft and female hysteria in Medieval and Early Modern Europe and the Victorian age through Benjamin Christensen’s Häxan (1922) and Lars von Trier’s Antichrist (2009), and explores xiii

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the way that these designations have been used over time to discourage, contain, and punish disruptive femininities. Providing an atheistic and thus adjacent approach to the various religious lenses being applied to horror cinema in the anthology, Anya Stanley navigates the themes of irreligion and cosmicism in H.P. Lovecraft’s writing and adaptations, with a central focus on Stuart Gordon’s From Beyond (1986) and John Carpenter’s In the Mouth of Madness (1994). Occultism is initially investigated by Frazer Lee via the conflict between Christianity and Korean shamanism, and how each competes for dominance in both the spiritual and sociopolitical realms in Yeogo goedam (Whispering Corridors, 1998) and Gokseong (The Wailing, 2016). Lee investigates how the subject of reincarnation in each film explores the South Korean obsession with Christianity, reflecting on Christian guilt through the lens of Korean horror and simultaneously positioning Korean shamanism as an occult threat. Concentrating on the telefilms Can Ellen Be Saved? (1974) and Blinded by the Light (1980), Amanda Reyes explores the ways in which cults are portrayed as symbols of the anxieties that arose during the 1970s in the United States, an era of rising divorce rates and broken homes. Reyes shows how the made-for-television film employs these images as a tool to reinforce the nuclear family, which is treated as the ultimate iconography of a higher power. Focusing on William Peter Blatty’s directorial efforts The Ninth Configuration (1980) and The Exorcist III (1990), both adaptations of his own novels that delve into themes of madness, violence, and horror, Samm Deighan argues that the films explore the inevitable consequences when men of belief and faith xiv

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confront evil within the nihilistic modern world—whether that manifests as satanic possession, serial murder, or insanity as the result of trauma. In her second essay, Erin Thompson examines how Stuart Rosenberg’s The Amityville Horror (1979) and Pat Holden’s When the Lights Went Out (2012) portray alleged real-life events that chart a pattern of supernatural disturbance, possession, and affirmation of faith. This chapter bridges the two films via the biblical themes of temptation and sacrifice, as demonstrated in the tale of Abraham in the Book of Genesis. Our last section, Beyond Belief, broadens Scared Sacred’s focus to explore non-traditional tenets. Dr. John Cussans takes as his topic the psychology of race, religion, sex, class, and addiction in 1970s America, as depicted in Bill Gunn’s ‘vampire film,’ Ganja & Hess (1973). Cussans writes that the narrative is framed as a conflict between the redemptive power of the Blood of Christ offered by the Black Church and a fantasy of ancestral African sovereignty represented by the Myrthian blood-cult. The film is an important vehicle for Gunn’s personal experiences as a black artist struggling for creative autonomy and critical recognition in a white-run culture industry, and living with the damaging psychological consequences of existing between seemingly incompatible worlds. Joseph Dwyer studies the feminist statements of shape-shifting cat worship, traveling from Medieval Europe and Japan to the United States in the 1940s. In Jacques Tourneur’s production of Cat People (1942), a woman is ominously cursed by her feline ancestors. In Kaneto Shindô’s Kuroneko (1968), supernatural cats act as avengers of violated and murdered women. Much like the femme fatale, the feline fatale is a simultaneously lauded xv

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and condemned figure across cultural and historical boundaries. These two films incorporate elements of feline shape-shifting within their cultural mythos, which belie the fabricated reality of religions and other belief systems like psychoanalysis to reveal that folklore—including cinema—is equally as important as religion.  Neil Gravino frames idolatry as a sinful act, and its accompanying sense of protection ineffectual, within the Abrahamic belief systems portrayed in Metin Erksan’s Sęytan (1974) and Ajmal Zaheer Ahmad’s Jinn (2014). The films, Gravino suggests, purport that placing faith in symbols rather than religious belief can leave one vulnerable to evil—a loaded reading in today’s sociopolitical climate. In both films, idolatry is replaced by physical action, presenting evil as a pervasive threat that believers must be constantly ready to confront. Finally, Chris Hallock deconstructs Bill Paxton’s Frailty (2001), a psychological horror film steeped in the Southern Gothic tradition. Surveying how the film’s non-linear framework enhances its religious and familial themes, he also studies the director’s ambiguous approach to the material, ensnaring the story’s tightly knit family in the disastrous clutches of religious zealotry, murderous fanaticism, and toxic patriarchy. A fundamental facet of human nature across history and culture is the need to question and make sense of the world and our place in it, often through religion and a sense of something greater than ourselves. Our role as editors of this collection has a dual purpose. As disciples of this ongoing discourse, we believe this anthology provides a contemporary and considered contribution that will, in turn, hopefully incite further avenues of critical analyses. We hope that you enjoy this expedition as much as xvi

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we have enjoyed following its illuminating trail with our writers. Good luck, faithful pilgrim. Editorial Team February 2020

References Elior, R. (2014). Dybbuks and Jewish Women in Social History, Mysticism and Folklore (J. Linsider, Trans.). Jerusalem, Israel & New York, NY: Urim Publications.

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FOREWORD

The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n. (Milton, 2003, p. 9)

his quote was very much in my mind as I approached playTing the then anonymous Lead Cenobite, who would come to be known as the Hell Priest, or Pinhead, for the first time in 1986. While Heaven and Hell are obviously very real places in John Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667), to me in approaching the film, these lines resonated because of my perception that the ‘Hell’ of Hellraiser (1987) was not a place as defined and understood within the narrow confines of Christian theology. Nowhere was Satan or the Devil mentioned in Hellraiser. Pinhead himself seemed to lay claim to both sides of the theological divide in his assertion that Cenobites are “Demons to some. Angels to others.” To me, this line always paraphrased as: I’m whatever you see me as being. I’m neither: I can be either or both, but the choice is yours, not mine. These thoughts were later amplified in Hellbound: Hellraiser II (1988). Kirsty (Ashley Laurence), beginning her search for her father in Hell, is informed by Frank (Sean Chapman), “He is in 1

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his own Hell. Just as you are in yours,” suggesting that Hell is a private place created anew by each individual. In Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth (1992), scriptwriter Pete Atkins placed Pinhead right in the heart of Christian power when Joey Summerskill (Terry Farrell) is pursued into the church where Pinhead confronts the crucifix-wielding priest. Pinhead brushes all this aside, not, it seemed to me, with any great animus or sense of opposition, but because to him it was all simply irrelevant. In Hellraiser: Bloodline (1996), he declares: “Do I look like someone who cares what God thinks?” I think I was comfortable with this perception through the Hellraiser films partly because it meant we simply didn’t have to be bothered with theological baggage and because it chimed with my agnostic/atheist mindset (leaning agnostic then; determinedly atheist now). It also lifted us away from narrow Christian morality and the constraining notions of ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ Writing about his fellow playwright and novelist Jean Genet, Jean Cocteau (1995) called Genet a “moralist” (one who deals in questions of morals), which he stressed should not be confused with a “moraliser” (one who preaches morality) (p. 155). This is a very fine distinction, but an important one for me (I believe we wandered over that line in Hellraiser: Inferno (2000), for example). Pinhead may want to savor the perversion and malevolence lurking in the cobwebbed corners of your soul; he ought not to be telling you how you should live your life. All of this points to a rather broader dichotomy for me as a horror fan. I cut my teeth in the genre watching Granada Television’s reruns of pretty much the whole of Hammer Film Production’s catalogue in my teenage years in Liverpool, and I enthusiastically cheered on Peter Cushing whenever he brandished a 2

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crucifix or a vial of holy water at any marauding vampire. Yet, if you ask me whether I believe in the power of these things to ward off anything very much, the answer is: absolutely not. I think it was precisely for these reasons that I was not especially scared by The Exorcist (1973), even as audiences around the world were being thrown into a frenzy by the film and idiot evangelicals in the United Kingdom moved to have the film banned from cinemas. I didn’t, and don’t, believe in the Devil or the idea of ‘demonic possession.’ While I of course responded to the intense atmosphere of the film, I didn’t feel personally threatened by it: head-spinning and pea-soup-spitting were largely comical to me! The Exorcist’s near contemporary The Omen (1976) was a different matter though, and the sight of a panting Rottweiler or the memory of Billie Whitelaw murmuring, “Have no fear, little one. I am here to protect thee,” still make me anxious today. Go figure. Perhaps it’s because The Omen offers a little sympathy for the Devil and treats its subject matter symbolically rather than literally, while The Exorcist endorses strict Catholic dogma. I often describe myself as a religious atheist, which I do partly mischievously and partly seriously. It confuses Christians, which is easily done and always entertaining. My serious point is to rescue and reclaim the sense of the religious or the numinous from the strangulating grip of the organized, monotheistic religions and their ‘black hat, white hat’ view of the world. The religious impulse in humanity appears to be as old as we are, far pre-dating the religions which have so dominated our lives in the last two thousand years or so. In the so-called pagan world, there was little or no division between the ‘sacred’ and the ‘profane.’ Notions of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ were not so narrowly defined as they tend to be today. An ancient deity such as Pan, as magnificently 3

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portrayed in the chapter titled “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn” in Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows (1908), was simply a reflection of the powers of nature: beneficent and nurturing or coldly indifferent and destructive. The familiar elements of Pan— the cloven hooves, goat-like legs, horns, and priapic tendencies— now belong to the Devil as part of the process by which pagan gods and goddesses were ‘demonized’ by Christianity. Ultimately, religion and horror have a great deal in common: birth; death; blood; flesh and carnality; life beyond death; resurrection; reincarnation; transformation; damnation and salvation; and many, many more ‘-ations.’ I have offered a personal viewpoint here. It is my pleasure to hand you over to the many writers who will study all this in much greater depth and detail, viewed both from analysis of religious beliefs and traditions, and also from discussion of specific films and writers (including further examination of the Hellraiser mythology). Doug Bradley February 2020

REFERENCES Barker, C. (Director). (1987). Hellraiser [Motion picture]. United Kingdom: Entertainment Film Distributors. Cocteau, J. (1995). The Difficulty of Being (E. Sprigge, Trans.). New York, NY: Da Capo Press Inc. Derrickson, S. (Director). (2000). Hellraiser: Inferno [Motion picture]. United States: Dimension Films & Miramax.

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foreword Donner, R. (Director). (1976). The Omen [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Fox-Rank & 20th Century Fox. Friedkin, W. (Director). (1973). The Exorcist [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Grahame, K. (1983). The Wind in the Willows. New York, NY: Scribner. Hickox, A. (Director). (1992). Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth [Motion picture]. United States: Dimension Films & Miramax. Milton, J. (2003). Paradise Lost. In J. Leonard (Ed.). London, England: Penguin Books. Randel, T. (Director). (1988). Hellbound: Hellraiser II [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: New World Pictures. Yagher, K. (Director). (1996). Hellraiser: Bloodline [Motion picture]. United States: Dimension Films & Miramax.

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Introduction: Reading Religion in the Dead of Night

tell my students that one of the most valuable qualities in Ioften a scholar is the capacity to be surprised. And, after more than

a decade of reading and writing about horror, I am as surprised as anyone by how much it still has to teach me and how relevant I think it remains to understanding the human condition. However, it didn’t start out that way. I wasn’t always a horror fan, not in the beginning, anyway. My tastes ran more to science fiction and fantasy, “rocket ships” and “magic carpets” as Thomas Disch (2000, p. 3) would say, and my career was following a very different path. Sometimes, though, all it takes is a moment of clarity, such as when the Hell Priest, played by the inimitable Doug Bradley, intones in Hellraiser: Bloodline (1996), “Do I look like someone who cares what God thinks?” It isn’t too much to say that that moment changed the direction of my intellectual life because I immediately thought, No, you don’t, not really. But, then I began to wonder, Why don’t you? And, more importantly, What does that say about our gods? And, most important of all, What does it say about us? Put differently, I expected that my training as a sociologist of religion could tell me a thing or two about horror, but I was genuinely surprised by how much the horror 7

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mode—whether in films, literature, artwork, gaming culture, or something else entirely—could teach me about religion. It encouraged me to risk reading religion in the dead of night. Although I’m going to take it slightly out of order, let’s work through Scared Sacred’s subtitle together. Consider idolatry. Now, it’s a safe bet that one person’s idol is another’s supreme being, and one believer’s true faith is another’s false religion. Indeed, what are “Demons to some,” explains the Hell Priest, are “Angels to others.” The point here is twofold. First, that religion is always and everywhere perspectival. What is seen depends on who is doing the looking, what they are looking at, and from what position in their culture they look. This may seem an obvious insight, but it’s astonishing how frequently it’s forgotten. We so often seem to think that the way we see the sacred, if we claim to see it at all, is the way everyone sees it. This isn’t the way of things, though. If you need any more evidence of this, ponder for a moment the difference in viewpoint between poor, doomed Neil Howie (Edward Woodward) and the exultant Summerisle pagans at the climax of Robin Hardy’s classic film The Wicker Man (1973). Both are committed to their religious vision. Each perspective, marked in this instance by the chasm separating the ones who hold the torch from the one who rides the pyre, believes that it has a handle on consensus reality. Each believes it understands how things work. Following from this, and more central to our purposes here, is what I have written about elsewhere as “the good, moral, and decent fallacy” (Cowan & Bromley, 2015, p. 8). This is the mistaken belief that religion is (or should always be) defined as a de facto force for good in the world and that when it isn’t it’s either 8

introduction

‘not really religion’ or ‘religion done badly.’ Those committed to this fallacy believe that on those grounds we can differentiate what is ‘real’ or ‘true’ religion from what is not. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. As historian of religions Jonathan Z. Smith (1982) notes bluntly, and millennia of human history demonstrate conclusively, “Religion is not nice” (p. 110). Now, Smith does not mean that it can’t ever be nice, that believers can’t ever do nice things, especially for their own co-religionists, but simply that ‘nice’ has no useful place in our working definition. Don’t believe me? Ask Neil Howie. Regardless of what tradition they claim to represent, however, critics often deride or dismiss horror culture when they believe that it portrays their own religion in a less-than-flattering light. Writers, filmmakers, and artists are being unfair, they argue. They don’t show the faith properly, instead going for cheap shudders at the expense of the faith. After all, they imply, our religion would never do anything like that. More than anything else, I think reading and writing about horror has taught me how misguided this approach is. Partly, the confusion lies in that strange, dark space between questions and answers. When people watch a scary movie or read a particularly disturbing horror novel, they often think that what’s presented there is the author’s answer to the problem raised by the story. More often than not, it’s the other way around. As Stephen King (2018) puts it, “I didn’t want to write about answers. I wanted to write about questions” (p. 538). The reason for this is clear: questions are far more important than answers and tell us far more interesting things about who we think we are. Answers change—they wax and wane as one set is replaced by another—but the questions that drive them remain. Who are we? is as relevant a question whether we believe 9

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the Earth revolves around the sun or not. When faced with the conviction of religious belief, horror culture constantly poses the question: Are you sure? Are you sure this is how things work? Which brings us to the second of Scared Sacred’s conceptual trifecta: worship. Contrary to popular belief, religious worship—however it happens, no matter what form it takes or what god it serves—is not grounded in certainty. If it were, we wouldn’t call it faith. We wouldn’t insist that our sacred stories be so regularly ritualized; we wouldn’t require that our invisible friends be so constantly remembered to us and their various commandments so consistently enforced. This is because, when it comes to the supernatural, when it comes to our myriad confusing and often contradictory relationships with what William James (2009) called the “unseen order,” (p. 38) forces far more powerful than mere certainty are at work. Among these are illusion, fear, and ambivalence. Whether a specific ritual is intended to ensure that the sun will rise or the ewes will lamb, whether a certain sacrifice is offered to bring the apples back to Summerisle, to pay for the unknown sins of the tribe or to usher the dead into a fruitful afterlife, acts of worship rely, among other things, on three factors: the correlation fallacy, the fear of a false negative, and the power of ambiguity. Seeing in one thing the cause of another is the essence of the correlation fallacy. We offer this sacrifice and the rains come when needed. We make that ritual atonement and the gods’ punishment passes us by. We dutifully repeat a particular set of sacred words and we need no longer be scared of the dark. This illusion of control becomes the engine of meaning for the religious imagination. It becomes the balance point 10

introduction

keeping us forever afloat on H.P. Lovecraft’s (2002) “black seas of infinity” (p. 139). It allows us to continue imagining that we are active participants in our own destiny, that something we do keeps us from slipping below the surface with scarcely a ripple to mark our passing. No matter how grotesque or benign the rite, nor to which species of god it is made, no matter how its priests have dressed it up in the language of ritual and ceremony, every sacrifice ever offered has been made upon this altar. Actively colluding with this is the fear of a false negative, the fear of not paying attention to something when we should, of not doing something when required. Indeed, the fear that we might anger the gods through some ritual misstep, some prayer incorrectly uttered, or some blemished sacrifice still drives us with a species-wide devotion that positively approaches mania. For this, I commend you no further than Stephen King’s masterful short story “Rainy Season” (1989). I mean, we don’t know that the gods aren’t there, we can’t prove they don’t exist, and so, much of our religious belief and practice turns on this ongoing unwillingness to bet against the cosmic house. Over time, our illusions and our fears, maintained through cultural convention and reinforced through the comforting presence of our co-religionists, take shape in the form of convictions. We do well, though, to remember what Nietzsche wrote in the last sane year of his life: “Convictions are prisons,” he tells us in The Antichrist (2007, p. 149), and they “are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies” (p. 150). That is, while we often hold to our convictions—especially our religious convictions—in the face of contradiction and disproof, their hold on us is always tempered by doubt, by the question whispered in our ears even as we sit in our pews: What if I am wrong? 11

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There are those who regard horror culture as one more nail in religion’s coffin. For them, religion in horror signals a belittling of faith and, by implication, the faithful—rather than a move to take the religious imagination seriously enough to let it stand as one of the principal infection vectors for the storytelling experience. As I wrote in Sacred Terror: Religion and Horror on the Silver Screen (2008), however, and as I still believe to be the case more than 10 years later: [T]he issue here is not one of secularization—that cinema horror discloses to us the abandonment or minimization of religious belief in late modern society—but an overwhelming ambivalence toward the religious traditions, beliefs, practices, and mythistories by which we are confronted, in which we are often still deeply invested, which we are distinctly unwilling to relinquish, and we just as often only minimally understand. (p. 51) Simply put, we continue to believe not because we are certain but precisely because we are not. This brings us, finally, to the crux of the matter: religion. Despite its reliance on recognizable symbols and tropes, plot devices and set dressing, the horror mode exposes the fundamental difference between religion and the religious imagination. It highlights the fact that when divorced from the former, the latter can be one of our most profound and powerful art forms. Put differently, what I mean is that while all religion is a product of the religious imagination, not everything that exists there actually takes form in the world as ‘religion’ or as ‘a religion.’ Not everything we can imagine in terms of the unseen order or our 12

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relationship with it is ultimately realized in doctrine and belief. We can always imagine more gods than are currently on offer. We can always envision other forces beyond our control, simply because we realize, at some level, that any control we think we have is trifling, tenuous, and ephemeral. Which is to say, the religious imagination is always more powerful than religion itself, always seeking a way outside the church walls and the temple precincts, peeking out from behind confessionals and choir lofts, and always challenging whatever it is we think we know about what is going on. There are always new gods on the horizon. Indeed, what horror culture’s fascination with the religious imagination tells us more than anything is that for all our vaunted progress as a species—and we have made progress, think Kill Devil Hills to Tranquility Base in less than one lifetime—we have still not moved so far as we think from Plato’s Cave (380 BCE). The shadows still glide and flicker along the walls of our mind’s eye, endlessly provoking our dreams—and our nightmares. Or, to speak with the preeminent Cenobite once more, this time from Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth (1992), “Burn? Oh, such a limited imagination.” To close this brief introduction, I invite you to consider religion and horror less as reflections of each other and more as cultural siblings. That is, this is not horror as religion, as though horror culture’s refractions and ruminations are intended to replace whatever is on offer in consensus reality. Horror culture rarely proposes anything approaching a coherent or consistent theology of its own. Neither is this horror as a displacement for religion, as though scary stories point to religion’s ultimate lack of power in late modern society. Quite the opposite. In fact, I would argue that horror culture takes religion far more seriously than many of 13

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its most ardent believers do because, in many cases, it takes what they say they believe at face value. Religion and horror, especially supernatural horror, are siblings because they ask the same questions that have animated our imaginations for millennia: Who am I, where did I come from, where am I going, and what awaits me there? Through horror culture, through its engagement with the religious imagination, it is the putative certainty of religious answers that are continually called into question, not the questions to which those answers profess certainty. Douglas E. Cowan Professor of Religious Studies Renison University College

REFERENCES Cowan, D.E. (2008). Sacred Terror: Religion and Horror on the Silver Screen. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Cowan, D.E., & Bromley, D.G. (2015). Cults and New Religions: A Brief History (Wiley Blackwell Brief Histories of Religion). Chichester, England: John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Disch, T.M. (2000). The Dreams Our Stuff Is Made Of: How Science Fiction Conquered the World. New York, NY: Touchstone. Hardy, R. (Director). (1973). The Wicker Man [Motion picture]. United Kingdom: British Lion Films. Hickox, A. (Director). (1992). Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth [Motion picture]. United States: Dimension Films & Miramax. James, W. (2009). The Varieties of Religious Experience. Lexington, KY: Seven Treasures Publications. King, S. (2017). Rainy Season. In Nightmares & Dreamscapes. New York, NY: Scribner. King, S. (2018). Just After Sunset. New York, NY: Scribner.

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introduction Lovecraft, H.P. (2002). The Call of Cthulhu. In S.T. Joshi (Ed.), The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories. London, England: Penguin Books. Nietzsche, F. (2007). The Antichrist. In Twilight of the Idols (A.M. Ludovici, Trans.). Ware, England: Wordsworth Editions. Plato. (2007). The Republic (D. Lee Trans.). London, England: Penguin Books. Smith, J.Z. (1982). Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Yagher, K. (Director). (1996). Hellraiser: Bloodline [Motion picture]. United States: Dimension Films & Miramax.

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onward, christian soldiers: eyes of believers in the conjuring (2013) and the conjuring 2 (2016) ALEXANDRA WEST

has dominated the American language of values Christianity since the 1980s, with the rise of what has come to be known

as the Moral Majority. Up until the early 1970s, this movement, led by Baptist minister Rev. Jerry Falwell in Virginia, United States, held beliefs aligned with the notion that Church and State were to remain separate; it was up to the Church to win souls, not votes. This ideal changed in 1973, when the Supreme Court ruled in favor of legalizing abortions in the case of Roe v. Wade. A disappointed Falwell began urging all God-fearing Christians to enter and engage with the political arena, believing the downfall of the nation would be brought about by homosexuality, women’s liberation, the Equal Rights Amendment, and pornography (Public Broadcasting Service, n.d.). In the American Presidential Election of 1980, Falwell became a key figure in the Republican campaign, flying around the country delivering speeches and mobilizing support for the politician he believed would do his utmost to uphold conservative Christian values, Ronald Reagan. Falwell’s rhetoric became increasingly vitriolic and led to the 17

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eventual disbanding of the Moral Majority in 1989, though the organization’s conservative ideology continues as both a cultural blueprint and life-sustaining heartbeat throughout much of America to this day. This relationship between Christianity and American culture has become more pervasive and problematic in the years since, which is ironic given the desire of early European settlers to escape religious persecution. Christian ideology is, to many, as American as apple pie or the Fourth of July. In times of crisis and uncertainty, it becomes a guiding force—a force that calls back to a simpler time when nuclear families flourished and evil was easily identifiable as anything outside of those social norms. The creature comforts Christianity has come to represent for contemporary American society are as accepted as they are insidious. Parallel to the positive attributes of this religion—or any religion, really—is a dark side; this aspect of Christianity rejects non-patriarchal notions and creates a breeding ground for hatred and intolerance. In horror films depicting Christianity, members of the clergy often represent a stabilizing force, one that is able to identify and cast out evil—marking a clear delineation between innocence and corruption while potentially feeding the stillwarm body of the Moral Majority. Josiah M. Hesse (2016), citing Prof. Hector Avalos, refers to this propaganda in the Vice story “Why Are So Many Horror Films Christian Propaganda?”: “Many of these films are explicitly Christian propaganda with a missionary agenda,” says Hector Avalos, a professor of religious studies at Iowa State University who teaches a class on religion and film. Avalos compares movies like The Omen to Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, claiming they both 18

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have an agenda. “Many filmmakers actually believe in the message of their films. They see their jobs as being missionaries for Christianity, and film is their missionary tool. Fear is a missionary tool. The message is that evil is real enough to be feared, and that you should view Christianity or religion as the best answer.” (para. 6) James Wan’s The Conjuring (2013) and The Conjuring 2 (2016) follow fictionalized events drawn from the supposedly real adventures of Ed and Lorraine Warren, two deeply Christian figures on a mission to deliver white-heteronormative families from the clutches of certain evil. In these films, the Warrens come to represent a certitude: the way the American family can and should be. As evidenced by Ed and Lorraine’s blissful filmic relationship, such patriarchal, Christian ideals reflect a particular set of familial and faith-based values that serve to offer stability within the narratives of both films. The real-life Ed and Lorraine Warren have become significant figures in the paranormal community since their highly publicized involvement in the Amityville case, as documented in the 1977 bestselling book The Amityville Horror by Jay Anson (with input from the alleged victims of the haunting, George and Kathleen Lutz), and Stuart Rosenberg’s Hollywood film adaptation in 1979. The Warrens’ dealings in the strange and unusual officially began in 1952, when they founded the New England Society for Psychic Research (N.E.S.P.R.). Throughout their careers, the Warrens purported to be devout Catholics and often claimed to work with the Catholic Church to carry out investigations and exorcisms. They claimed Ed was the only non-ordained demonologist recognized by the Catholic Church and Lorraine was a 19

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gifted medium. According to the Warrens’ official website, the N.E.S.P.R. was meant to simply investigate local hauntings. However, when they accepted a case which they believed was being caused by the supposedly lost ghost of a little girl looking for her mother, Ed saw their role surpassing simple investigation: they were also counselors (N.E.S.P.R., n.d.). While many—if not all— of the Warrens’ investigations have been disproved, they still command a formidable presence in paranormal and, recently, more mainstream circles thanks in large part to The Conjuring and The Conjuring 2. Both films present the Warrens as Catholic missionaries who save tormented families from both literal and metaphorical demons. Though the Warrens founded the N.E.S.P.R. in 1952, they did not see a rise in interest in their work until the 1970s, with the aforementioned Amityville case. Another notable cultural phenomenon during this decade was the release of William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973), which not only enjoyed huge box office returns but was also nominated for several Academy Awards, a still-rare feat for a horror film. The Exorcist stirred a cultural conversation about religion in Western society, which seemed to be falling apart in the United States: could religion or spirituality be the saving force the West was desperate for, or was it another distraction in the midst of a chaotic decade? Garry Gilfoy, author of The BIG Picture: Insights from the Spiritual World (2012), writes: After two World Wars, the events in Vietnam would become a catalyst for an irresistible peace movement in the West. The staid and stable days of the ‘50s were completely turned on their head during the protests of the ‘60s and ‘70s. John Lennon framed these tumultuous times with the catchcry 20

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“All we are saying, is give peace a chance.” The longing was a moral and spiritual one, but a search for leadership in the West seemed futile. There was no spiritual tradition apart from the very conservative churches, which were as much part of the establishment as the politicos. (para. 6-7) Author Harvey J. Irwin builds on this sentiment in his book The Psychology of Paranormal Belief: A Researcher’s Handbook (2009), looking specifically at government intervention in society: “The next major impetus to the study of paranormal belief came with the increased use of psychedelic drugs and the associated ‘consciousness explosion’ in the late 1960s. Public interest in the paranormal rose dramatically and as might be expected this social phenomenon spurred further empirical research into paranormal belief” (p. 40). For the America entering the final quarter of the twentieth century, there was uncertainty up to the highest levels of government, a culture that was causing moral chaos, and a rapid introduction of psychedelic drugs; from the Watergate scandal to the convoluted and deadly war in Vietnam, the American dream was fading from memory as a grim new reality took hold. As hippie culture and outsider figures like Charles Manson were consumed by mass media, the Christian Church seemed like a safe bet, as it provided a clear delineation of good versus evil. Blockbuster films like The Exorcist illustrated that, while evil could take many forms and corrupt the innocent, the Christian Church would never turn its back on a family in need. As the chaos of the decade raged, figures like the Warrens stepped forward to offer respite from the uncertainty while quietly couching their powers and value in the Christian faith. When The Conjuring was released in 2013, the marketing for 21

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the most part played into the notion of a straightforward haunted house spook-fest. Wan, who has often been touted as the harbinger of the torture porn subgenre with his breakthrough film Saw (2004), would go on to make more traditional horror films with creepy puppets—as in Dead Silence (2007)—and show his predilection for demonically traumatized families with the Insidious series (Insidious, 2010; Insidious: Chapter 2, 2013; Insidious: Chapter 3, 2015; Insidious: The Last Key, 2018).1 In advance of the July 2013 release of The Conjuring, Warner Bros. purported that the film was based on true events and true case files, also floating the idea that The Conjuring received an R-rating from the Motion Picture Association of American (MPAA)—despite actively trying for a PG-13 rating—for simply being too scary. As The Atlantic’s Ian Buckwalter (2013) reported at the time of the film’s release: The Conjuring’s executive producer, Walter Hamada, said that the MPAA told them, “‘It’s just so scary. [There are] no specific scenes or tone you could take out to get it PG-13.’” No sex, no nudity, no profanity—just too scary. In one tidy sound bite, Hamada turned The Conjuring into the sort of movie that horror-loving teens essentially have to find a way to see. The film took the top spot at the box office this past weekend, earning an impressive $41.5 million—the best debut for an R-rated horror flick ever. One can only guess how many tickets to Pacific Rim, The Lone Ranger, or World War Z sold this weekend were actually for 16-year-olds sneaking into the screen next door to see just how scary too scary is. (para. 4-5) 1 James Wan directed the first two films in the Insidious series and produced the third and fourth.

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Beyond the hype and hubris of the marketing, a smaller campaign was put into place that targeted a rather large section of the American population (Hesse, 2016). Though the Warrens were relatively well-known in certain contained paranormal circles at the time, they were not as well-known for being devout Christian figures as they worked outside of the Church. Additionally, Lorraine’s ‘gift’ as a medium was not exactly something ordained by the Church itself. Seemingly, their dependence on demonology and the occult would exclude them from maintaining Christian values, but their faith is a foundational element of the film. As Andrew O’Hehir (2013) wrote for the website Salon at the time of the film’s release: It’s fair to say that the driving force behind the New England Society for Psychic Research, the Warrens’ nutbar organization, was their sense that Catholics in particular and Americans in general were losing faith – not faith in God, who remains pretty popular, but faith in Satan. If you can work your way through the stream-of consciousness prose on the Warrens’ hallucinogenic website, which appears to have been designed by demons, that comes through loud and clear. “A skeptical public is the best protection that evil has,” Ed Warren writes, “and I’m going to make sure that I expose that evil any way I can.” Catholic priests who deny the existence of the devil or refuse to perform exorcisms are betraying their own faith. “The devil exists. God exists. And for us as people, our very destiny hinges upon which one we elect to follow.” (para. 6) The Conjuring opens with a short introductory precursor in which the Warrens (played by Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga) 23

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investigate one of their most famous cases, the Annabelle doll— which would go on to receive its own spin-off film series with Annabelle (2014), Annabelle: Creation (2017), and Annabelle Comes Home (2019). The sequence, in which two terrified nurses relay the torment endured since bringing Annabelle into their apartment, ends with the Warrens offering to take the doll— which they reveal is possessed by a demonic entity—and locking it away in a cordoned-off section of their home regularly blessed by a priest. Meanwhile, the Perrons have moved into a remote, rambling property. A large family of two parents and five daughters, they have fallen on hard times financially and are relieved to have stumbled upon this deal of a house. As they settle in, strange occurrences manifest on a regular basis, from their pet dog being brutally killed to an unseen force attacking the family. Family matriarch Carolyn (Lili Taylor) seeks out the Warrens, who are nearby on their university lecture tour, and implores them to help. The Warrens agree and Lorraine very quickly senses something powerful tormenting the family. They discern that the house once belonged to an accused witch, Bathsheba (Joseph Bishara), who sacrificed her newborn child to the Devil and then killed herself, cursing anyone who claims her property. A string of deaths and suicides have taken place on the land, and the specter of Bathsheba soon attaches itself to Carolyn in an attempt to possess her and kill her youngest child, April (Kyla Deaver). Ed attempts to complete an exorcism to save Carolyn and is overpowered by Bathsheba (in Carolyn’s body), who escapes her confinements and corners April in the walls of the house. It is Lorraine who reminds Carolyn of her family and the happy memories she shared with the Warrens. Lorraine manages

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to touch Carolyn’s head through torn floorboards while reciting the importance of family and her strength as a mother: Lorraine: Carolyn, NO! This is your daughter, you can’t give in! Ed: Lorraine, get her back. Lorraine: Remember what you showed me. Remember that day you said you would never forget. You said they meant the world to you. This is what you’ll be leaving behind. Using her powers as a medium to reach Carolyn, willing her to fight back, Lorraine’s hand on Carolyn’s head is accompanied by an inexplicable beam of white light. Choral music builds angelically in the background, coding this scene as beatifically Christian, and the demon is expelled. This is not just an exorcism but a spiritual intervention guided by believers of the Church. With the Warrens’ work complete, they return home to a telephone call about a case in Long Island—alluding to the Amityville haunting. Cinematically, The Conjuring does nothing new in terms of scares. Many of Wan’s effective conventions have been present in possession and haunting films since Robert Wise’s The Haunting (1963). The Conjuring follows a similar pattern to The Amityville Horror (sans Warrens), featuring a down-on-their-luck family moving into a new home only to discover their excellent deal is a dangerous one in the long run. This general theme was explored in several other contemporary films such as Burnt Offerings (1976), The Changeling (1980), and Poltergeist (1982). The Conjuring films are indebted to this nostalgia both aesthetically and thematically via their throwback quality (from the soundtrack, costuming, and slight filter on the camera, giving the first film a washed-out sepia tone and the second a gray-blue 25

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coldness) and their simplistic takes on good and evil. The Conjuring flies in the face of the post-September 11th, 2001-era ideology of complicity as a breeding ground for evil, harkening back to a time when demons just liked to hurt good people. Jessica O’Hara (2012) discusses the need for specters of belief post-September 11th, 2001: Perhaps it has something to do with September 11, an event that created seismic shifts in American thinking. That day of horror and tragedy, during which the scenes of sublime terror in a blockbuster disaster film became all too real, has prompted a collective interest in the nature of evil, haunted spaces (such as the destroyed World Trade Center towers), enduring trauma and mourning, and the debt the living owe the dead in seeking justice and reparation […] Since 9/11 history has presented itself as trauma, which invites us to imagine history’s task as uncovering and authenticating sites of disturbance and tragedy, the haunts of restless spirits. (pp. 81-82) The restless spirits of the films upon which The Conjuring apes are complicated. Most often, the spirits are those wronged by a still-living human, the true villain of the narrative rather than the spirits themselves. The Conjuring eschews this convention in favor of the simplistic notion that all true evil comes from Hell and must be kept there. So, what traumas, displacements, or justice lie at the heart of The Conjuring? Simply put: conservatism. Beyond the saccharine calls from Lorraine to Carolyn about family meaning everything to her (surely Carolyn had a book group or a hobby), the truly crippling conservative hand of the Catholic Church and the Moral Majority is felt through the film’s antagonist, Bathsheba. An accused witch in New England, 26

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this character becomes increasingly problematic through the historical revisionist lens that the film favors: The Conjuring’s conservative politics are mostly implicit. Its historical revisionism, on the other hand, is all up in our grills. We learn that the persecuted people of 17th century New England were not, in fact, victims of religious fanaticism. They were Satanists who presumably got exactly what they deserved. The Crucible, and generations of historiography, has gotten it all wrong […] Conservative estimates of the victims of the trans-Atlantic witch-hunts in the early modern world come in at around 50,000 people. Women made up about 80 percent of those victims. (Poole, 2013, para. 8-9) The Conjuring becomes a conservative mouthpiece as it punishes and names the great fear central to the conservative American dream, a default in motherhood and traditional gender-based duties. For American women of the twentieth century, being a mother and keeping a home was paramount in terms of duties and anything beyond those duties could be viewed as ‘having it all.’ The traditional role for a woman as wife and mother is central to the notion of family stability in The Conjuring: once that role is disrupted, the family begins to crumble. The Conjuring casts its eye back on the early American crimes of the New England witch hunts to propose that, actually, the Puritans were on to something. In seeking to cast out Puritan society’s undesirables via the witch hunts of New England and Europe, anyone stepping out of line with Christianity was a target. As Leo Braudy writes in his book Haunted: On Ghosts, Witches, Vampires, Zombies, and Other Monsters of the Natural and Supernatural Worlds (2018): 27

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The world of witches was thus a bizarre inversion of the world of religious orthodoxy, and demonology itself an officially sanctioned way of publicly discussing and illustrating otherwise unusual or even blasphemous sexual behavior. But as religious conflicts followed the Protestant Reformation, and an emerging nationalism, first in England and then elsewhere, began to undermine further the power of international Catholicism, the formerly local and individual nature of witches became depicted as a diabolic conspiracy with its own specific rituals—a distorted mirror of mainstream political and religious hierarchy. Particularly during the seventeenth century, established religion, whether Catholic in continental Europe or Protestant in Germany, England, and America, tried to characterize the world of witches in particular as a parallel but evil institution, as bureaucratized as the church itself, with Satan, of course, at its head and his followers witches who specifically signed a legally binding pact with the devil. (p. 44) Braudy illustrates that, to the Church, witches and witchcraft represented the antithesis to the notion of woman as subservient wife and mother. The Conjuring assumes that good can radiate from organized religion, which can cast out trauma and evil by sheer virtue. This is not all too different from the politics of the Moral Majority, as followers saw it as their job to do away with the evils within present-day America—saving it from itself. While the film appears to be a formulaic retreading of genre ground, its nature is incredibly political in its conservative values, specifically its blindingly optimistic stance on religion during the year it was released. 2013 marked yet another term 28

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for the progressive, if not consciously tuned in: Democrat Barack Obama took office as President, the Supreme Court overturned the Defense of Marriage Act, allowing for same-sex marriage, and Edward Snowden revealed the depths to which the public was being monitored. This was not only an awakening for the American public—if they were ready for it—but also a sense that real and lasting change was possible. What a time to release a witch-hating film where the white-heteronormative middle-class family is saved by another white-heteronormative family, preaching the power of family, unity, and belief in the Devil. Ed and Lorraine in The Conjuring are nubile, caring, level-headed, alert, and fast-acting; they are the children of God who anyone would be happy to see on their doorstep. Their religion and ideology is not theirs alone, it is theirs to spread: Lorraine: Do you remember the thing you said on our wedding night? Ed: Can we do it again? Lorraine: No! The other thing, that God brought us together for a reason. The film consistently implies that the Warrens’ love is blessed by something bigger than them: they are on a mission to save the world one exorcism at a time and it is their love that sustains them as they accomplish this holy task. Even the film’s marketing did not escape this specific form of Christian propaganda. While it may be argued that many discerning viewers can utilize the suspension of disbelief to enjoy a film, it is worth noting that Warner Bros. employed a rather sinister marketing approach. During the film’s regular run of engagement, Dread Central 29

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reported a The Conjuring ‘goody bag’ being distributed at a Chicago screening, replete with a branded exorcism and prayer kit (Barton, 2013). There was also a foam-core poster propped up on an easel by the theater’s entrance proclaiming: WARNING The film you are about to see is psychologically and emotionally disturbing. People who have attended early screenings of the film have complained about many unusual circumstances that they have experienced after seeing the film. Due to our concern for your well-being, we have invited Father Malave to be here. He will be available after the film to provide spiritual support and/or conduct a personal blessing should you feel the need. Please do not hesitate to seek help. Ask a representative where you can sign up for a session with our priest. (cited in Barton, 2013) While it is not unusual for a major film to provide branded swag to press and selected audiences, rarely do they put their faith in organized religion. The lure of The Conjuring comes not only from the good and helpful characters within the film but the notion that they provide the sole answer. The Perron family is inherently good: Carolyn is an attentive mother, patriarch Roger’s (Ron Livingston) only sin is having to be away from his family for periods of time to maintain his job as a long-haul trucker, and their children are typically healthy and happy siblings. But, their kind of goodness—a modern separation from Church and State goodness—is not enough to prevent the cruel old world, which the film seeks to carefully rewrite as puritanical correctness. The 30

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underlying and regressive message of The Conjuring is that modernism, the kind to which the Moral Majority would come to object, is a way of life that leaves families susceptible to unspeakable evil and forces them to rely on the kindness of strangers. After the undeniable success of The Conjuring, a sequel was quickly greenlit which would see the Warrens take on one of the most well-documented cases of alleged poltergeist activity and possession in the Western world: the haunting in Enfield, a borough in London, England, between 1977 and 1979. With its release set for 2016, Warner Bros. developed a massive marketing push; in addition to enticing the general public with thrills and chills, the production company reached out to the Christian community via screenwriting partners and brothers Chad and Carey Hayes. Practicing Christians, the pair wrote the script for The Conjuring and were invited to pen the sequel, once again speaking to the ideology behind the film and its shaping of the creative content. This is evidenced in an interview with The Christian Post’s Jeannie Law (2016): The Christian Post: When most Christians think of a scary movie, they think evil and avoid it. But you are trying to spread a specific message in this film that you think will resonate with Christians, what is that? Chad and Carey Hills: For us, it’s very simple; we love doing true stories of where good conquers evil. “Conjuring 2” is a story told through the eyes of believers, whose strongest weapon is their faith in God. Our film allows believers and non-believers to travel their journey with them, and in some ways, maybe affect someone who is on the edge of faith, and somehow give them the strength they need. 31

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The Christian Post: What advice does the movie offer to help people have faith in God? Chad and Carey Hills: Have faith in God, because he’s the winner. Through Him, evil is banished, a young girl is saved, and a family is brought back together. Without the Warrens and their faith, none of that would have happened, and this film is just one of millions of examples. (para. 7-10)2 The Conjuring 2 sees the Warrens called to the aid of the Hodgson family in Enfield. A single parent family, with the father having abandoned his wife and three children, the Hodgsons are terrorized by an apparent poltergeist. When middle child Janet (Madison Wolfe) becomes the target of this unseen force, the Warrens and a band of reporters, scientists, and paranormal investigators follow. The Conjuring 2 this time ties the evil to a powerful demon, Valak (Bonnie Aarons), who takes on the appearance of a kind of ‘death metal’ nun that Lorraine first encounters in the opening scene. Again drawing from the Warrens’ wider case files, just as in the previous film’s opening sequence, the film begins in 112 Ocean Avenue in Long Island, New York—the site of the infamous Amityville haunting. In a vision, while conducting a séance at the house, Lorraine encounters a demonic nun. Ed mysteriously then paints this figure, causing Lorraine to have visions of Ed’s death and making her reticent to become involved in another case. This is an inversion of the narrative from the first film, in which Ed was hesitant to pursue cases after Lorraine was traumatized during an exorcism—further centering the love of the protagonists as the heart of the film. Despite several red herrings, 2 The Christian Post interview refers to Chad and Carey Hayes as Chad and Carey Hills throughout.

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centrally that the Hodgsons and Warrens believe the force tormenting them to be the deceased former resident of the Hodgsons’ family home, The Conjuring 2 takes great pleasure in revealing the twist: the demon Valak was controlling the old man’s ghost and purposefully targeting Ed and Lorraine because of their powers. Ultimately, Valak is a construct of the imagination of Wan, as he told Germain Lussier (2016) for the website i09 shortly after the film’s release: “I had a strong outlook on the whole movie, but the one thing I wasn’t quite sure of [was the design of the demon character],” Wan said. “I felt like I was still discovering it. And believe it or not, I always knew that I was going to do additional photography. So I was saving it because I was hoping I’d discover what that thing would look like as I was putting the movie together in post-production […] And it came across eventually in a very organic way. Because it is a demonic vision that haunts her, that only attacks her, I wanted something that would attack her faith. Something that would threaten the safety of her husband. And so that was eventually how the idea of this very iconographic image of a holy icon cemented in my head.” (para. 9–11) Wan and his team decided to highlight the demonic pastime of deception by utilizing a traditional nun’s habit as a garment for Valak; this design suggests that the costume is part of a demonic agenda to test Lorraine’s faith, though this aspect of the narrative is crucially never fully explored. Valak’s ultimate goal is simply to lure the Warrens to Enfield, creating an atmosphere of doubt and uncertainty in order to face them at an advantage and kill them for 33

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all the good and safety they offer. The Conjuring 2—in large part completely fictional in regards to the Warrens’ involvement in the Enfield case—chooses to focus its central theme on the love between Ed and Lorraine and how it is as wholesome as it is powerful. As the Warrens settle in Enfield, hoping to get to the bottom of the strange occurrences, they also discover a broken but hopeful family. Peggy Hodgson (Frances O’Connor) is a kind mother worn thin by her circumstances and the haunting; her children want to help but are unsure of how to do so. While the film unflinchingly portrays all the Hodgsons’ accounts as fact, in reality, many people doubted and even claimed to disprove the events the Hodgsons recounted—particularly accusing Peggy and Janet of fabricating the events. When the family comments that there is no joy or music in the house (joy in particular being something demons apparently hate) in their father’s absence, as he literally took the record collection with him, Ed quickly grabs a guitar lying in a corner of the house and serenades them all with the Elvis Presley classic “Can’t Help Falling in Love” from 1961. The only other notable song to appear in the film occurs early on, when “London Calling” (1979) by The Clash blares over expositional shots of London’s urban landscape. “London Calling” is a song about the apocalyptic future that was waiting for the country and is loaded considering the events at Enfield took place between 1977 and 1979. England was at a crossroads during this period; in response to the Queen’s Jubilee in 1977, punk band the Sex Pistols released their album Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols, which contained their anarchistic—and subsequently moral-panic inducing—single “God Save the Queen.” The economic recession continued with the ‘Winter of Discontent’ in 1978, which saw public sector trade unions 34

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staging several strikes against the Labour Party’s attempt to control inflation by capping pay and ultimately led to controversial conservative politician Margaret Thatcher securing the role of Prime Minister in 1979. Much like America, England found itself combatting uncertain futures with the safety of the traditional. The Warrens, ever emblematic traditionalists, are not concerned by political upheaval, unrest, or civic engagement—they are in the business of soul saving. Throughout the film, Lorraine is uncertain about engaging with the haunting because of her love for Ed and her prophetic vision of his death. In the end, it is her faith in him and their love, as they both work as a united front to save the family and send Valak back to Hell, that changes his fate. In their final moments with the Hodgson family, after all wrongs have been righted, the two families embrace: Lorraine: You saved her. Ed: No, you saved us. Didn’t I tell you it was meant to be? Lorraine: But you believed in me. Couldn’t have done it without you. Peggy: (coming over with Janet) Thanks for coming back for us! Janet embraces Ed. Ed: Here, sit down (taking off the cross around his neck). Y’know, this has kept me safe since I was a kid. I want you to have it and when you grow up you find someone who needs it and give it to them. Deal? In the world of The Conjuring 2, it was never about the Hodgson family: it was always about the Warrens. With the Warrens, fear, poverty, strife, and uncertainty do not matter—only a steady belief in the Christian God will right the wrongs of this world. They are 35

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Christian missionaries whose message is promoting a fervent belief in God via seemingly pure intentions and Christian aid. In another film, the figure of Valak taking on features of a traditional nun could cause the characters to ascertain that religion is a destructive force because it can be weaponized against them. The Conjuring films present yet another opportunity to spread the word of God, as Ed demonstrates in passing his cross (to bear) to Janet, telling her to then pass it on to someone when they need it. The love at the center of these films is not familial, platonic, or romantic; it is the love of a higher power, the only thing that can save lost sheep who lack religion in their lives. In times of stress and chaos, as one would imagine a family-based possession could yield, a steady knowing hand is a comfort, but it must always be asked where that steady hand is coming from. When fiction is presented as deeply rooted fact, this is not only terribly misleading but also extremely problematic on several levels. Over the years, the Warrens have repeatedly been accused of fraud and chasing fame and recognition by working with pariahs or preying on the vulnerable. The Warrens have often inflated their own involvement in paranormal cases, as has been reported and evidenced by several sources and lawsuits. The Conjuring films are works of scary, spooky fun but also channel strange undercurrents of Christian conservatism. This ideology favors the appeal of the Moral Majority, who are dependent on Christians to live in fear of the Devil and repercussions from God. In these films, the characters of Ed and Lorraine Warren are not only works of fiction—a world away from their personas in real life—but tools of deception creating fanciful tales of good people becoming better people through belief in the higher power of God. 36

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The Conjuring films utilize 1970s aesthetic nostalgia to peddle conservative Christian ideas and gender roles, making these elements seem not only good but necessary in the battle against evil. Not once do the Warrens question each other or their faith, creating narratives which feel more like propaganda than reality. By neglecting any sort of conflict or tension between the Warrens and their religion, the films simplify the concepts of good and evil, and light and dark—creating a very narrow definition of ‘good.’ While, for many, the films are effective and thrilling, they pander rather than confront. In the ever-modernizing and accessible real world, The Conjuring films offer the reductive comfort of good existing in a place that feels familiar and safe, if not regressive.

REFERENCES Anson, J. (2005). The Amityville Horror. New York, NY: Pocket Star Books. Barton, S. (2013, June 28). Chicago Screening of The Conjuring Comes Complete with a Priest and a Warning! Dread Central. Retrieved from https://www.dreadcentral.com/news/45860/chicago-screening-of-theconjuring-comes-complete-with-a-priest-and-a-warning/ Braudy, L. (2018). Haunted: On Ghosts, Witches, Vampires, Zombies, and Other Monsters of the Natural and Supernatural Worlds. New Haven, CT & London, England: Yale University Press. Buckwalter, I. (2013, July 22). Did The Conjuring Really Deserve an ‘R’ Rating Just for Being Scary? The Atlantic. Retrieved from https://www. theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2013/07/did-em-the-conjuringem-really-deserve-an-r-rating-just-for-being-scary/277965/ Cook, P.T., Jones, S.P., Lydon, J., & Matlock, G. (1977). God Save the Queen. On Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols [Vinyl]. London, England: Virgin & A&M. Creatore, L., Peretti, H., & Weiss, G.D. (1961). Can’t Help Falling in Love [Recorded by E. Presley]. On Blue Hawaii [Vinyl]. California, CA: RCA Victor. 

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scared sacred Curtis, D. (Director). (1976). Burnt Offerings [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists. Dauberman, G. (Director). (2019). Annabelle Comes Home [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Friedkin, W. (Director). (1973). The Exorcist [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Gilfoy, G. (2012). Big Picture: Insights from the Spiritual World. New York, NY: IUniverse. Hesse, J.M. (2016, October 19). ​W hy Are So Many Horror Films Christian Propaganda? Vice. Retrieved from https://www.vice.com/en_ca/article/ gqkj84/why-are-so-many-horror-films-christian-propaganda Hooper, T. (Director). (1982). Poltergeist [Motion picture]. United States: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer & United Artists.  Irwin, H.J. (2009). The Psychology of Paranormal Belief: A Researcher’s Handbook. Hatfield, England: University of Hertfordshire Press. Jones, M., & Strummer, J. (1979). London Calling [Recorded by The Clash]. On London Calling [Vinyl]. London, England: CBS. Law, J. (2016, June 08). Horror Film ‘The Conjuring 2’ Seeks to Promote Christian Message, Good Conquers Evil (Exclusive Clip). Christian Post. Retrieved from https://www.christianpost.com/news/conjuring-2christian-good-conquers-evil-interview-exclusive-clip-164931/ Leonetti, J.R. (Director). (2014). Annabelle [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Lussier, G. (2016, June 13). James Wan Explains That Big Twist in The Conjuring 2. io9. Retrieved from https://io9.gizmodo.com/ james-wan-explains-that-big-twist-in-the-conjuring-2-1781770378 Medak, P. (Director). (1980). The Changeling [Motion picture]. Canada: Associated Film Distribution. New England Society for Psychic Research (N.E.S.P.R.). (n.d.). Retrieved from http://www.warrens.net/warrens-biography/ O’Hara, J. (2012). Making Their Presence Known: TV’s Ghost-Hunter Phenomenon in a “Post-” World. In T. Fahy (Ed.), Philosophy of Horror. Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky. O’Hehir, A. (2013, July 18). “The Conjuring”: Right-Wing, Woman-Hating and Really Scary. Salon. Retrieved from https://www.salon.com/2013/07/ 18/the_conjuring_right_wing_woman_hating_and_really_scary

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onward, christian soldiers Poole, S. (2013, September 28). Faith-Based Horror: The Conjuring Is a Misogynistic Cauldron of Toil and Trouble. Huffington Post. Retrieved from https://www.huffpost.com/entry/ faithbased-horror-the-con_b_3670617 Public Broadcasting Service (PBS). (n.d.). God in America: People & Ideas: Jerry Falwell. Retrieved from http://www.pbs.org/godinamerica/people/ jerry-falwell.html Robitel, A. (Director). (2018). Insidious: The Last Key [Motion picture]. United States: Universal Pictures. Rosenberg, S. (Director). (1979). The Amityville Horror [Motion picture]. United States: American International Pictures. Sandberg, D.F. (Director). (2017). Annabelle: Creation [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Wan, J. (Director). (2004). Saw [Motion picture]. United States: Lionsgate Films.  Wan, J. (Director). (2007). Dead Silence [Motion picture]. United States: Universal Pictures.  Wan, J. (Director). (2010). Insidious [Motion picture]. Canada & United States: FilmDistrict. Wan, J. (Director). (2013). Insidious: Chapter 2 [Motion picture]. United States: FilmDistrict. Wan, J. (Director). (2013). The Conjuring [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Wan, J. (Director). (2016). The Conjuring 2 [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Whannell, L. (Director). (2015). Insidious: Chapter 3 [Motion picture]. Canada, United Kingdom & United States: Sony Pictures Releasing International, Entertainment One Films & Focus Features. Wise, R. (Director). (1963). The Haunting [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

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“I DON’T KNOW IF WE’VE GOT THE HEIR TO THE THORN MILLIONS HERE OR JESUS CHRIST HIMSELF”: CATHOLICISM, SATANISM AND THE ROLE OF PREDESTINATION IN THE OMEN (1976) dr LMK SHEPPARD

n The Omen’s (1976) climactic scene, protagonist Robert Thorn I(Gregory Peck) takes his adoptive son Damien (Harvey Stephens) to sacred ground on the instruction of historian and demonologist/exorcist Carl Bugenhagen (Leo McKern). Thorn plans to murder the young heir in accordance with an ancient ritual. The entire narrative has led to this moment, at which point the titular omen is finally brought to bear: will the suspected Son of Satan be allowed to live, or will he be sacrificed for the greater good? This choice is not one made of free will; it has been predestined since biblical times, as confirmed by the final scene. At the double funeral of his parents, the camera focuses upon the face of Damien as he smiles before revealing that the child is holding the hands of two adults: Thorn’s best friends, the President of the United States and his first lady. Thorn’s attempt to kill Damien has set in motion a specific course of events, and the orphaned child has been adopted by arguably the most politically 41

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influential couple in the world. Thorn’s choice therefore played a pivotal part in the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy: the Antichrist will arise from the world of politics and bring about the apocalypse. Initially regarded as a difficult conundrum, Thorn’s decision to kill Damien is revealed to be no choice at all but an inevitable, predestined outcome. The Omen, as a cultural text, acts as an agent within this sociopolitical environment and a disseminator of conservative and religious dogmatic roles. Even such apparently antithetical religions as Satanism and Catholicism are configured and conceived as equally historically rooted and thus equally traditional faith mechanisms. This agency contributes to cultural stabilization and personal grounding, providing a challenge and alternative to the modernist agenda of liberty and openness that characterizes the era in which it was made. If “To be modern is to live a life of paradox and contradiction” (Berman, 2010, p. 13), then The Omen may be regarded as being equally unsettled. It treads the line between these two sociopolitical opposites in its thematic analysis, artistic choices, and secular and religious reception in the press. Superficially, The Omen positions itself as both reactionary and ultra-conservative by appearing to support a traditional philosophy containing historical imperatives, such as an observance to traditional religions and familial generational connectivity. The thematic thrust of The Omen warns against a breakdown of such systems’ sociopolitical authority, coined as “grand narratives” by Jean François Lyotard (1984, p. xxiv), an integral component of its contemporaneous modernist culture that repudiates such institutional underpinnings (Jancovich, 1992; Sobchack, 2015; Wood, 2003). In a chapter titled “Post-Fordism, Postmodernism 42

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and Paranoia,” Mark Jancovich (1992) argues that the general sociopolitical insecurity and subsequent concomitant, overarching breakdown of stabilization in the 1970s resulted from an unbridled foregrounding of cultural commodification. This problematic social configuration ushered in a culture of narcissism, wherein self-interest takes precedence over historically outward-facing mechanisms of identification, stabilization, and restraint—such as the family and the Church (Jancovich, 1992). Likewise, citing The Omen as an example, Vivian Sobchack (2015) asserts that this explosion in turn leads to an end-of-the-world scenario: From the early to mid-1970s and coincident with bourgeois society’s negative response to the youth movements and drug culture of the late 1960s […] [t]he child was figured as an alien force that threatened both its immediate family and all adult authority that would keep it in its place […] The bodies and souls of such children […] are “possessed” by demonic, supernatural, and ahistoric forces that play out apocalypse in the middle-class home. (p. 178) This literal demonization of the child was elicited by a prevalent countercultural phobia of the traditional family and the gender roles therein associated. On the one hand, the bread-winning father, through his existence in the public sphere of commerce, was seen to dominate; the stay-at-home mother, counter-culturalists argued, was denied a sense of individual selfhood due to her primary responsibility as a caregiver to both husband and offspring. She was relegated to the private sphere, her happiness a secondary consideration (at best) next to the needs of her 43

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family. On the other hand, even the dominant male position was regarded as entrapping; the father, being solely responsible for offering financial security, was tied to his job and his role as provider. Such gender roles were perceived as inherent anathemas to the apparent freedoms being championed in the 1970s culture of ‘getting loose,’ contributing to an undercurrent that vilified not only the traditional family but all such conservative, cultural mechanisms of individual stabilization associated with the patriarchy. In structuring a text around the conservative, nuclear Thorn family which fits into such a category, The Omen was viewed by film critics and historians like Robin Wood (2003) as being reactionary overall: In obvious ways The Omen is old-fashioned, traditional, reactionary: the goodness of the family unit isn’t questioned; horror is disowned by having the devil-child, a product of the Old World, unwittingly adopted into the American family; the devil-child and his independent female guardian […] are regarded as purely evil. (p. 79) The thematic privileging of institutions, including the family and traditional religion, over the lure of radical individualism within a horror text offers up readings that are unsettled, as Wood suggests. As individual agency is brought to its knees within The Omen, predestination and an outward focus on conservativism remains a dominant force that cannot be challenged, negated, or defeated. One must thus question whether the true terror rests in the glorification of the conservative or its potential undoing, as the film’s impending doom is achieved through a melding of Satanism and Catholicism—faiths configured as being equally 44

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historically rooted and traditional so as to become, at least within the world of this text, indistinguishable. The Omen’s thematic concern with orthodoxy and familial connectivity is first established by offering direct links between Damien and Jesus Christ in their respective predestined roles as the Antichrist and Messiah. The suggestion is that the generational legacy of both the Antichrist and Christ was not left to chance but instead determined and defined by biblical prophecy long before the birth of either. Through direct reference to Damien as an evil Messiah, a similar if oppositional role to that of Jesus Christ within traditional Christianity, Damien becomes imbued with a historical meaning and religious significance which cannot be denied or altered. The term ‘messiah’ is defined as “a leader who is believed to have the power to solve the world’s problems” (Cambridge Dictionary, n.d.). This name is used contextually, not merely as a way of defining or categorizing an individual, but a title to which the chosen one must adhere from birth. Like Christ, the Antichrist is defined not only through his role as a malevolent force in the clash between good and evil, but also through his acts of deception and parody. The Antichrist challenges the supremacy of God—not to bring about an end to earthly problems but an end to the world itself. He is regarded as a signifier of the end of days, thought to appear on the Earth to enact a final battle against spiritual benevolence. Indeed, like Christ, the Antichrist is a figure of preordained historical specificity and religious significance. As the narrative progresses, this collusion of the roles and representations manifest not only in the fates of the characters playing out these unavoidable series of events but also in the locations in which these happenings occur. The dual natures of Christ and 45

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the Antichrist are reinforced from the opening scene of The Omen. Thorn, the United States Ambassador to Italy, rushes to a Catholic hospital in Rome where his wife has just given birth. Upon arrival—and before seeing his wife—he is informed by a priest named Fr. Spiletto (Martin Benson) that while Katherine (Lee Remick) has survived, his child, a son, did not. Spiletto convinces Thorn to adopt another child who was born at the same time as his dead son, suggesting, “It would be a blessing to her [Katherine] and to the infant. On this night, God has given you a son.” In this statement, the priest infers the death of the biological child and birth of the changeling to be God’s will, thus invoking a predetermined chain of events. Further, combined with the presence of the priestly attendants, the location of the hospital, in close proximity to Vatican City, ultimately leads the audience to assume that the Christian God has bestowed the child unto the Thorns. However, this assumption is proven to be false. Spiletto is part of a satanic circle, a cabal of priests and nuns committed to the nurture of the Antichrist. Much later in the narrative, the importance of place as a marker of the preordained is reestablished via an important biblical location. Thorn is directed to the ancient city of Megiddo, which overlooks the Jezreel Valley in northern Israel, in order to gain instruction in destroying the Antichrist. As the film suggests, the prophesized apocalyptic site of the final battle between good and evil in the actual Book of Revelation has been interpreted by some to refer to a physical location, specifically this ancient site; the Greek name of the town translates roughly to ‘Armageddon.’ Another fabricated prophecy is revealed within the narrative universe of The Omen, one which further regards the end of days. Just as the diametrically opposed—and thus intrinsically 46

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connected—individuals Damien and Christ equally align under the sway of orthodox determinism, Christianity and Satanism demonstrate shared omens alluded to in the title of the film. Revealed through the use of biblical referents, this piece of fictional scripture is quoted to Thorn by Fr. Brennan (Patrick Troughton), another satanic priest and member of the cabal to which Spiletto has dedicated himself: When the Jews return to Zion, And a comet rips the sky, And the Holy Roman Empire rises, Then you and I must die. From the eternal sea he rises, Creating armies on either shore, Turning man against his brother, ‘Til man exists no more. Once again, both the prophetic nature of the impending apocalypse and the roles that are to be played therein are established through location. The second line in the fictitious verse refers to a comet, which directly conjures the image of the star of Bethlehem—another example of reversal between the signal of the birth of Christ and Antichrist. Just as the star led the three kings, shepherds, and other followers to the manger in which the Christ-child lay (Luke 2:1-20), the film suggests another celestial occurrence: the equally signaled time and location of Damien’s birth. Just as the star of Bethlehem did upon the birthplace of Christ, the comet appears on the opposite side of the Earth. These natural occurrences, as linked as the two sides of the proverbial coin, establish both the birth of Christ and the Antichrist as preordained. 47

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Later in the film, the nature of Thorn’s decision is also revealed to be predetermined via the same prophecy. The titular, fictional omen goes on to state that the Antichrist shall come from the world of politics: “the eternal sea.” This is a world in which Thorn and his powerful friends (including the President of the United States) belong. The choice made by Thorn, and subsequently the President, once again parallels the choice made by the biblical figure of Joseph. In adopting a child that is not biologically his, Joseph is rendered significant not by the identity of the individual he adopts per se but by what Christ comes to stand for generationally as a descendent of the house of David (Matthew 1:17). Just as Joseph descended from King David, a fact which was foretold to be a characteristic of the coming Messiah, this anti-Messiah also comes from a family of power and privilege in the form of the Thorn dynasty, and is later integrated into the most powerful political family in America. Through God’s election, lineage is determined and rendered significant rather than being merely a biological accident in a chaotic world without meaning. The oppositional connectivity between Damien and Christ is not only revealed symbolically, in terms of a prophecy involving lineage and location, but also manifests the importance of this connection directly stated. At Damien’s birthday party, two photographers engage in shooting footage. One unnamed photographer turns to the other, Keith Jennings (David Warner), and inquires as to why the latter is not taking the opportunity to shoot more photos of the event. Jennings replies, “Just saving a bit [of film] for the canonization. I don’t know if we’ve got the heir to the Thorn millions here or Jesus Christ Himself.” The exchange appears to be a combination of familial connectivity and predestination revealed specifically through traditionally 48

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religious symbols. Damien is placed in the simultaneous role of familial heir and foretold savior. Though this prophetic passage is not featured anywhere in the actual Book of Revelation, certain prophecies contained in the text do prefigure the end of days, including gathering opposing armies for battle (Revelation 20:8). Although the Book of Revelation does not mention comets, other natural catastrophes unrelated to the birth of Christ, including floods, earthquakes, and locusts, are connected to an earlier biblical history. The Plagues of Egypt signaled a similar prefiguration of God’s holy people being chosen and led out of evil bondage (Exodus 7:14–11:10). The Bible does state directly in the Book of Exodus that these apocalyptic events are predestined to occur, appearing beyond the power of man to control or alter: “The Revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave unto him, to shew unto his servants things which must shortly come to pass […] Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein: for the time is at hand” (Revelation 1:1-3). These prophetic statements present in the Bible are fictionally recreated in The Omen to suggest the nature of faith in either God or Satan as involving predestination. Each person who worships Satan is marked at birth with an indicator that comes from a biblical referent: “Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six […] If any man worship the beast and his image [he will] receive his mark in his forehead, or in his hand” (Revelation 13:18; 14:9). Although not on the forehead or hand, Damien possesses the mark of Satan on his scalp, under his hair. The insignia is bestowed at birth, suggesting that, regardless of the will or 49

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actions of man, his path to become the Antichrist is predestined. Physical markings are yet another illustration of the connectivity between Christ and the Antichrist, and their respective followers. When Christ was crucified upon the cross, he suffered a series of wounds referred to as stigmata, from the Greek word stigma (‘tattoo’ or indelible marking). Those who were faithful to Christ were also said, in some cases, to develop marks on their hands, feet, sides, or head, similar to those suffered by Jesus—an outward sign of their inward faith. In much the same way, the Antichrist possesses the mark ‘666,’ a parody of the holy trilogy by which God is defined. As the film suggests, not only is Damien marked with stigmata, but so are all of his faithful followers. Equally, Brennan, the man who bestows Thorn with his chosen son, also comes to possess significant markings as a result of his collusion with the Antichrist. After narrowly escaping a fire that engulfs and destroys the hospital where both the biological Thorn son and his changeling were born, Brennan retreats to a monastery. Here, he takes a vow of silence and spends his last days incapacitated, staring at statues of the saints from his wheelchair. When Thorn visits Brennan, a fellow priest suggests the nature of his injuries were, like the birth of the Antichrist, also foretold: those who betray Christ will come to have their right arm wither and be blinded in the right eye. These physical marks are signs of their pact with Satan. The predestined deaths and disfigurements suffered by the followers of Satan are just as inescapable as the fate of Thorn and his son Damien. This predestination is revealed by Jennings’ camera. At the birthday party, Jennings snaps a photo of Damien’s nanny, who later hangs herself from the roof of the Thorn mansion during the party. When Jennings develops these photographs, 50

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he notices what he at first believes to be a fault in the film or development process. The image of the nanny is marred by a dark line that seems to run around the woman’s neck, extending up and out of the frame­—a strange coincidence given her suicide by hanging. This fault is seen to be not mere chance but instead an indicator of the predestined fate of the character. Equally, Brennan possesses a fate that is similarly sealed. As Jennings shoots and then develops photos of Brennan, he finds a fault in the form of a line that runs through the man’s torso, a mark that is repeated in every photo. This idiosyncrasy signals the impending and predetermined death of Brennan, as he is impaled by an iron rod outside a church during a storm. Jennings’ photography renders him privy not only to the foretelling of the birth of the Antichrist but to the fact that the fate of the followers of Satan is beyond the scope of human action to alter. After Brennan’s death, Thorn and Jennings’ investigation reveals that the priest’s living quarters are literally wallpapered with pages from the Bible. The pages cover all surfaces, including the windows, save one which looks out onto his church. Equally prevalent are a panoply of crosses, 47 of which are affixed to the door. Jennings comments that Brennan was obviously trying to keep something out, alluding to the priest’s destiny. In the same room, Jennings accidently takes what is today called a ‘selfie,’ a photograph of himself, and notices a mark that severs his head from his body. Unsurprisingly, Jennings later meets with his predetermined end when he is decapitated by a pane of glass in what appears on the surface to be an accident. The importance of these religious articulations in The Omen, while not always given credence in academic circles, is the chief concern of its reception by both secular and religious media alike. 51

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In terms of its theatrical reception, The Omen was panned at the time of its release. A review in The New York Times suggests the film “takes its details with no seriousness at all. It is not a put-on—it is terribly solemn in fact—but it often seems like one” (Eder, 1976). Another review from The New York Times supports Eder’s comments, referring to the fictitious passage Brennan cites in the film: It takes as its text a bit of hilarious doggerel that David Seltzer, the screenwriter, would have us believe comes right out of the Book of Revelations (sic) […] If you can possibly locate the Book of Revelations (sic), you might possibly locate this quote. It is nowhere to be found in the Book of Revelation, though. (Canby, 1976) The religious reception of the film was equally unfavorable. The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) called the film a “slick, expensively mounted but essentially trashy horror show. Though it refers to scripture and religious beliefs, its only interest in religion is in terms of its exploitation potential” (1976). Given a predominant critical focus on religious tenets, the social climate of the late 1960s and 1970s, where traditional spiritual affiliation was culturally devalued in favor of a more modernist agenda, such an oversight within academic discourse becomes all the more glaring, especially when combined with the focus on and popularization of the occult during this time period. The period beginning in the mid-1960s and continuing through the mid-1970s has been argued by historians and cultural theorists alike as existing at the pinnacle of modernity and advent of postmodernity. During this time, a plethora of debates 52

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arose as an overarching rejection of traditionalism was pitted against the potential benefits and the detriments of this forfeiture. As Robert N. Bellah, Richard Madsen, William M. Sullivan, Ann Swidler, and Steven M. Tipton (1996) suggest, “The contemporary lifestyle […] is based on a degree of individual choice that largely frees it from traditional […] boundaries” (p. 73). Alignment with traditionalism, a term at once associated with potential positive traits such as stabilization, simultaneously possessed possible negative connotations tied to patriarchal, homogeneous, and heteronormative understandings of gender, sexuality, and race. This questioning debated whether or not such instruments of grounding, including familial cohesion and religious affiliation, were in fact desired or desirable at all. The most radical faction of this opening up, arguably, may be found when investigating figures within popular culture, such as singer Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones. Jagger not only dedicated a song to Satan, titled “Sympathy for the Devil,” on the 1968 Beggars Banquet album, but was also slotted to appear in Kenneth Anger’s Lucifer Rising (1972), a film based on the teachings of spiritual guru Aleister Crowley. Jagger was not alone in his fascination with the occult; celebrities including Jimmy Page, Marianne Faithfull, and Dennis Hopper all contributed in some way to Anger’s production. Seminal rock music icons The Beatles went so far as to include an image of Crowley in the artwork for their 1967 album Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. As a result of this collective cultural referencing and reverencing, a resurgence of interest in Crowley emerged. Equally, membership to Anton LaVey’s Church of Satan gained unprecedented numbers, possibly even contributing to the mainstream publication of The Satanic Bible by Avon Books in 1969. Speaking to this countercultural 53

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spiritual alignment, Theodore Roszak (1995) argues that “[this] youthful political activism of the sixties […] reveals itself in the unprecedented penchant for the occult, for magic, and for exotic ritual which has become an integral part of the counter culture” (pp. 124-125). In terms of occult philosophy and practice, Crowley and LaVey may be regarded to represent a continuum of alternative belief moving from a focus upon scientific grounding to a faith that was more grounded in superstition, religious ritual, and rite, thus framing how a concern with the supernatural aligns with the overarching contemporaneous cultural concerns of this decade. While Crowley adopts an inherently logical and methodological framework for the understanding of spiritual ritual, illustrated in his seminal text Magick in Theory and Practice (2018), LaVey alternatively sought to found a Church that filled what he considered a gap left by a privileging of the scientific rational over the supernatural universe, a characteristic of the Catholic faith in its rituals and rites. Thus, during this time, Satanism and Catholicism should not only be figured but brought together and held up against the radical individualism that, in retrospect, did not characterize the supposed self-centered generation (Wolfe, 1976) as well as might be suspected. Indeed, in an era coined by Tom Wolfe as the ‘“Me” Decade’ in his 1976 New York Magazine diatribe aimed at the 1960s and 1970s countercultural housewife, discussions surrounding the destabilizing effects of a society based primarily on self-interest, as Jancovich (1992) previously suggested, were increasingly being addressed in other facets of popular media: specifically, the contemporary horror film. While the narrative of The Omen reveals an apparent and undeniable concern with predestination and familial connectivity, 54

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and the importance of adherence to traditional faith mechanisms and ideologically conservative themes, the formal dimensions of the film suggest an alternative reading. While it appears directly concerned with traditionalism, on a less overt level, the film’s casting choices demonstrate a conflicting focus that suggests a more liberal agenda. Thorn is portrayed in the film by Gregory Peck, who, though a stalwart classical Hollywood actor, is nonetheless equally associated with liberal mainstream filmmaking. Peck is, arguably, most notably identified with his role as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), forming an association between the actor and the liberally minded lawyer who fought against the rampant racism of the Great Depression-era South. Peck received his only Academy Award for his portrayal of Finch. In several interviews, he describes the role as being one of his favorites (Freedland, 1980). The film and Peck’s indelible association with it is rendered even more significant from an ideological standpoint when considering its release date at the height of the civil rights movement. Following the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision that symbolically—if not actually—ended segregation, and coming two years before the 1964 Civil Rights Act, the film challenged long-standing cultural prejudice at a time when such issues were under hot debate. Ironically, just as these legal milestones ushered in what was perceived by many to be a new era of liberal ideals involving sociocultural equality, many conservatives likewise believed that such an agenda as the establishment of equal rights of African Americans would bring about an apocalypse in its own right. Such policy seems in direct contrast to some of the founding principles of the society: ‘Manifest Destiny’ and ‘the White Man’s Burden.’ These beliefs, which were widely held in 55

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the nineteenth century, suggest that it was the duty of the AngloSaxon Protestant to dominate and rule over less ‘civilized populations’ such as indigenous people. This privileging, the encumbrance of the white man, was in turn believed to be decreed by God, thus justifying American expansionism initially and then later the rule over other races such as the African American population. By extension, to challenge God’s will by allowing equal rights among all races was regarded as being against the laws of nature, the laws of man, and the laws of the Almighty Himself. Peck, however, was not the first choice to play Thorn; Charlton Heston was initially offered the role (Mell, 2005). The choice of Heston carries equal significance. Before becoming a conservative icon as the leader of the National Rifle Association (NRA) later in life, Heston was aligned with a liberal agenda early in his cinematic career. Heston played Moses in The Ten Commandments (1956), a character that famously led the Jews out of Egypt and away from persecution. Similarly, his starring role as Judah in Ben Hur (1959) involved fighting for human rights and an end to tyranny. This liberal alignment was solidified by Heston’s connection to roles in science fiction genre films, including Planet of the Apes (1968) and Soylent Green (1973), two post-apocalyptic works that also supported a liberal humanist agenda in their respective criticism of prevalent sociopolitical and racial violence, and conservative demonization of the youth. Heston, in his association with such films, like Peck, became equally aligned with Democratic ideals and a civil rights agenda. During a period that spanned from 1955 to 1972, Heston was also politically active outside of Hollywood through his endorsement of Democratic candidates for the United States presidency (Ross, 2011). Heston became known for activism not only by, ironically, signing 56

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several petitions to support the up-and-coming Gun Control Act, along with Peck and others, but also through his purported engagement in the civil rights campaign. Historian Steven J. Ross (2011) claims that when a segregated Oklahoma movie theater was showing Heston’s latest film El Cid (1961), Heston joined a picket line outside. He did, however, openly picket several restaurants that refused to practice integration while in Oklahoma, a fact that was well documented by the press. Academy Award nominee Lee Remick won the role of Katherine Thorn (Pfeiffer, n.d.). As a graduate of the famous New York City liberal women’s college Barnard, Remick aligned herself with an equally liberal circle, choosing to study method acting at the Actors Studio upon graduating from university. Her first film, A Face in The Crowd (1957), was anti-conservative, telling the story of the potentially insidious nature of the media’s advertising industry in luring audiences into its overarching capitalist agendas. Potentially equally telling of the connectivity between her onscreen choices and offscreen persona is Katherine Thorn’s acceptance of psychotherapy as a cure for the malaise incurred by her role as the dutiful diplomatic wife. Katherine must subsume her desires and drives for the career of her husband, and later chooses to pursue an abortion when such duties become overwhelming. The drive for psychological fulfillment and the problems of aligning herself to the role of mother above all else suggest a liberal agenda in contrast to authors such as Jancovich (1992), Wood (2003), and Sobchack (2015) in their criticisms of The Omen as a wholly reactionary, conservative text. Similarly, British actors David Warner and Billie Whitelaw (who portrayed Damien’s sinister new nanny, Mrs. Baylock) were also regarded as non-conformist in their native countries 57

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before coming to Hollywood. Warner began his film career in an auspicious manner by taking a role in Tom Jones (1963), in which playwright John Osborne’s subversive script challenged traditional theatrical presentation by adopting a Brechtian stance that often broke the fourth wall to engage directly with audiences. Likewise, Whitelaw, since meeting subversive playwright Samuel Beckett in 1963, became indelibly associated with the man and his work. Beckett considered Whitelaw a perfect actress, rendering her not only his mouthpiece but also the muse for whom he wrote and rewrote each play. After Beckett’s death, the actress became the foremost authority on the author’s work and theatrical techniques. Being an aficionado of the experimental theater of the absurd linked Whitelaw, like Warner, to anything but a conservative agenda (Cronin, 1999). While the casting of The Omen aligns with a more liberal agenda, considering the connotations with which the actors are associated, this film is considered to be ideologically conservative in academic circles. As the perceived sociopolitical conservatism of early 1950s America gave way to the purported liberalism of the early 1960s, religion still played a key role in personal and social definitions. While supporting the civil rights movement, churches were more reticent to become embroiled in issues surrounding the Vietnam War (1955–75), arguably a significant cause célèbre for the counterculture movement of the late 1960s and 1970s. As the Church, in turn, became less significant in instigating and supporting social movements, religion concomitantly become less relevant overall: For most counter-culturalists it was axiomatic that mainstream religion and churches were part of the conventional 58

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society which they had rejected […] Belief in God, adherence to any formal code of morality, or loyalty to institution were often seen as ways of abdicating the individual’s responsibility for self-realization […] (McLeod, 2010, pp. 129-130) Just as contemporary modernists rejected mainstream religion, the themes articulated in The Omen position Satanism and Catholicism as equally orthodox faith mechanisms, ultimately begging the question as to whether this context provides a critique of traditionalism or in fact calls for a return to orthodoxy. Overall, and ironically so, the counterculture movement attempted to enact change by, in some cases, adopting occult faiths, such as those instituted by Crowley and LaVey. Both Crowley and LaVey were equally influential at the time in ushering in belief mechanisms that called for congregational faiths, an insistence on ritual, and an adherence to historical traditions. Occult practices seemed to meet conservatism and liberalism somewhere in the middle by being at once conservative and alternative. In much the same way, the narrative antagonists in The Omen desire Armageddon—a radical change brought about by an orthodox faith. Satanism is described in this film as an ancient, supernaturally driven faith, closely linked to Catholicism. The drive for a world reconfigured around religious belief thus ironically relates to contemporaneous debates surrounding the need for cultural cohesion around traditional religions, such as those posed by post-Vatican II Catholicism. However, the very fact of making this religious configuration efficacious in its goals, while ultimately vanquishing those who hold no belief whatsoever, could in fact be construed as calling for the return of the structuring grand narratives that 59

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were being hotly debated at the time. Equally, questions arise if such traditional faiths are an integral part of any culture, as do questions concerning the status of free will versus determinism overall. Is the fate of humanity truly preordained? Does the power to enact radical change truly exist? Or is this battle merely a cycle that bends back upon itself as rebellion merely acts to reestablish what could be considered to be the natural order of things, making the fight necessary but ultimately futile? Regardless of the outcome to these questions, religion and religious debate seem to be integral components of the genre. The battle of good versus evil, and belief versus lack thereof, remain conflicts intrinsic to the world of horror and, regardless, victory seems to be on the side of belief.

REFERENCES Anger, K. (Director). (1972). Lucifer Rising [Motion picture]. United Kingdom, United States & West Germany: Puck Film Productions. Bellah, R.N., Madsen, R., Sullivan, W.M., Swidler, A., & Tipton, S.M. (1996). Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Berman, M. (2010). All That Is Solid Melts Into Air: The Experience of Modernity. London, England & New York, NY: Verso. Canby, V. (1976, July 25). Film View: Hollywood Has an Appealing New Star—Old Gooseberry. The New York Times. Retrieved from https:// www.nytimes.com/1976/07/25/archives/film-view-hollywood-has-anappealing-new-star-old-gooseberry.html Cronin, A. (1999). Samuel Beckett: The Last Modernist. New York, NY: Da Capo Press Inc. Crowley, A. (2018). Magick in Theory and Practice. [n.p.]: Albatross Publishers.

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catholicism, satanism and the role of predestination DeMille, C.B. (Director). (1956). The Ten Commandments [Motion picture]. United States: Paramount Pictures. Donner, R. (Director). (1976). The Omen [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: 20th Century Fox. Eder, R. (1976, June 26). The Screen: ‘Omen’ is Nobody’s Baby. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/1976/06/26/archives/ the-screen-omen-is-nobodys-baby.html Fleischer, R. (Director). (1973). Soylent Green [Motion picture]. United States: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Freedland, M. (1980). Gregory Peck: A Biography. New York, NY: W. Morrow. Harrison, G., Lennon, J., & McCartney, P. (1967). Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band [Vinyl]. London, England: Parlophone. Jagger, M., & Richards, K. (1968). Sympathy for the Devil. On Beggars Banquet [Vinyl]. London, England: Decca. Jancovich, M. (1992). Horror. London, England: Batsford. Kazan, E. (Director). (1957). A Face in the Crowd. United States: Warner Bros. LaVey, A. (1969). The Satanic Bible. New York, NY: Avon Books. Lyotard, J. (1984). The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge (G. Bennington & B. Massumi, Trans.). Manchester, England: Manchester University Press. McLeod, H. (2010). The Religious Crisis of the 1960s. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Mann, A. (Director). (1961). El Cid [Motion picture]. Italy & United States: Dear Film & Allied Artists. Mell, E. (2005). Casting Might-Have-Beens: A Film by Film Directory of Actors Considered for Roles Given to Others. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company Inc. Messiah [Def. 1]. (n.d.). Cambridge Dictionary. Retrieved from http:// dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/messiah Mulligan, R. (Director). (1962). To Kill a Mockingbird [Motion picture]. United States: Universal Pictures. Pfeiffer, L. (n.d.). Days of Wine and Roses. Encyclopædia Britannica Online. Retrieved from https://www.britannica.com/topic/ Days-of-Wine-and-Roses-film-by-Edwards

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scared sacred Richardson, T. (Director). (1963). Tom Jones [Motion picture]. United Kingdom: United Artists. Ross, S.J. (2011). Hollywood Left and Right: How Movie Stars Shaped American Politics. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Roszak, T. (1995). The Making of a Counter Culture: Reflections on the Technocratic Society and Its Youthful Opposition. Berkeley & Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. Schaffner, F.J. (Director). (1968). Planet of the Apes [Motion picture]. United States: 20th Century Fox. Sobchack, V. (2015). Bringing It All Back Home: Family Economy and Generic Exchange. In B.K. Grant (Ed.), The Dread of Difference: Gender and the Horror Film. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB). (1976). Omen, The. Catholic News Service Media Review Office. Retrieved from http:// archive.usccb.org/movies/o/omenthe1976.shtml Wolfe, T. (1976, August 23). The “Me” Decade and the Third Great Awakening. New York Magazine. Retrieved from http://nymag.com/ news/features/45938/ Wood, R. (2003). Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan...and Beyond (Expanded and Revised Edition). New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Wyler, W. (1959). (Director). Ben-Hur [Motion picture]. United States: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

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AS GOD IS MY WITNESS: MARTYRDOM IN THE EXORCISM OF EMILY ROSE (2005) AND MARTYRS (2008) ANDREA SUBISSATI

A MARTYR, BY ANY OTHER NAME a chapter like this begins with a definition of terms Ntoormally, illuminate the discussion to follow, just to make sure

everyone is on the same page. However, in the case of martyrdom, it is perhaps better to approach the subject the other way around. The word ‘martyr’ is defined by Merriam-Webster (n.d.) in a threefold manner: “a person who voluntarily suffers death as the penalty of witnessing to and refusing to renounce a religion”; “a person who sacrifices something of great value and especially life itself for the sake of principle”; and “a great or constant sufferer.” All three definitions correspond to the popular understanding of the term, either in the historical sense (with reference to historical figures like Jesus Christ or Joan of Arc) or the figurative sense (when calling an individual out for passive-aggressive behavior or ‘playing the victim’). However, a deeper look into the term reveals some complications, or at least limitations, of such a straightforward understanding. 65

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Socrates famously killed himself by imbibing hemlock after being disbarred from the Athenian senate, finding death the preferable alternative to exile from the country he served with such devotion. The Nazirite Samson pulled down the supporting pillars of a Philistine temple, bringing the building down on his enemies as well as himself. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated at a motel in Memphis, where he had traveled to support black sanitation public works employees. All three have been venerated as martyrs in spite of the very different circumstances around their deaths, begging some fundamental clarity in distinction: is martyrdom the same as dying a so-called noble death? Can all fallen soldiers then be considered martyrs? What about suicide bombers or victims of fatal hate crimes? With a seemingly simple term now muddied in praxis, deciphering the true meaning of martyrdom requires a shift of focus. While one person’s martyr is another’s traitor, the distinction between the two does not lie in the circumstances of the death but in the way in which the death is perceived: the way others understand it, venerate it, or give it meaning. As Paul Middleton puts it in Martyrdom: A Guide for the Perplexed (2011), “Martyrdom is essentially created when a narrative about a death is told in a particular way. The central character is not the most important element in the creation of martyrdom; it is the narrator” (p. 30). As such, martyrdom does not occur in a particular condition or circumstance of death but rather the discourse surrounding that death, which elevates it to such status. Middleton’s emphasis on the narrative surrounding martyrdom being the defining feature of the term sets the stage nicely for an examination of cinematic depictions of martyrdom. In the filmic sense, a narrative encompasses not only the story being 66

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recounted but the inferences within that story: that which is shown and not necessarily told. The designation of martyr can be applied to a vast array of conditions and circumstances. The themes of martyrdom are depicted in two very different horror films: Scott Derrickson’s supernatural/courtroom Hollywood thriller The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005) and Pascal Laugier’s influential, ultra-violent French shocker Martyrs (2008). Hailing from two different parts of the world, the films draw from seemingly disparate understandings of the term and provide ample discursive material from which to unpack the already convoluted subject. Whether a victim of suffering at the hands of political agenda or a willing supplicant believing they are in the service of their god, the power of the martyr is in the hands of their audience.

THE EXORCISM OF EMILY ROSE Directed and co-written by Derrickson, The Exorcism of Emily Rose is based on the true story of a German woman, Anna Elisabeth ‘Anneliese’ Michel, whose death following an exorcism resulted in the conviction of her parents and two Roman Catholic priests for negligent homicide. Lacking much of the vomit, bile, and coarse language that has become a hallmark of exorcism horror films, The Exorcism of Emily Rose focused its narrative instead on the courtroom drama, supplemented by flashbacks that depict both sides of the debate. The 2005 film sets the story in America, beginning with the death of 19-year-old college student Emily Rose (Jennifer Carpenter) and the ensuing murder trial. The priest accused of her 67

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murder, Fr. Richard Moore (Tom Wilkinson), intends to plead his innocence and insists on delivering his testimony before the jury, a fact that troubles his lawyer Erin Bruner (Laura Linney), who faces pressure from her law firm to keep him off the witness stand. Opposing Bruner is Ethan Thomas (Campbell Scott), a practicing Christian who summons doctors and specialists to the stand to speculate that Emily Rose suffered from epilepsy and psychosis rather than demonic possession. As the trial plays out, undercut with flashbacks that depict both sides of the deliberation, Bruner begins to experience supernatural occurrences outside the courtroom, leading Moore to warn that she herself may now be a target for demons. Moore’s case looks increasingly grim, especially after Bruner’s key witness, Dr. Cartwright (Duncan Fraser), who attended the exorcism, is fatally struck by a car before he can take the stand. Shaken, Bruner agrees to let Moore testify. After giving his testimony, Moore reads a letter that Emily had written before she died, describing a vision she experienced shortly before her death. In the vision, wrote Emily, the Virgin Mary visited her, offering her the choice between a swift death and immediate ascension to Heaven or continued suffering in order to prove the existence of demons (and of God, by extension). Emily chooses to die a martyr; stigmata wounds appear on her palms, explained by the prosecution as wounds caused by gripping the barbed wire that surrounds her family farm. The jury find the priest guilty as accused but ask the judge for a sentence of time served, which the judge allows. Moore is freed and Bruner declines a partner role offer at her law firm. The most comprehensive account of the real-life German trial appears in the 1981 book The Exorcism of Anneliese Michel 68

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by American linguist and anthropologist Felicitas D. Goodman. Having published extensively on altered states of consciousness and speaking in tongues, Goodman’s (1981) account considers both the straightforward medical diagnoses offered by the medical community while also acknowledging that the medication prescribed for Anneliese’s seizures may have worsened her condition. Goodman very likely served as the inspiration behind the character of anthropologist Dr. Sadira Adani (Shohreh Aghdashloo) in the film, who testifies that spiritual matters can have real physiological consequences if the patient believes in them enough. The Exorcism of Emily Rose takes pains to present both theories as to what happened to Emily Rose in a balanced manner. This fundamental theological ambiguity is part of why it succeeds as a compelling thriller, aided by captivating courtroom drama and strong performances by leads Carpenter and Linney. Director Derrickson, who would follow The Exorcism of Emily Rose with the supernatural horror film Sinister (2012) and the well-received Marvel Universe entry Doctor Strange (2016), has an academic background in the humanities, with an emphasis on literature, philosophy, and theological studies. To maintain a creative balance when writing The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Derrickson enlisted the help of co-writer Paul Harris Boardman (with whom Derrickson had written Urban Legends: Final Cut and Hellraiser: Inferno in 2000) to steady any dogmatic biases. In a commentary track on the film’s 2005 DVD release, Derrickson identifies himself as a believer and Boardman a skeptic, thus ensuring that both sides be given equal plausibility. Indeed, this tension between medicine and myth is the film’s greatest strength, avoiding the overt religious predilections of The Conjuring (2013) while casting its audience in the role of the juror to ascertain reasonable doubt. 69

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Derrickson and Boardman craftily evaded the narrative trappings of falling on one side or the other in the jury’s final decision of guilty-ish, allowing viewers of either predilection to revel in the deliciously ambiguous possibilities. Not only does The Exorcism of Emily Rose present both the theological and secular explanations with equal weight and visceral gravitas, it also propels religious ideology into the matter-of-fact realm of law and order, where faith is pitted against hard evidence. In a court of law, whether Emily Rose was indeed possessed by a demon is less the concern than what ended her physical existence on Earth. If anything, Moore’s testimony tips the scales toward the legitimacy of euthanasia or assisted suicide, a matter that remains legally controversial to this day. Emily Rose’s written desire to give her life over to her supposedly demonic torment not only absolves Moore of jail time but elevates her to the status of modern-day martyr. To end on such an uplifting note ties a pretty bow on a film where a lovely young woman is shown twisted, contorted, starved, and mutilated. However, the narrative leap to martyrdom begs the question: can Emily Rose (and, indeed, Anneliese Michel) be properly understood as a martyr if she went willingly to her death, expecting as much? Going back to the definition of martyrdom posed earlier, Emily Rose does meet some of the classic criteria of the term. She suffered greatly and did believe that her suffering was the direct result of demonic possession, which she fought against with all her faith and fervor. Still, the film’s presentation of martyrdom only touches upon the impact of her death and ensuing legacy—a critical point when bestowing the title of martyr. Though legally specious as evidence, Emily Rose’s letter is what clearly sways the jury toward Moore’s sentencing of a figurative 70

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slap on the wrist. Reading between the lines, one can surmise the jury deliberating Moore’s case was not able to absolve him of legal responsibility for Emily Rose’s death but also did not see fit to punish him, given Emily Rose’s apparent desire to go down in a blaze of theological glory. This resolution is the stuff of Sunday school stories, where suffering culminates in a happy ending for the faithful—a guaranteed ticket to Heaven that makes all the worldly misery worthwhile. To audience members leaning toward the secular side of the debate, the conviction is truly troubling. Liberals and political progressives have long argued for separation between Church and State, and cases like this are precisely why. Had Moore been tried in a different state, his jury of peers might have dropped the hammer of justice squarely on his clerical-collared head. It is this religious subjectivity that lies at the crux of martyrdom. Emily Rose believed it, Moore believed it, Bruner believed it, and together they effectively sold it to a jury of their peers. If martyrdom is validated in the eyes of the beholder, Emily Rose pulled it off where it mattered most.

MARTYRS On the other side of the Atlantic pond, the nature of martyrdom was explored in a far more controversial manner, one that not only challenged preexisting conceptions of the term but changed the face of international genre cinema. Martyrs premiered at Cannes in 2008 as part of their Marché du Film marketplace programme, immediately garnering the attention of the horror world. Audiences were strongly polarized by the stylized and excessive violence that caused it to be recognized as a prominent 71

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New French Extremity title—a collection of transgressive films emerging from France at the turn of the century that blurred the lines between art, exploitation, and genre (although director Laugier distances himself from this movement). Lucie (Jessie Pham) and Anna (Erika Scott) have been best friends ever since Lucie arrived at the orphanage, having escaped years of abuse and imprisonment by an unknown hand. Throughout their childhood, Anna comforted Lucie through panic attacks and nightmares involving a disfigured woman. 15 years later, when Lucie (Mylène Jampanoï) believes she has found her tormentors, Anna (Morjana Alaoui) is the person she calls for backup. Lucie breaks into the family home of the Belfonds, a seemingly normal upper-class French family, and Anna arrives at the scene to find that Lucie has slaughtered them all with a shotgun. Still tormented by nightmares in spite of realizing her vengeance, Lucie commits suicide, leaving Anna alone in the family home. Upon discovering a trapdoor leading to an underground torture cellar, Anna realizes that Lucie was right about the Belfonds and seeks to liberate another captive who was likely the basis for Lucie’s nightmares. A group of strangers burst in, cleaning up the massacre and imprisoning Anna in a cell to endure the same abuse Lucie described as a child: being shaved, force-fed, and methodically beaten while chained to a concrete wall. Before her torment begins, Anna is introduced to the group’s leader, an elderly woman known as Mademoiselle (Catherine Bégin). Mademoiselle explains that she is part of a secret society who torture women toward a noble cause: to propel them into martyrdom, here defined as a transcendent state where the victim accepts their fate and bears witness to the afterlife. Once Anna 72

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is flayed alive, she achieves what the group considers the final state of ascendance. Mademoiselle assembles the cult to hear her testimony, where Anna whispers into Mademoiselle’s ear. Mademoiselle then shoots herself before she can share her learnings with her congregation. Considerably more violent and bleak than The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Martyrs was praised by some for its intriguing philosophy on the nature of suffering, while others panned it for its explicit onscreen violence toward a young woman. This violence is indeed graphic but never gratuitous, and always in complete service to Martyrs’ grisly narrative. Anna’s reasonable doubt concerning Lucie’s mental state, particularly the murder of the Belfonds, renders her as the audience’s conduit to the revelation that Lucie was correct all along; her resultant psychosis was the direct result of extreme trauma, earned by years of torture. As such, Martyrs not only subverts the idea that abusing women onscreen is inherently misogynist, it purports feminist ideology in its depiction of the lifelong results of trauma and the firm declaration that women be believed when they speak out about such trauma. As Amy Green (2011) notes, Mademoiselle’s position as the head of the organization and the source of Anna’s torment, in addition to the lack of sexuality in Martyrs, nullifies any depiction of her torture as titillating or in service to heteronormative fetishism. With regard to the concept of martyrdom as depicted in the film, director Laugier provides an interesting, if puzzling, definition of the term both in an opening placard and in Anna’s eventual conversation with Mademoiselle: the martyr as witness. Indeed, the film presents something of a deviation from the traditional understanding of the term as one that emphasizes the 73

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willingness of the victim to suffer in the name of a cause and/or principle. Nonetheless, the term ‘witness’ appears prominently in the etymology of the term ‘martyr’; the word derives from the Greek term martus, literally meaning ‘a witness’ (Hassett, 1910), thus harkening back to historical instances of martyrdom and its social and political context. In early Christian times, the act of martyrdom was essentially inseparable from the act of witnessing, as publicly bearing witness to a spiritual happening (a vision or a visit from Christ) would be the direct cause of one’s public execution and resultant cultural martyrdom. Bearing witness that Christ had risen from the dead, for example, was punishable by beheading, as was claiming to have witnessed the word of God directly, outside the ordained channels of the clergy (Middleton, 2011). In the case of Martyrs, the cult of Mademoiselle has also adopted the term ‘martyr’ as one who bears witness to the afterlife, thereby affirming presumably the existence of Heaven, so that these uppercrust retirees can relax in their wingback chairs, newly assured that it exists and awaits. Their methodology is flawed in more ways than one: not only are their practices cruel and immoral, but their method to force someone into the role of martyr is inconsistent. Furthermore, if this heaven/afterlife being sought is reserved for the faithful, they have just forfeited their tickets. Seeking proof is the direct opposite of having faith, so they are unlikely to be rewarded for their efforts. In light of this interpretation, this information could be what Anna may have told Mademoiselle that inspired her to blow her head off: the cult’s work is pointless, because seeking evidence in matters of faith defies its own purpose.

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MAKING A MARTYR As in The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Martyrs presents a compelling look at the nature of suffering and a chilling glimpse at a scenario in which martyrdom is the goal rather than the consequence of that suffering. As the conduit into the story, the audience’s perspective ends with Anna, but, if martyrdom is in the eye of the beholder, she may yet have achieved Mademoiselle’s task. A still-living martyr is technically an oxymoron, just like ‘instant classic’ or ‘acting naturally.’ Returning to the ever-elusive definition of the term, martyrdom is a murky category but can essentially be boiled down to two interdependent factors: a martyr has voluntarily accomplished an act of sacrifice in service to their beliefs, and their sacrifice is acknowledged externally as such, granting it the significance to warrant the title. The first part of this definition is straightforward enough, but the second part is where the definition gets messy. If external acknowledgement of martyrdom is so important, who gets to make that call? The answer: the individual believer. Short of flirting with absolute relativism, a substantive element of martyrdom is purely subjective. Martyrs of yesteryear are easily identified because, by definition, martyrs require notoriety, and history only exists in the recordings retained over the years to corroborate such figures. The modern-day martyr is more difficult to pin down because their martyrdom is still in the process of happening. Christ-like figures are harder to come by these days; political upheaval is less about charismatic underdogs rousing the rabble into theological revolution and more about educated puppets trying to outshine one another’s campaign promises. Times have changed, and the powers that 75

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be in the Western world no longer drag heretics into public court in shackles to be condemned to symbolic execution. Instead, freedom fighters like Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr., who died in service while working toward their convictions, are considered martyrs. The assassinated freedom fighter holds more relevance in today’s culture as a figure to be venerated and remembered, especially as the fight for their cause rages on. As such, when dealing with the martyrdom of fictional characters, as in Martyrs and The Exorcism of Emily Rose, interpreting these happenings within their specific narratives and contexts is of the utmost importance. Consider the case of Cassie Bernall, a 17-year-old victim of the Columbine High School massacre in 1999. The tragedy shook America and, in the speculation that followed, a story emerged that one of the assailants, Eric Harris, had asked Bernall if she believed in God. According to the story, she replied that she did and was promptly shot dead (Moore, 2006). The tale spread like wildfire, with Bernall emerging a modern-day Christian martyr: a teenage girl who had reignited her faith at a weekend church retreat a year and a half prior to her death, murdered due to her religious convictions and willingness to stand up for them. The story has since been debunked by witnesses—the question was actually asked of student Valeen Schnurr by Harris’ co-shooter Dylan Klebold. Schnurr survived the attack, but Bernall’s story persists in popular culture and media. Two pop songs were penned about her martyrdom, and her mother, Misty Bernall, published the book She Said Yes: The Unlikely Martyrdom of Cassie Bernall (1999). Even though the facts say otherwise, the myth of Bernall as martyr persists due to the influence of a death that touched millions. 76

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It is difficult to completely divorce the case of Anneliese Michel from the filmic narrative because, after all, the film happens to be based on a real person and court trial. But, sticking to the film, who needs to believe that Emily Rose died a martyr? Who benefits from that belief? Who might keep that torch alive and why? Moore certainly benefits (and in a quite desperate manner to boot). His freedom is on the line as well as his livelihood and, in some ways, the very legitimacy of the institution he represents. For the jury to believe that Emily Rose died a martyr not only absolves him of her murder in the legal sense but functions as Emily’s apparition had predicted—by providing validation for the faithful, something Christianity does not easily come by in modern times. And then there is Erin Bruner, a woman who is presented in an almost nun-like manner. She has presumably foregone marriage and motherhood in favor of her vocation, her career in law, which she views with a sanctity that borders on reverence. Whatever her religious convictions at the end of the film, the supernatural experiences that occurred throughout the trial have changed her. She declines the partnership she was gunning for—why? Perhaps she has realized there is something out there that deserves a bit more of her time and attention. The question of who might remember and venerate Anna in Martyrs is a far darker one. Anna is on speaking (if halted) terms with her estranged mother. With Lucie dead, her long-lost mother is perhaps the only person to notice her disappearance, much less mourn her loss. Without the benefit of an epilogue, it is unclear if the rest of Mademoiselle’s society carried on Anna’s name in reverence. They wanted a martyr for insight into the afterlife and they achieved as much, but whether they got to enjoy the spoils of that particular victory remains unknown. Maybe 77

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the cult died out following the demise of their leader. If so, the previous martyrs that Mademoiselle had immortalized through photographs in her great, grotesque slideshow also lost their elevated status as martyrs, since the whole point of their death is no longer being observed and venerated. Speculating on these narratives as if they were alternate realities, the stories function in much the same way as the Christian gospels. Consider that they are all stories, captured and contained within a given medium, and their impact on the rest of the world depends upon their successful dissemination, viewership, and reception. The story of Christ persists as an example of martyrdom because his faithful have kept his story alive, and enough people continue to be inspired enough by that story to consider the man’s sacrifice worthy of the title of martyr. Similarly, in the case of the cinematic martyr, the audience become the meaning-makers: the ones who remember, replay, and discuss these films, giving them a life beyond their cinematic runtime. As horror fans, the general emotional response sought through this form of entertainment is one of terror: the raw response that reaches into the nervous system and plucks at the very fibers of the fight-or-flight reflex as if they were strings on a tightly wound harp. Of course, horror also has an affective power to incite other emotional responses in the viewer, and one thing that The Exorcism of Emily Rose and Martyrs have in common is ample narrative ambiguity to ensure that they are talked about for decades to come. Is Emily Rose a martyr? Is Anna? Both these sympathetic characters died horribly as the audience watched, due to factors beyond their control in service of theological symbolism. Perhaps the conscientious viewer will afford these women that honored distinction, carrying them in 78

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memory as women who suffered the darkness to see the light in the end, alongside Joan of Arc and other martyrs of history. If the story of Emily Rose or Anna inspires the viewer to admire these characters and deepens empathy for them, then they fit the bill. When it comes to martyrdom, the who and the what do not matter—the why makes all the difference, and that one is up to the audience.

REFERENCes Bernall, M. (1999). She Said Yes: The Unlikely Martyrdom of Cassie Bernall. New York, NY: Plough Publishing. Derrickson, S. (Director). (2000). Hellraiser: Inferno [Motion picture]. United States: Miramax Films. Derrickson, S. (Director). (2005). The Exorcism of Emily Rose [Motion picture]. United States: Screen Gems. Derrickson, S. (2005). Commentary Track by Director Scott Derrickson. The Exorcism of Emily Rose [DVD]. United States: Sony Pictures. Derrickson, S. (Director). (2012). Sinister [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Momentum Pictures & Summit Entertainment. Derrickson, S. (Director). (2016). Doctor Strange [Motion picture]. United States: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures. Goodman, F.D. (1981). The Exorcism of Anneliese Michel. Eugene, OR: Resource Publications. Green, A.M. (2011). The French Horror Film Martyrs and the Destruction, Defilement, and Neutering of the Female Form. Journal of Popular Film and Television, 39(1). Hassett, M. (1910). Martyr. The Catholic Encyclopedia. New York, NY: Robert Appleton Company. Laugier, P. (Director). (2008). Martyrs [Motion picture]. Canada & France: Seville Pictures & Wild Bunch. Martyr [Def. 1]. (n.d.). Merriam-Webster. Retrieved from https://www. merriam-webster.com/dictionary/martyr

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scared sacred Middleton, P. (2011). Martyrdom: A Guide for the Perplexed. London, England & New York, NY: T&T Clark International. Moore, J. (2006, October 1). Columbine Victim’s Parents Share Her Story. Star News Online. Retrieved from http://www.starnewsonline.com/ news/20061001/columbine-victims-parents-share-her-story Ottman, J. (Director). (2000). Urban Legends: Final Cut [Motion picture]. United States: Columbia Pictures. Wan, J. (Director). (2013). The Conjuring [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros.

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THE LAST SIN EATER: THE PURGATORIAL TESTAMENT AND REDEMPTION OF THE HELL PRIEST IN THE HELLRAISER MYTHOLOGY REBECCA BOOTH

Barker’s distinctive style serves several platforms: his Clive accolades include literature (The Damnation Game, 1985;

Weaveworld, 1987), plays (Hunters in the Snow, 1973; The History of the Devil, 1980), scriptwriting (Underworld, 1985 (co-written with James Caplin); Rawhead Rex, 1986), producing (Candyman, 1992; Gods and Monsters, 1998), directing (Nightbreed, 1990; Lord of Illusions, 19953), and painting and illustration (with many of his works decorating the set designs of his own adaptations and beyond—Barker’s art was used in the first series of the Chilling Adventures of Sabrina from 2018). There is a haunting primality, ethereal beauty, and emblazoned carnality embedded in Barker’s work. His novella The Hellbound Heart (1986) introduced readers to a world of sensorial transgression, woven from a heady mix of 3 Barker’s scripts for each film were adapted from his own writing: Nightbreed from Cabal (1988), and Lord of Illusions from the short The Last Illusion (1985), featuring Harry D’Amour from The Scarlet Gospels (2015).

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religious, fairy tale, and fantasy elements. Just a year later, Barker adapted his story to create the potent and timeless horror of Hellraiser (1987). The film, Barker’s directorial debut, immortalized the character of the Hell Priest in a cinematic series that currently spans ten installments. This universe has since expanded further, with several comic collections featuring consultation or contribution from Barker: Epic Comics (1989-94), BOOM! Studios (2011-15), and Seraphim Inc. (2017). Barker resurrects the world of Hellraiser in a second novel, The Scarlet Gospels (2015), which is a crossover with Barker’s popular Harry D’Amour detective series. A third book, Hellraiser: The Toll, was released in 2018. Though Barker receives a ‘story by’ credit, the novella is written by Mark Alan Miller (a frequent collaborator with Barker and Vice President of Barker’s production company Seraphim Inc.) and takes place in the period between Hellraiser and The Scarlet Gospels, rejecting the elements that were changed in the original novella (the book is set in London, not Liverpool, and Kirsty is Larry’s daughter, not his lovelorn friend), as well as incorporating a small number of elements from later cinematic installments. Narratively, it acts as an introduction to The Scarlet Gospels, delving further into the relationship between Kirsty and the Hell Priest to posit that she is the first witness to the Hell Priest’s final testament in The Scarlet Gospels. Barker’s plays are in many ways responsible for the creation of this beloved figure; he wrote and directed a series of performances for theater group The Dog Company in Liverpool, England during the late 1970s/early 1980s, of which Doug Bradley and Peter Atkins were also members. This friendship subsequently engineered Bradley’s inimitable turn as the Hell Priest and Atkin’s formative influence on the film series as a 84

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scriptwriter. The plays were not only thematically influential, but Hunters in the Snow contains a prototypal version of the Hell Priest in the character of the Dutchman, also portrayed by Doug Bradley; Phil and Sarah Stokes (2004) note the similarity in his “bleakly eloquent delivery” of lines such as, ‘“Why do you dread the calm symmetry of death? Is there not succour to be drawn from oblivion?”’ (para. 2). In both The Hellbound Heart and Hellraiser, the Hell Priest is one of four canonical Cenobites called to Earth by the hands of pleasure-seeking hedonist Frank Cotton (played in the first film by Sean Chapman and Oliver Smith). A Cenobite is defined as a member of a communal religious order; in the original novella, the Cenobites belong to the Order of the Gash. Though the number of Cenobites and their genealogy differs throughout the franchise, the fact that there are originally four distinct characters has religious significance. In biblical terms, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are harbingers summoned to bring about the Last Judgement. Appearing in the final book of the New Testament, the Book of Revelation, the Four Horsemen are unleashed upon the world when the first of seven apocalyptic seals are broken. In this sense, the original Order and their quest to inflict exquisite pain upon those who seek to peek behind the veil can be likened to biblical harbingers—particularly as they are summoned to the earthly plane using a specific key: a mysterious puzzle box known as LeMarchand’s box or the Lament Configuration. The Cenobites are an inversion of the traditional mediatory role of the clergy, bound by profane pontifex duties in a hierarchical structure. As such, they do not absolve sin but feed upon it as they condemn and collect souls. The Cenobites are therefore, in their theological transposition, sin eaters. 85

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The film franchise profanely mocks traditional religion via its infusion of Christian iconography; ‘Hell’ in this series, as argued in any references to this domain throughout this chapter, is defined as a physical plane, a hellscape in which each individual is responsible for their own actions via a somewhat malleable regulatory system more aligned with a purgatorial framework. Though Purgatory is considered to be a Christian construct in Catholic readings of the New Testament—to the perturbation of Protestants—the word purgatorium did not exist before the twelfth century, and the birth of Purgatory as an intermediate place of suffering inhabited by sinners expiating their sins before entering Heaven is an intellectual concept, heavily influenced by changing ideologies in the Middle Ages and ultimately claimed by the Catholic Church (Le Goff, 1986). Before the Protestant Reformation in the sixteenth century, the Catholic Church offered indulgences for monetary gain, capitalizing on the pagan practice of sin eating by allowing loved ones to buy penance for the sins their dearly departed did not confess—hastening their ascension from Purgatory. In a similar developmental fashion, the purgatorial ideology across the Hellraiser franchise incorporates elements from this mystical and intellectual construct across ancient mythology, popular culture, and religious doctrine, and is inherently bound to and exemplified via the evolution of the Hell Priest’s central role as a sin eater across the series. Taking into account the historical role of the sin eater, the chapter argues that the cyclical testament of the Hell Priest’s purgatorial journey through the films—from his human backstory to his untethered rebellion, and finally his redemption—reveals his ultimate desire: the reclamation of his lost humanity and the inexorable release of death. 86

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HELLSEEKER: SIN EATING The origin of sin eating can be dated to ancient times. In Aztec mythology, the earth goddess Tlazolteotl fulfilled a dual role as deity of both purification and sin. Also referred to as Tlaelquani (dirt-eater) she is often depicted eating ordure (dung), which hieroglyphically represents sin. This association was specifically focused on sexual disease, which followers believed could be inflicted upon them by the goddess if they committed adultery. The priests of Tlazolteotl would cleanse the sexually promiscuous of their moral and physical sins through confession, purification rites, and steam baths (Spence, 1912). More recently, the tradition was popular in the United Kingdom during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It involved the family of the deceased placing food, typically bread, on the corpse. A local man would be invited into the home, where he would sit in front of the deceased, sup beer, and eat the food placed on the body. In doing so, it was believed that the sin eater would absorb the sins of the recently departed, which had been soaked up by the bread. For this service, the sin eater would receive a few pence in addition to the meager meal. John Aubrey’s Remaines of Gentilisme and Judaisme (1686-87) collects the author’s research into different aspects of folklore—beliefs, customs, and rhymes—over several years. In his manuscript, initially published in 1881, Aubrey describes the practice in detail, referring specifically to an account from Hereford, England: In the County of Hereford was an old Custome at funeralls to hire poor people, who were to take upon them all the sinnes of the party deceased […] The manner was that when the Corps 87

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was brought out of the house and layd on the Biere; a Loafe of bread was brought out, and delivered to the Sinne-eater over the corps, as also a Mazar-bowle of maple (Gossips bowle) full of beer, which he was to drinke up, and sixpence in money, in consideration whereof he tooke upon him (ipso facto) all the Sinnes of the Defunct, and freed him or her from walking after they were dead. (p. 35) The sin eater has thus been described as a spiritual healer, likened to the historical role afforded to (largely women) healers in various world cultures, called upon when needed and otherwise shunned in society—paying a heavy price for their services during the European and North American witch hunts in the Early Modern period. The ritual itself was considered to be a traditional form of apotropaic religious magic, warding off or turning away evil. The practice became less popular toward the end of the nineteenth century, caught between an increase in modern values and critical thinking, and ongoing disdain from the Church—aside from its pagan roots, the practice historically competed with the Church’s own profitable trade in indulgences/ sin eating. Richard Munslow is recorded officially as the last sin eater. He undertook the profession in Shropshire, England to allegedly atone for his guilt after losing four of his children. This paints a pathetic figure when considering the spiritual fee the sin eater was willing to pay in a world governed by religious superstition and in which the immortal soul was the most treasured human possession, for just morsels and pennies in return. In absorbing the sins of others, the sin eater placed his own soul in danger. Many believed that in ingesting the sins of the dead, the sin eater became eviller with each ritual. 88

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Though the practice died with Munslow in 1906, the process of sin eating has since been romanticized in popular culture: Margaret Atwood’s short story “The Sin Eater” (1988) was adapted into a short film in 2004; in 2007, Francine Rivers’ historical fiction The Last Sin Eater (1998) was developed into a 2007 Christian feature film; and the ritual served as the influence for the Marvel character SinEater, a former police detective turned serial killer who justifies his murders with religious fervor (David, 1985). Several original films and television episodes have emerged in recent years, including The Order (or The Sin Eater, 2003), Sineaters (2012), and an episode of Sleepy Hollow titled “The Sin Eater” from 2013. With the release of The Hellbound Heart in 1986, readers were introduced to perhaps the most iconic sin eater in popular culture: the Hell Priest. The sin eater can, in many respects, be likened to the figure of the priest (or priestess) due to their expiatory roles. The function of the priest, across all relevant religions, is to act as the mediator between the earthly plane and the divine. In the Hellraiser mythology, the Hell Priest can be read as a theophanic character in a converse, and perverse, mocking of the traditional role; as his title suggests, he resides not in the heavenly plane but the hellish dominion, and instead of saving or offering salvation to damned souls by guiding them to Heaven, he is a harvester of souls—a collector. This testament bears witness on his physical form: He was a patchwork of scars and abrasions, his body resembling—absurd as it seemed—the wall of a cell where countless crazed, raging souls had been incarcerated and left all marks of their presence there: scratches, designs, numbers, faces, there wasn’t an inch of the Cenobite’s nakedness that did not reveal some piece of testament. (Barker, 2015, p. 259) 89

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His physical appearance thus renders the Hell Priest’s body as a purgatorial site. As a religious, folkloric, and intellectual construct, Purgatory is a temporary physical plane in which souls must expiate in order to reach purification and thus “offers a second chance to attain eternal life” (Le Goff, 1986). The Hellraiser mythology inverts this system and unpacks the Hell Priest’s history via his salient humanity. Though he overtly chooses to remain unrepentant in his perpetual existence, ascending in the hierarchy of the hellscape rather than attempt to achieve salvation, it can be argued that he is constantly seeking redemption via his eroded or lost humanity.

DEMONS TO SOME: THE HELL PRIEST’S HUMANITY The mysterious, otherworldly nature of the Cenobites, and the early mention of the secular faction they represent in The Hellbound Heart, is the start of the Hell Priest’s complex character evolution. Barker’s conceptual illustrations for the novel reveal an ethnic, tribal design to the characters, revealed via Frank’s first glimpse of the Cenobites in The Hellbound Heart: Why then was he so distressed to set eyes upon them? Was it the scars that covered every inch of their bodies, the flesh cosmetically punctured and sliced and infibulated, then dusted down with ash? Was it the smell of vanilla they brought with them, the sweetness of which did little to disguise the stench beneath? Or was it that as the light grew, and he scanned them more closely, he saw nothing of joy, or even humanity, in their maimed faces: only desperation, and an appetite that made his bowels ache to be voided. (Barker, 2008, p. 7) 90

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Cinematically, the Cenobites are presented as sadomasochistic surgeons, clad in robes of organic material woven into the clinical modifications on their flesh, tribal scars replaced with “punkish” (Barker, 2004, p. 10) piercings. The bestial design of the other Cenobites, as well as their limited vocalization, demarcates the Hell Priest from the other members of his Order. His hierarchical status is apparent in the control and calculation he practices, as the only Cenobite to converse with victims and adjudicate in regulatory matters (the character is credited as ‘Lead Cenobite’ in the original film, before the fan-favored nickname ‘Pinhead’ was established). As Barker (2004) writes, the character’s “very loquaciousness marks him out from his peers. Many of the monsters who stalked the screens of the eighties were mute […] Pinhead glided through his movie appearances dispensing pseudo-metaphysical insights with as much enthusiasm as he did hooks and gouges” (pp. 10-11). The Hell Priest’s difference, and specifically his verbosity, raises questions about his backstory. In Bradley’s (2004) conversations with Barker about his character, it was agreed that the Hell Priest had once been human, though: [W]hether this was yesterday, last week, last year, ten, a hundred, ten thousand years ago, I didn’t know. A perpetual, unconscious grieving for the man he had once been, for a life and a face he couldn’t even remember. And a frozen grief. I felt now that Pinhead existed in an emotional limbo where neither pain nor pleasure could touch him. A pretty good definition of Hell for me. (p. 229) In the documentary Leviathan: The Story of Hellraiser and Hellbound: Hellraiser II (2015), Bradley furthers this reading by 91

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implicating the viewer. He refers to the Hellraiser universe as one not contained or bound by dominant theology; it is a personal hellscape catered to the individual who has—purposefully or not— accessed its mysteries. If the mythology perpetuates a personal hell for all, why do the characters share their dimensional experience? The answer appears to be that Hell is a physical domain in which one can shape their own destiny, to an extent. Regulations do apply here, but one can use these to advantage rather than downfall or damnation. The Hell Priest’s simple statement, “You opened the box, we came,” acknowledges that the Cenobites must collect a bounty for interdimensional travel. However, the Hell Priest is not omniscient; in order to escape his clutches, the worthy can negotiate—on his terms. Kirsty (Ashley Laurence) offers Frank, who has escaped the Cenobites’ clutches, in exchange for her own soul in Hellraiser when she unknowingly opens the box. Similarly, Kirsty (played again by Laurence) proves for the second time in Hellbound: Hellraiser II that willpower, agency, and morality/desire dictate the regulatory system. Acknowledging Dr. Philip Channard’s (Kenneth Cranham) manipulation of his young patient Tiffany (Imogen Boorman) in Hellbound: Hellraiser II (1988) as an instrument to open the box, the Hell Priest actively seeks Channard’s soul, stating, “It is not hands that summon us, but desire.” In Channard’s personal quest to acquire and unlock the secrets of the box, he allows himself to be manipulated by Kirsty’s evil stepmother Julia (Clare Higgins) because his desire to see is unbound. Channard’s obsessive research reveals the Hell Priest’s human past: he was formerly Capt. Elliot Spencer (Doug Bradley) and served in the British Army during World War I (1914-18). The ever-resilient Kirsty was mindful to take a photograph of Spencer from Channard’s study 92

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and cleverly brandishes it when confronted by the Cenobites at the end of the film. When considering that each “soul enters Purgatory with limited knowledge” (Petrisko, 2002, p. 24), this acknowledgement of his past is registered by the Hell Priest’s physical return to his human form. In this regressed state, he is attacked by Channard, who has been turned into a Cenobite seemingly in reward for his dissoluteness. The Hell Priest not only accepts his implied death but, from the glance of acknowledgement he shares with Kirsty, appears to welcome it. Kirsty is then again able to manipulate the Channard Cenobite via her agency and his desire, dressed in the deceased Julia’s skin, which gives Tiffany the time she needs to complete LeMarchand’s box and allows the women to escape. The Channard Cenobite’s power appears to be generated from his live connection to the governing lord of the hellscape, Leviathan. The inclusion of this figure provides a focus for several doctrinal and mystical readings; though the extent of the figure’s complexity across several belief systems is too broad to discuss in detail, there are several points of note. In Judeo-Christian scripture, the description of Leviathan (‘Destroyer’ in Hebrew) as a flying serpentine monster relates directly to the film’s depiction of an omniscient prism overlooking the labyrinth and the lost souls within: “He beholdeth all high things: he is a king over all the children of pride” (Job 41:33-34). From a Gnostic Ophite perspective, the serpent Leviathan is associated with the ouroboros, the ancient symbol depicting a serpent devouring its own tail (Rudolph, 1998)—a fitting symbol of the perpetual act of sin eating. Within his writings on Kabbalist symbology, Samael Aun Weor (2018) posits that “The Law of Leviathan” refers to one who has “already passed [through] all the Works or Esoteric Degrees and 93

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since he has already been decapitated, he can not be re-capitated, he can neither be harmed from above nor from below” (p. 57). This reading suggests that the Hell Priest is beyond death while he is confined to the laws of the hellscape. The resurrection he seeks is death, via his lost humanity. It is through his agency, as the engineer of his fate, that his purgatorial journey leads him to become unbound from this system in order to seek his redemption. In the third film, Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth (1992), the Hell Priest has been unleashed from this regulatory restraint, as preluded at the end of the previous film. Here, his humanity has been cleaved from his monstrous or evil nature, and the latter is embedded in a column, a Pillar of Souls, on Earth. The Hell Priest literally consumes his victims, becoming stronger with each soul and eventually breaking free. His humanity exists in spiritual form as Spencer (Doug Bradley), bound within an ethereal dreamscape. Spencer retains the memories of his former life and laments that his loss of faith in humanity during World War I led him to seek LeMarchand’s box: The war pulled poetry out of some of us. Others it affected differently […] I was like many survivors, a lost soul with nothing left in which to believe but gratification. We’d seen God fail you see; so many dead. For us, he too fell at Flanders. The war destroyed my generation. Those that didn’t die drank themselves to death. I went further. I was an explorer of forbidden pleasures; opening the box was my final act of exploration. Kane (2006) thus alludes to Spencer as the Hell Priest’s conscience (p. 121), noting that there is “a melancholy behind the performance, a remembrance of something Pinhead had once 94

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been but can’t go back to, a longing for his humanity” (p. 43). Spencer calls upon Joey Summerskill (Terry Farrell), a reporter who chances upon LeMarchand’s box, to draw the Hell Priest into the ether, using the box as bait so that Spencer can reunite the Hell Priest with his conscience or humanity. The fact that Joey, and formerly Kirsty, is instrumental in this process of regression, with Spencer literally asking Joey for help, refers back to the doctrines of Purgatory, in that a soul can be assisted in its purification via help from the living—specifically prayers and the Catholic true sacrifice of Mass (Schouppe, 2009). The Eucharist is the ultimate sacrifice, symbolizing the consuming of Christ’s body and blood in acknowledgment of his death so that humanity may live, and the act is thus an inverted form of sin eating. In the final scenes of Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth, a confrontation between Spencer and the Hell Priest sees Spencer consuming the sins of his dark half, resulting in their spiritual battle negating the energy of each. As is seen from the next entry in the series, this is one of the Hell Priest’s many purgatorial tastes of death before his final judgement. Here, he is again tethered to the hellscape, arguably in propitiation for the agency that will, in the end, be his salvation.

BLOODLINES AND TIMELINES The Hell Priest’s brazen contempt and ridiculing of Christianity is perhaps most profound in the third film, immortalized in the image of the Hell Priest mimicking Christ on the cross and stating, “I am the way.” This is not blasphemy, Kane (2006) writes, but a demonstrative celebration that the Hell Priest is ‘“unbound”’ to 95

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a Christian God he does not believe in, as well as from his own suppressor, the “dark God” Leviathan (p. 129). However, this scene can also be read as the Hell Priest’s purgatorial absence from God in that he mimics the act of expiation Christ suffered on the cross for humanity’s sins, to change God’s disposition toward his children. This theme continues in the next filmic chapter, Hellraiser: Bloodline (1996), which introduces a temporality that defines the Hell Priest’s purgatorial existence in relation to expiation and loss. In Hellraiser: Bloodline, this temporality is instilled in a central character that connects almost all of the further installments (including a mention in the connective novella Hellraiser: The Toll): Philip LeMarchand (Bruce Ramsay). A toy maker in Paris, France in 1796, he is commissioned to make a puzzle box, the Lament Configuration, by wealthy aristocrat Duc de L’Isle (Mickey Cottrell), only to discover that he has created a device which has the ability to open a portal to Hell. LeMarchand creates blueprints for a second box, the Elysium Configuration, which will negate the power of the first. However, he needs the original box and is killed as he attempts to retrieve it. His pregnant wife manages to escape, ensuring the continuation of his titular bloodline, cursed as a result of his hand in creating a gateway to Hell. A conversation between the Hell Priest and LeMarchand’s descendent Dr. Paul Merchant (Bruce Ramsay) reflects upon their ancestral, cursed connection, with the Hell Priest ridiculing the LeMarchand bloodline’s “faithless hope in the light.” Asked what he holds faith in, the Hell Priest replies, “Nothing. I am so exquisitely empty.” Though this line appears to be an exultant taunt, when framed within the temporal context of the film, it also suggests purgatorial torment. Purgatory perpetuates the “pain of loss,” a temporary deprivation from the sight of God that instills “a moral 96

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thirst which torments the soul” (Schouppe, 2009, ch. 9). The Hell Priest believes he cannot die (“I am forever!”) and thus must exist in the perpetual pain and loss of this faithless void, fittingly symbolized by the film’s final setting in space. The name of the Elysium Configuration is suggestive of the paradise for righteous souls in Greek mythology, reserved for the pure. The fact that Paul Merchant has constructed the Elysium Configuration from satellites, using mirrors, is telling in regards to the Hell Priest’s purgatorial purification. While the final scenes imply that the Hell Priest is killed in the explosion of the space craft, the film’s non-linear narrative and further installments, if reading the Hellraiser mythology in chronological order, suggest that he was again returned to, and perhaps demoted in, the hierarchical system of the hellscape (which the film notes has undergone significant structural changes). This is reflected in the final films within the franchise, in which the Hell Priest’s onscreen presence is severely diminished.

THORNE’S LAMENT In Hellraiser: Inferno (2000), the Hell Priest’s absence is sorely felt throughout, despite a wonderful turn from Craig Sheffer as morally bankrupt Det. Joseph Thorne. After finding LeMarchand’s box at a murder scene, Thorne opens it and is plagued by horrific visions. His investigation slips out of his control, as all leads point to a mysterious figure known as the ‘Engineer.’ Despite being warned not to pursue this figure (“Hunt for the Engineer, and the Engineer hunts you”), Thorne follows the clues and leaves behind a trail of dead friends and family. At each crime scene, a severed finger has been found, each belonging to the same child. Forensics 97

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determine that the fingers were removed while the child was alive, and Thorne is convinced that the Engineer is holding a child captive as part of a sadistic game. During the last scenes, it is revealed that the child’s fingerprints have been matched to Thorne. The Engineer is a manifestation of Thorne’s dark or evil side, which is holding his inner-child captive and destroying it piece by piece. In doing so, his self-destructive behavior is a form of sin eating, as he has allowed his “flesh to consume [his] spirit.” In a clever and refreshing development from previous films, the entire detective narrative is revealed to be Thorne’s psychological torment. He has been trapped in his own hell since opening the box; his psychiatrist is revealed to be the Hell Priest himself, orchestrating Thorne’s lament in a game of cat and mouse. In addition to directing the film, Scott Derrickson also wrote the script with regular writing partner Paul Harris Boardman. Derrickson has publicly referred to his religious beliefs as a practicing Catholic. On the DVD commentary track for The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005), which Derrickson directed and also wrote with Boardman, who identifies as an atheist, he refers to their writing partnership as providing a necessary balance between the religious and scientific tension at the heart of the film. The Exorcism of Emily Rose centers on the legal trial of a priest accused of manslaughter and is based on the real-life tragedy of Anneliese Michel, a young German woman who believed she was possessed by demons and died during an exorcism. Though it presents both sides and ultimately leaves the case open-ended, it leans more toward faith than science. Hellraiser: Inferno is dogmatic in comparison. Unlike Kirsty and Tiffany, there is no absolution for Thorne: as his noir-ish voiceover at the end of the film states, “I have faced my demons, and I must live with them.” Thorne is 98

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trapped in his own hell, by his own actions. He is unable to apply or manipulate the rules, and ultimately unable to leave because he fails to understand the system: he is the engineer of his own hell. As the Hell Priest states, “You are your own king, and this is the hell you have created for yourself.” The Hell Priest’s words refer to his own testament. Like Thorne, he is the engineer of his own persecution and fate; unlike Thorne, his cyclical journey will lead to redemption via death.

A WASTE OF GOOD SUFFERING The next four cinematic installments were produced in order to fulfill contractual obligations surrounding ownership rights. The result was a rehashing of popular styles and themes, with convoluted plots that reworked the mythology and tenuous narrative links to the series via the characters of LeMarchand and Kirsty Cotton. In these films, the Hell Priest’s climactic appearance from Hellraiser: Inferno is relegated to a gatekeeper or guardian of Hell’s regulatory system. This role calls to mind the funerary goddess Ammit (Ammut or Ahemait) in Ancient Egyptian lore. The Ancient Egyptians, obsessed with death and securing their journey to and place in the afterlife, held purgatorial views via their incantations in the Book of the Dead, spells to physically and spiritually assist the deceased to reach and prosper in the afterlife. This fearsome figure, composed of the three largest man-eating animals in Ancient Egypt, the crocodile, hippopotamus, and lion, is known as the ‘Devourer of the Dead.’ If a person’s heart was judged to be impure, Ammit would consume it—this act of sin eating was final and those judged to be unworthy would be 99

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eternally restless. The following four filmic chapters of the Hell Priest’s testament reflect a similar bestial incarnation of the character. In each, the character’s limited screen time renders him a conceptual collector of souls within the rigid governing structure hinted at in Hellraiser: Bloodline, perhaps a demotion as penance for his untethered defiance in Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth. In Hellraiser: Hellseeker (2002), Kirsty’s (Ashley Laurence) adulterous husband tricks her into opening LeMarchand’s box and the film, which bears striking resemblance to the plot of its predecessor, is his slow realization that his waking nightmare is real. Kirsty has again manipulated the laws of Hell by striking a deal with the Hell Priest—however, her evasion has not gone unnoticed and the ante has been raised. In this film, Kirsty must submit five souls in exchange for hers, including that of her treacherous spouse. The next two films were both released in 2005. Hellraiser: Deader was filmed in Romania for budgetary reasons, and a second film, Hellraiser: Hellworld, was also required to be made in the country as part of this agreement. In Hellraiser: Deader, American reporter Amy Klein (Kari Wuhrer) is sent to investigate a cult in Bucharest led by LeMarchand’s descendent, ritualistically murdering and reanimating its members in an attempt to open the box. The Hell Priest acknowledges that Amy is a “soldier in another man’s war”—a fitting comparison to his own stilted pontifex duties—but that, as she opened the box, her soul belongs to him. Sacrificing herself, LeMarchand’s box emits an energy that destroys the cult’s compound and banishes the Cenobites—until a second journalist is dispatched to investigate and finds the box in the rubble. Hellraiser: Hellworld is the eighth entry in the franchise and was released only three months later. It features a group of teenagers hunted by Cenobites in a building built by LeMarchand, 100

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which turns out to be a hallucinogenic nightmare conceptually based on the multiplayer videogame ‘Hellworld’ their friend Adam (Stelian Urian) committed suicide while playing. His father, played by Lance Henriksen, blames the group for his son’s death and orchestrates the elaborate (and unbelievable) ruse, but gets more than he bargained for when he realizes his son has opened the gateway to Hell—capped by the Hell Priest’s arrival as he literally collects the bounty. This token appearance of the character is due to the fact that, like its two previous cinematic siblings, the film did not begin life as a Hellraiser script—Hellraiser: Hellworld is based on a short story by the film’s scriptwriter Joel Soisson, “Dark Can’t Breathe,” which has no connection to the franchise (Bota, Soisson, Tunnicliffe & Phillips, 2005). A subsequent Dimension Films project was announced in 2006. Barker was initially attached to write, but ongoing complications during an extended development period (in which directors Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo, Pascal Laugier, and Patrick Lussier exited the project) meant that another film was released in 2011, Hellraiser: Revelations, again in order for the company’s rights to be retained. In response to the script, Bradley publicly stated that he was hanging up the chains: “[the project] does not seem to me to represent a serious attempt to revive the Hellraiser franchise” (cited in Barton, 2010). Stephan Smith Collins stepped into Bradley’s sizeable shoes (with the character voiced by Fred Tatasciore). The low budget, extremely tight filming schedule, and Bradley’s notable absence are apparent in the film’s execution, and it was largely met with critical disdain upon release. Referring to the Cenobites as “Guardians of the ultimate experience,” the film shifts the mythology once again to manipulate previous rules. The murderous Nico (Jay Gillespie) escapes the Cenobites 101

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and kills his friend Stephen (Nick Eversman) when he refuses to bring victims for Nico to consume in order to regenerate. Nico forces his girlfriend Emma (Tracey Fairaway), Stephen’s sister, to solve LeMarchand’s box at gunpoint to “swing a trade,” believing the Order will relish her innocence—not realizing the reason she was able to open it in the first place, giving the Hell Priest a glimpse of Nico’s lost soul before he managed to close the portal, was due to her own dark desire. The Hell Priest refutes Nico’s demand and informs him that he will take “special pleasure” in torturing Nico, whose darkness rivals his own. When Emma and Stephen’s father kills Nico in revenge, the Hell Priest still does not take Emma, as the person who physically summoned the Order, despite recognizing a similar darkness in her. He instead takes her mother in payment for the “deficit of flesh” to cause her dying father further anguish, stating that Emma’s desire will call him eventually anyway. As sin eaters, it is “desire” that the Cenobites crave, which is subsequently used as currency by humans to bend purgatorial rules in the previous films. For this unfortunate family, there is no hope of absolution or redemption. The film presages the next cinematic installment, in which the Hell Priest himself will be judged.

NIGHTMARES AND HELLSCAPES Despite convoluted timelines, story arcs, and world-constructs across the Hellraiser mythology, The Scarlet Gospels is self-referential in the way it draws from the series to become the Hell Priest’s final testament. Despite the vastness of the labyrinth in Hellbound: Hellraiser II, one can assume that the elaborate 102

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structure is the extent of this domain. However, taking into account the municipal cities, surrounded by villages housing lower denizens, and extreme topographical variances in The Scarlet Gospels, this “vast panorama” could easily physically house the labyrinth, with one section of the city fittingly described as “a maze of once-beautiful rooms, grand halls where plaster rotted and fell away from the walls and the mirrors decayed, their gold leaf frames flaking and crusting over” (Barker, 2015, p. 173). Additionally, though dealing with the arcane, magic throughout the series is tethered to the material—it is organic, of flesh and blood. The gateway to other dimensions in The Scarlet Gospels is described as a “wyrm hole” (2015, p. 317). This temporal travel through space lends the magic a scientific and physical property, which is beautifully and intricately woven into the fabric of the world. This theme carries through the franchise: LeMarchand is an inventor and his descendent an architect in Hellraiser: Bloodline; the box itself, strikingly replicated on a terrible scale in the design of the building complex in this film, is a masterwork of engineering (and originally designed by the Engineer in the Hellraiser mythology). In The Scarlet Gospels, Lucifer is the architect or engineer of his own Pseudo Heaven, which is directly challenged by the Hell Priest; as Kane (2006) writes, “Given the opportunity he will shape the planet in his own image, creating a Pseudo Hell” (p. 121). Written almost 30 years after the original novella, The Scarlet Gospels strips away the mystery of its monastic members to focus on the personal aspirations and desires of the Hell Priest, who ingests all arcane knowledge stolen from the world’s most powerful magicians before using this power to obliterate the governing structure of Hell. His ultimate quest is a forbidden purgatorial 103

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pilgrimage to confront the Lord of Hell, Lucifer, but he finds the fallen angel dead by his own hand in the bowels of his unfathomable fortress, no longer able to endure the perpetual pain of loss in his forced deprivation from the sight of God. The Hell Priest declares himself King of Hell and steals Lucifer’s armor, unaware that this act will induce Lucifer’s resurrection. In the ensuring battle, the Hell Priest’s body is broken beyond repair, allowing him to attain the redemption that Lucifer will never truly achieve. Enraged that he is beyond death, Lucifer vows to destroy the “second Heaven” (Barker, 2015, p. 357) he created when cast into the pit. He literally cracks open the stone sky, which can be read as a reference to Dante Alighieri’s (1320) Mountain of Purgatory, the displaced rock formed from Lucifer’s fall. Though he subsequently fells Hell, Lucifer survives and resigns himself to wander Earth—a lost soul in his undying purgatorial existence.

FINAL JUDGEMENT The redemption of the Hell Priest is achieved differently in both the literary and cinematic incarnations of the character. In both, his ambition and humanity are inherently bound to his purgatorial arc. The doctrinal truths of Purgatory refer to its demise on the day of judgement (Petrisko, 2002, p. 19); in The Scarlet Gospels, the Hell Priest’s ambition leads to his judgement by a higher power, Lucifer. As a human, he achieves salvation at Lucifer’s hand—an absolution that the archangel’s divine obligation will never permit. His ambition consequently completes his ultimate role in engineering the “unmaking of Hell” (Barker, 2015, p. 347), and the Hell Priest watches as Hell is destroyed by fire, 104

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his broken body finally succumbing to his own demise. There is redemption in death: “Content in the knowledge that his legacy would forever be one of agony and loss, he opened himself up to oblivion” (Barker, 2015, p. 347). It can be read that this is the end the Hell Priest sought all along: in “this silence, this death,” the Hell Priest is free (Barker, 2015, p. 337). Cinematically, the Hell Priest’s trajectory has similarly courted his own demise. In the final film of the franchise thus far, Hellraiser: Judgment (2018), Paul T. Taylor replaces Smith Collins as the Hell Priest. Replicating the police procedural narrative from Hellraiser: Inferno, the film follows a trio of detectives hunting a serial killer, the Preceptor, targeting people who violate the Ten Commandments. Taking its cue from the extensive biblical references in The Scarlet Gospels, the film explores sin eating on several levels. The film introduces a new faction, Hell’s Stygian Inquisition, which processes sinners based on their offenses and appears to reflect the organizational changes in Hell referenced in previous films. The Auditor (played by director Gary J. Tunnicliffe) records their confessions on a typewriter and the pages are fed to the Assessor (John Gulager). He regurgitates the documents, and the vomit is assessed by a jury of semi-naked, rotting women. The guilty are then systematically processed. The Stygian Inquisition operates separately to the Order of the Gash, summoning sinners to an abandoned house that functions as a gateway to Hell in order to harvest their souls. Despite consultation with the Auditor, the Hell Priest is largely absent for the majority of the film. Glimpsed several times sitting in contemplation, as though his own “exquisite emptiness” has finally consumed him, this uncharacteristic lack of agency makes his final act even more pronounced. Following a lead to the abandoned 105

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house, Det. Sean Carter (Damon Carney) finds himself being processed by the Stygian Inquisition in Hell. Divine intervention courtesy of Jophiel (Helena Grace Donald), the archangel of wisdom, understanding, and judgement, ensures his return to Earth (having stolen LeMarchand’s box). Carter is ultimately revealed to be the Preceptor; despite his escape, he is plagued by nightmares and realizes the Cenobites will claim his soul eventually. He uses the box to open the gateway to the hellscape in order to trade his adulterous wife for his soul, but the Hell Priest refuses. Jophiel again intervenes; Heaven wants Carter sent back to Earth to continue his spree in order to instill faith in the populace. In response, the Hell Priest commits perhaps the most notorious sin in murdering Jophiel and is banished to Earth by God. The Hell Priest’s penance comes at a price: humanity and its inexorable mortality. However, returning to purgatorial doctrine, this can be read as his true redemption: as the Auditor states, “Perhaps there is a torture we cannot endure. Banishment.” This line is profound when considered from a purgatorial perspective: the loss of his faith in humanity removed Spencer from God’s love, or simply peace, salvation, and oblivion. The act of banishment at the end of the film revokes his purgatorial deprivation from the sight of God and grants the Hell Priest redemption via restored humanity, the process of which is a sensorial and emotional overload. In regaining his knowledge and identity, the Hell Priest is reduced to the historical human sin-eater. This journey not only cements the Hell Priest’s humanity as the central and cyclical conflict of the film franchise but suggests that this outcome was what the Hell Priest desired. Where the Hell Priest’s journey takes him in the next cinematic chapter of his testament is yet to be written, but one thing is certain: he is the engineer of his fate. 106

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REFERENCes Aguirre-Sacasa, R. (Creator). (2018-). Chilling Adventures of Sabrina [Television series]. United States: Netflix. Alighieri, D. (1985). The Divine Comedy: Volume II: Purgatory (M. Musa, Trans.). New York, NY & Toronto, Canada: Penguin Books. Atwood, M. (1988). The Sin Eater. In M. Atwood & R. Weaver (Eds.), The Oxford Book of Canadian Short Stories in English. Toronto, Canada: Oxford University Press. Argo, S-M. (Director). (2012). Sineaters [Motion picture]. United States: Dark Roast Releasing. Aubrey, J. (1881). Remaines of Gentilisme and Judaisme (J. Britten, Ed.). London, England: W. Satchell, Peyton, and Co. Aun Weor, S. (2018). The Initiatic Path in the Arcana of the Tarot and Kabbalah. [n.p.]: Daath Gnostic Publishing. Barker, C. (1985). The Damnation Game. London, England: Weidenfeld & Nicolson Ltd. Barker, C. (1985). The Last Illusion. In Books of Blood: Volume VI. London: Sphere Books. Barker, C. (1987). Weaveworld. Glasgow, Scotland: Collins. Barker, C. (Director). (1987). Hellraiser [Motion picture]. United Kingdom: Entertainment Film Distributors. Barker, C. (1988). Cabal. Glasgow, Scotland: Collins. Barker, C. (Director). (1990). Nightbreed [Motion picture]. United States: 20th Century Fox. Barker, C. (Director). (1995). Lord of Illusions [Motion picture]. United States: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Barker, C. (2004). Foreword. In S. Jones (Ed.)., The Hellraiser Chronicles. London, England: Titan Books. Barker, C. (2008). The Hellbound Heart. Glasgow, Scotland: HarperVoyager. Barker, C. (2015). The Scarlet Gospels. London, England: Macmillan. Barker, C. (2017). The Clive Barker Playscripts: The History of the Devil. Fordingbridge, England: The Clive Barker Archive. Barker, C. (2018). The Clive Barker Playscripts: Hunters in the Snow. Fordingbridge, England: The Clive Barker Archive.

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scared sacred Barker, C., & Miller, M.A. (2018). Hellraiser: The Toll. Burton, MI: Subterranean Press. Barton, S. (2010, August 21). Hellraiser: Revelations – Doug Bradley Speaks Out! Will NOT Be Returning! Dread Central. Retrieved from https://www.dreadcentral.com/news/19101/ hellraiser-revelations-doug-bradley-speaks-out-will-not-be-returning/ Bota, R. (Director). (2002). Hellraiser: Hellseeker [Motion picture]. Canada & United States: Miramax. Bota, R. (Director). (2005). Hellraiser: Deader [Motion picture]. United States: Miramax. Bota, R. (Director). (2005). Hellraiser: Hellworld [Motion picture]. United States: Dimension Films & Miramax. Bota, R., Soisson, J., Tunnicliffe, G.J., & Phillips, N. (2005). Feature Commentary by Director Rick Bota, Writer Joel Soisson, Special Make-up Effects Designer Gary J. Tunnicliffe & Executive Producer Nick Phillips. Hellraiser: Hellworld [DVD]. United States: Dimension Films. Condon, B. (1998). Gods and Monsters [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Lionsgate Films. David, P. (1985). The Spectacular Spider-Man – Original Sin #107 [Cartoon]. New York, NY: Marvel. Derrickson, S. (Director). (2000). Hellraiser: Inferno [Motion picture]. United States: Miramax Films. Derrickson, S. (Director). (2005). The Exorcism of Emily Rose [Motion picture]. United States: Screen Gems. Derrickson, S. (2005). Commentary Track by Director Scott Derrickson. The Exorcism of Emily Rose [DVD]. United States: Sony Pictures. Esquivel-Obregon, C. (Director). (2004). The Sin Eater [Motion picture]. United States: [n.p.]. Garcia, V. (Director). (2011). Hellraiser: Revelations [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Dimension Films. Helgeland, B. (Director). (2003). The Order/The Sin Eater [Motion picture]. United States: 20th Century Fox. Hickox, A. (Director). (1992). Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth [Motion picture]. United States: Dimension Films & Miramax. Kane, P. (2006). The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy. London, England: McFarland & Company.

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the last sin eater Landon Jr., M. (Director). (2007). The Last Sin Eater [Motion picture]. United States: Fox Faith. Le Goff, J. (1986). The Birth of Purgatory. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. McDonagh, K. (Director). (2015). Leviathan: The Story of Hellraiser and Hellbound: Hellraiser II [Motion picture]. United Kingdom: Cult Film Screenings. Olin, K. (Director). (2013). The Sin Eater. In Kurtzman, A., Orci, R., Iscove, P., & Wiseman, L. (Creators). (2013-17). Sleepy Hollow [Television series]. United States: 20th Century Fox Television. Pavlou, G. (Director). (1985). Underworld [Motion picture]. United Kingdom: Empire Pictures. Pavlou, G. (Director). (1987). Rawhead Rex [Motion picture]. Ireland & United Kingdom: Empire Pictures. Petrisko, T.W. (2002). Inside Purgatory: What History, Theology and the Mystics Tell Us About Purgatory. McKees Rocks, PA: St. Andrew’s Productions. Randel, T. (Director). (1988). Hellbound: Hellraiser II [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: New World Pictures. Rivers, F. (1998). The Last Sin Eater. Carol Stream, IL: Tyndale House Publishers Inc. Rose, B. (Director). (1992). Candyman [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Rank Film Distributors & TriStar Pictures. Rudolph, K. (1998). Gnosis: The Nature & History of Gnosticism (R. McLachlan Wilson, Trans. & Ed.). Edinburgh, Scotland: T&T Clark. Schouppe, F.X. (2009). Purgatory: Explained by the Lives and Legends of the Saints. Charlotte, NC: TAN Books. Spence, L. (1912). The Civilisation of Ancient Mexico. Cambridge, England & New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Stokes, P., & Stokes, S. (2004). The Marriage of Hell: Demons to Some, Angels to Others. Liner notes in Hellraiser [DVD]. United States: Anchor Bay Entertainment. Tunnicliffe, G.J. (Director). (2018). Hellraiser: Judgment [Motion picture]. United States: Lionsgate Films. Yagher, K. (Director). (1996). Hellraiser: Bloodline [Motion picture]. United States: Dimension Films & Miramax.

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NEEDFUL THINGS: BUDDHISM AND GENDER IN ONIBABA (1964) AND NANG NAK (1999) ERIN THOMPSON

he popular depiction of Buddhism, particularly in film, Trelies upon a familiar series of images: the serene, aged monk, head bowed in prayer, with knowledge to spare for the weary world traveler. This imagery presents only a fraction of the religion, which features distinct sects, careful rituals, and a host of intricate afterlife beliefs. Like any religion, Buddhism is not immune to unpleasant elements, such as gender inequality that reaches into the realm of the spiritual. The request from female followers to join the search for enlightenment was granted by Buddha, the religion’s founder, only after persuasion from his male cousin, advisor and high-ranking follower Ananda, and with extra conditions that only apply to female practitioners, such as additional prayers and behavioral expectations (O’Brien, 2019). The heightened requirements for female practitioners of the Buddhist faith sometimes shows up in art and literature. Kaneto Shindô’s Japanese Buddhist parable Onibaba (1964) and Nonzee Nimibutr’s Thai ghost story Nang Nak (1999) feature imagery 111

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and thematic hallmarks of the Buddhist faith and demonstrate a larger underlying theme: religious gender inequality via their female anti-heroes. Both focus on the gender politics of spiritual fulfillment and balance amid the background of religious tradition and social custom. Ultimately, the films’ plots, suggesting women must endure a difficult road to salvation and enlightenment, present a critical view of a troubling theme: that a female practitioner of the Buddhist faith must have a male counterpart to achieve full spiritual potential. Buddhist belief centers around the teachings of Siddhartha Gautama. Shaken by the realization that the constant cycle of rebirth within Indian religious traditions offered no escape from successions of suffering, as well as momentary joys, he sought to transcend the nature of his thinking (Wangu, 2009). In becoming the first Buddha, or “the enlightened,” he practiced meditation, morality, and wisdom to achieve truth, knowledge, and spiritual enlightenment (Wangu, 2009, p. 10). In following this path, practitioners are offered a soteriological release via the spiritual goal of Nirvana, described as “freedom from the endless cycle of personal reincarnations, with their consequent suffering” or “a place or state characterized by freedom from or oblivion to pain, worry, and the external world” (Dictionary.com, n.d.). Theravada and Mahayana Buddhism both evolved from this core belief. The former, primarily practiced in South Asian countries, is a more conservative approach to enlightenment. It focuses on fostering individual enlightenment before the education and assistance of others (Wangu, 2009). This approach presents a greater argument for adhering to the literal teachings of the Buddha to achieve one’s spiritual goals, fitting nicely into the rigid social structures of the cultures in which it is found (Gombrich, 1988). Mahayana 112

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Buddhism, in contrast, is practiced in North Asia, particularly in China, and emphasizes the education of others (Wangu, 2009). Part of the appeal of Mahayana Buddhism in these regions stems from its ability to coincide with other faiths due to its roots in peaceful discourse as opposed to cultural imperialism. The term bodhisattva historically references Gautama and refers to an individual on the path to Buddhahood. In Mahayana Buddhism, this individual obtains enlightenment but turns back from or “delay[s]” Nirvana to assist in the enlightenment of others, from humans to small animals (Wangu, 2009, p. 58). The Buddhist belief in the cycle of rebirth offers learners the opportunity to grow and learn from their mistakes; there is potential for continuous improvement if the believer dies before achieving enlightenment. However, the cycle of rebirth does not merely function as a spiritual loophole, and dire consequences await those who do not behave in ways adherent to the religion. As Malcolm David Eckel (2002) explains, karma refers to ‘moral “action”’ and determines one’s standing in the afterlife and future lifetimes: Someone who accumulates merit or good karma in the course of a life will be reborn in a more favorable situation in a future life, perhaps even as a god. The reverse applies to those who perform bad actions […] the worst offenders have to eradicate their demerits by suffering in one of the layers of Hell, which are ranked according to the severity of their punishments. (p. 88) Those who behave in a particularly egregious fashion must serve time in one of these layers, which function as a finite residence in 113

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which individuals must atone for their sins in order to be reborn in a higher world. The greatest suffering occurs in Naraka; this Sanskrit term is used throughout the Dharmic religions but is specifically used in Buddhism to describe the worst hellish realms. Naraka are more akin to the Christian concept of Purgatory than Hell in that, instead of divine eternal damnation, accumulated bad karma delivers an individual to Naraka and prolongs their journey to Nirvana—often by hundreds of thousands of years. As such, Buddhist practitioners seek to fortify their spiritual selves through religious observance and its corresponding implications. The individual must consider the impact of their actions upon others, which extends into the physical environment through a reverence for nature and worship of statues as stand-ins for prominent Buddhist gods and figures. The seminal work The Tibetan Book of the Dead (Tibetan title: The Great Liberation by Hearing in the Intermediate States) details the process for paying homage and leaving offerings to the spirits (Coleman & Thupten Jinpa, 2005). The believer may not see the spirit, but the respect for that realm must be present to demonstrate progression toward good karma and a better afterlife/rebirth. Onibaba weaves together the concepts of respect for the Buddhist afterlife with a perceived manifestation of the spiritual in the physical world. Set in Japan during the mid-1300s, the story follows an unnamed mother-in-law/daughter-in-law pairing, credited as Older Woman (Nobuko Otowa) and Younger Woman (Jitsuko Yoshimura), as they carve out a dire existence during the absence of the man in their lives. Kishi, son of Older Woman and husband of Younger Woman, is never seen; he fights in a civil war between shoguns that saw the Ashikaga shogunate 114

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assume power for nearly 250 years (Henshall, 2012). The women, bound by their relationship to Kishi, eke out a living by murdering soldiers and deserters who pass by the vast fields in which they live, then selling their armor and weapons to local merchant Ushi (Taiji Tonoyama) in return for food. The women’s routine is interrupted by the arrival of deserter Hachi (Kei Satō), a neighbor who was drafted unwillingly into the war. He relays the information that Kishi was killed while en route home. While Older Woman blames Hachi for her son’s death, she displays jealousy and fear when Hachi seduces Younger Woman. With her child dead and the threat of her livelihood being taken from her as well, Older Woman kills an unnamed soldier (Jūkichi Uno) and steals his Hannya, a traditional theater mask depicting a female demon, which she then uses to scare Younger Woman in the hopes of preventing the affair from continuing. Throughout the film, references are made to a natural world without social order. Older Woman states early on: “The fields run wild without men to till them.” The war diminishes the presence of men, drastically decreasing the food supply and driving starving women to commit sins such as murder to make ends meet. Older Woman and her younger counterpart can no longer behave as pious women hoping to achieve enlightenment. Their starvation and need to survive in the mortal world drives them to murder for profit. The running theme of food as motivation for action holds a special place in everyday Buddhist worship, and both Theravada and Mahayana Buddhists incorporate the “central daily rite” of food offerings to spirits into their habitual practices (Lester, 1998, p. 96). Onibaba remains striking in that the setting and circumstances of the film present the main characters with a worship 115

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conundrum: if the women leave food out for the gods, the food will not be consumed by two starving women, which will hasten their deaths. However, by ignoring their religious practices, they place their spiritual journey in danger—murder notwithstanding. Murder does not seem to faze the women as much as sexual impropriety. Older Woman is at first approached by Ushi with an offer of more food in exchange for sex, which she vehemently declines—sex is not a bargaining chip for her, signifying that she feels the exchange would cross a moral line that murder does not. At this point, Older Woman views the murder of soldiers as a provisionary act; in the absence of the head of household, she must kill them and sell their possessions in order to function as the primary breadwinner. Older Woman’s example is one of sexual fidelity despite an absentee spouse and, as the elder in the familial relationship, her example dictates the behavior of Younger Woman. As per social custom, as the subordinate female, Younger Woman must remain at the mercy of her mother-in-law. When Hachi surfaces and shows interest in Younger Woman, Older Woman errs on the side of socially respectable sex, offering to find her “a good husband” and stating that “When the war ends, the men will come back.” Older Woman advocates a sanctioned remarriage, with a hint toward future provision. As a respectable wife, Younger Woman will presumably honor her moral obligation to the woman who cares enough to kill for her, thereby maintaining Older Woman. Younger Woman, for her part, sees Hachi as an opportunity to break free from a difficult life at the mercy of her murderous mother-in-law, one with little hope of social advancement, conjugal relations, or children. Younger Woman does exhibit some concern for the morality of engaging in sex with Hachi when she asks him, “If we sin, do 116

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we go to Purgatory?” Hachi quickly explains her concerns away: “Sin? People have been doing this for thousands of years. But I’m willing to go to Hell for you!” The notion of a man risking Hell for her physical presence appears awfully attractive to a woman stuck in a cycle of starvation and murder. Onibaba presents two women and two separate sins, placing greater emphasis on the sin of unregulated sexuality and the betrayal of familial loyalty than it does the taking of human life. Arguably, the sin of sexual activity is one that has the greater potential for both redemption and situational justification. While the ending of a life via murder is both violent and final, a sex act can be used as a tool for survival, paving the way for redemption later on. Committing a murder traditionally results in greater societal punishment, which means it carries a higher degree of socioreligious taboo and therefore mortal sin. However, the Dhammapada, collecting the Buddha’s sayings in verse form, stresses the possibility for redemption of past misdeeds: Whoever has done an evil deed But covers it with a virtuous one Illuminates this world Like the moon freed from a cloud. (2010, p. 36, 173) The teaching does not demand behavioral perfection. Rather, it offers a way out of a morally complex situation through reflection and atonement. The situation in Onibaba dictates that these women do not view their murders as sins because they are surviving in a world without social order. The Dhammapada cautions against such behavior:

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Until the evil ripens The fool thinks it’s honey-sweet; But when the evil ripens The fool’s plunged into suffering. (2010, p. 15, 69) The women do not consider the long-term impact of their actions and seek to justify their misdeeds rather than atone for them; the larger issue is engaging in sexual activity that could result in a break from the family unit and the employment of guilt to challenge a gender-fueled dependency. Therein lies the crux of the moral dilemma: Older Woman fears that Younger Woman will leave her for sex and male companionship, revealing an anxious dependency upon men. Older Woman cannot secure sex with a younger man, indicating that her sexual prime has passed—a blow to her ego in terms of both youth and beauty. As an elder, she cannot compete with her younger daughter-in-law, and this internal conflict manifests in Older Woman masturbating while watching the younger couple have sex. It makes sense that Older Woman dons the mask of a demon to torment and manipulate her daughter-in-law. The particular Hannya mask she wears conveys “a fusion of jealousy, grudge, sorrow, and grief of women” (Noh Masks Database, n.d.). The mask thus comes to represent Older Woman’s fears as well as her crimes. Before murdering the soldier she steals the mask from, she learns that he wore it to protect his own “beautiful” face from battle. Older Woman takes the opportunity to taunt the soldier for his role in the deaths of men who did not want to fight, not seeing the irony of her own murderous actions. She thus fittingly wears a mask of complex mourning and anger to scare Younger Woman away from Hachi and further 118

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sexual congress, itself an act borne from desperation and misplaced grief. The soldier’s words to Older Woman become a haunting precognitive statement: “I am a human being, not a demon.” The moment she steals the mask and puts it on, she damns herself to retribution for her crimes—in essence, her karma comes for her without the afterlife needing to intercede. When she finally meets her fate in the same pit used by the women to dispose of the dead soldiers, with her face in a state of disfigurement from the mask, it is apparent that she cannot recognize the moral implications of her actions or their spiritual gravity. Older Woman is a grieving mother struggling to survive amid feelings of rejection and jealousy, yet the audience is unable to wholly sympathize with her due to her inability to perceive the dire significance of her actions. Similarly, the Thai ghost story Nang Nak focuses on the gender dynamics of a married couple in relationship to the Buddhist afterlife. Set in Thailand during the Siamese-Vietnamese War (1831-34), young Mak (Winai Kraibutr) leaves his wife Nak (Intira Jaroenpura) to fight. Mak is badly injured and spends time recuperating before returning home to his wife, who was pregnant when he left. Nak and the young baby happily greet Mak upon his return, but the concerned villagers reveal to Mak that his wife and child died during a difficult birth. A disbelieving Mak rejects their stories, and the ghost of Nak murders the dissenting villagers. Mak finds human remains under his house and witnesses Nak’s arm extend unnaturally to pick up a dropped brush, confirming the villagers’ tales. He rushes to a local temple to pray for both himself and his wife, while Nak stubbornly refuses to leave her husband and move to the next life. After a careful ritual conducted by the High Dignitary, Somdet (Manit Meekaewjaroen), 119

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a religious official who is called in to help rid the region of the murderous ghost, Nak moves on to servitude in the afterlife to atone for her bad deeds. Mak becomes a Buddhist monk to assist her, so that they may meet in the next life. While not a religious parable, the core story of Nang Nak is rooted in a famous Thai ghost story. The film adaptation of the story is faithful to this legend, which remains popular in Thailand to this day. According to the popular tale, Nak dies while still pregnant and with her husband away at war. Thai belief dictates that a woman who dies with her child in utero creates a fearsome ghostly entity: Mae Nak’s disembodied consciousness is full of attachment to her husband, and she finds herself unable to move on to her next birth. The force of this attachment is so strong that her spirit is able to manifest a physical body and cast a spell over her husband so that the house appears to be kept up and not abandoned and overgrown as it actually is. (Zander, 2014, para. 5) Nang Nak focuses on the mechanics of both ghost lore and traditional Buddhist views of the afterlife. The Tibetan Book of the Dead (Coleman & Thupten Jinpa, 2005) explicitly details rituals and mental exercises that practitioners must undertake in order to completely prepare for both their inevitable death (whether expected or violent and sudden) and their transition to the next plane of existence. Against the backdrop of the film, this belief functions on two levels: no ritual is performed onscreen to shield the village from ghosts in the time of cholera, as Nak references upon her husband’s return, and improper funeral rites leave Nak 120

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and her child haunting their home—Nak only travels when seeking to punish those who disrupt the illusion of her being alive and when Mak attempts to leave her out of fear. There is the suggestion that the pain suffered by both the soul of the dead woman and the larger community could have been avoided had proper religious ritual been observed. This tale also serves as a reflection on co-dependence. Nak and Mak mirror one another in their early trials. As Mak hallucinates and slips in and out of consciousness on the battlefield, Nak endures a difficult labor that eventually kills her. Nak’s love for her husband keeps her from moving on to the afterlife, where, priests state, she will be reborn; her main motivation is to remain by his side forever. Mak, meanwhile, refuses to believe the stories of Nak’s death. Even their child is an afterthought to Mak, who leaves care of the infant to Nak. When Mak first arrives home, his sole focus lies in embracing Nak, interacting with the baby via a brief pat on the head when it lets out a small wail and referring to the child as “it,” declining to gender or name the infant. The exclusion of the child underlines the intensity of the bond between the spouses; the couple’s devotion to one another defies logic, spiritual practice, and natural order. However, thematically, Nak violates a larger universal order in choosing to engage with her earthly life. The Dhammapada cautions against such action, stating: The one who, desiring happiness for himself, Harms with the rod Beings who desire happiness Will have no happiness hereafter. (2010, p. 28, 131)

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Nak’s desire to remain with Mak after her death causes sins to pile up. She behaves selfishly by refusing to leave the realm of the living, then compounds this action by taking the lives of others. This conundrum leaves her in the odd position of necessitating Mak to enter the life of a Buddhist monk, in hopes of attaining spiritual salvation for her in tandem with her own repentant actions via service to spiritual leader Somdet. He lays down the condition that, if Mak wishes to save both Nak’s soul and his own, he must adopt the life of a monk while she surrenders her spirit to servitude. On the surface, Mak’s gesture appears romantic and supportive; he will spend the rest of his life in a monastery, praying for Nak and selflessly helping others get closer to achieving an enlightened state. Upon closer inspection, it can be read that Mak’s gesture is not given freely so much as required because Nak cannot save herself through her actions alone. Mak certainly has the support system Nak lacks, as is evident when a monk at the local temple plants the revelation of this truth within Mak, telling him, “If you want to see the truth, concentrate. Keep the Buddha in mind. Bend over to the front and look between your legs. The truth will reveal itself to you.” Later, when speaking to Nak, the same monk chastises, “Nak, scaring the monks is a sin. Be gone. Don’t bother Mak.” Effectively, the first level of clergy tells Nak that the best she can do is go away so that her husband can move on, without explicit instruction regarding penitence or how to move on herself. She is regarded as a menacing spirit rather than a scared or desperate practitioner of the faith looking to right her misdeeds. The difference in how the monk addresses Mak and Nak speaks to a gendered inequality. Mak is given advice so that he may repent, while Nak is denied instruction to better her own 122

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spiritual standing. Without such direction, she is condemned to either wander the earth as a ghost or move on to a new life negatively influenced by her bad karma. These possible fates garner her a degree of sympathy—after all, Nak just wants to remain with her husband, an emotion with which many audience members can empathize. Somdet does eventually advise her regarding the steps she must take to atone. He does not slam the door shut on her chances of salvation but rather offers her a long road—as Nak tells Mak during their tearful goodbye, “My fate is small. I must go to serve the High Dignitary until I pay off my karma. I can no longer serve you.” In alignment with the legend, a piece of Nak’s skull is used to create a relic containing her spirit. Somdet employs this relic in his lifetime, before it is eventually passed to the Thai royal family and slips into obscurity, its whereabouts unknown. Nak goes from wishing to serve her husband to entering service with the Buddhist officials to then spiritually serving the Thai royal family. The Tibetan Book of the Dead (2005) notes that individuals face judgement for wrongdoing in the afterlife, moving in stages until their final judgement, while conversely stressing the need for guidance to the afterlife: “If [the individual] is not capable of [accepting death of their own accord], then a spiritual teacher, a student, or a spiritual sibling who was a close friend, should stay nearby and clearly remind [the dying person] of the signs [of death] in their correct sequence” (Coleman & Thupten Jinpa, p. 229). The act of salvation is twofold for Nak; her entry into a life of servitude to another man ensures her balanced karma, meaning that she must rely on serving a man to progress her personal spiritual path while accepting the assistance her husband provides through his own spiritual service. Historically, women 123

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have encountered issues when attempting to claim equal rights within the confines of Buddhism. As Daisaku Ikeda (1996) acknowledges, the Lotus Sutra, which is believed to hold some of the last teachings of the Buddha, summarizes this relationship: The fundamental point of the “declaration of women’s rights” arising from the Lotus Sutra is that each person has the innate potential and the right to realize a state of life of the greatest happiness. Our realizing such happiness will ensure that this noble history of sacrifice and struggle has not been in vain. The goal is for each person […] to set out on a voyage to attain absolute happiness, while helping those adrift on the sea of suffering do the same—without anyone being victimized. (para. 13) This logic of religious participation and inclusion sounds fantastic on paper, in that each individual has the opportunity and intrinsic right to attempt to achieve happiness and spiritual fulfillment. The struggle of life, under this interpretation, removes barriers of gender, and happiness is attainable due to the presence of potential and equality. However, Buddhism has not always been as forthcoming with this sense of equality. The Buddha happily shares his knowledge and helps followers—so long as they are male. Barbara O’Brien (2019) relates the story of the Buddha actively turning away female followers, one of which was his biological aunt (and later stepmother). The Buddha’s cousin and trusted advisor Ananda intercedes for the women, approaching the Buddha to ask “if there was any reason women could not realize enlightenment and enter Nirvana as well as men” (O’Brien, 2019, para. 6). The Buddha relents and allows the 124

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women to join in their pursuit of learning, but he also laments that his teachings would only last half of their original duration due to the presence of women (O’Brien, 2019). This conflict and persuasion marks a chasm in the religion, as the women require a respected male colleague to speak on their behalf. Essentially, women need the intervention of a man to convince others, even their spiritual leader, of their worth and merit of belonging. Both Onibaba and Nang Nak contain elements of this sexism. The women in Onibaba rely upon the male characters for sustenance and validation. Their world is thrown into chaos by the presence of war, which takes most of the male population and disrupts daily life processes like farming and familial/spousal relations. In using the demon mask to scare her daughter-inlaw, playing on mortal fears, Older Woman attempts to further disrupt the male/female sexual relationship to ensure Younger Woman remains by her side, providing care, companionship, and obedience in compliance with traditional social roles. The loss of Younger Woman equates to the loss of Older Woman’s livelihood, pride as the respected elder, and ultimately compounds the loss of her deceased (male) child. Older Woman is thus punished with facial disfiguration and implied death, reinforcing that, like karma, the natural order will eventually course-correct and punish the sinner. Nang Nak conversely punishes a woman for being too attached to her spouse, violating the natural order of death to remain in the corporeal world. Nak is forced into spiritual servitude while her husband lives the quiet, chaste life of a monk to pray for her spiritual debt. In both cases, the attachment presents a contradiction: the social role of devoted partner relies upon the male half of the equation to gain entry into the afterlife in a favorable 125

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manner. The attitude toward women in Buddhist scripture is one that presents a disheartening portrait, as the Dhammapada states: The rust of a woman is misconduct; Miserliness is the rust of a giver. All evil ways are rusts, In this world and the next. (2010, p. 48, 242) This passage places emphasis on gendered bad behavior. Men are not immediately or innately associated with misconduct, despite the fact that poor male conduct can and does occur. The Udāna, a collection of utterances from the Buddha, includes the story of his half-brother Nanda, who refuses a heavenly reward of 500 celestial nymphs in favor of leading a religious life. In this regard, the scripture sets the selfless actions of men in opposition to the evil nature of women. Women must therefore look to a man and defer to his knowledge and nature, as the religious teachings demonstrate a male capacity toward greater morality—a hallmark of access to divine knowledge and status. Further supporting this sentiment is the belief that one’s spiritual progress results entirely from the self, not from the complement of being a couple. Madhu Bazaz Wangu (2009) states that “anyone in theory could reach Buddhahood,” and proceeds to outline steps toward this goal, including the “role of self-effort and the role of faith in achieving the goal of salvation” (p. 64). By Wangu’s logic, if one follows the steps, enlightenment is attainable. However, the individual who wishes to achieve these goals must complete these actions on their own—the journey of the self may not include heavy lifting from another individual when it comes to matters of spiritual salvation. 126

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The problem thus becomes one of gender perception. Buddhism often warns of ‘“dangerous”’ women, “who are seen as lustful and greedy, jealous and deceitful, fickle and unreliable, vain and sexually undisciplined,” with monstrous sex drives and enough wit to deceive the most moral of men (Kawanami, 2001, p. 139). Given this low opinion of womanly wiles, women can elect to become a nun and adopt a lifestyle of androgyny and celibacy to combat the dangers associated with femininity: [C]elibate practice implies the shedding of femininity, which consequently allows the nun to transcend both the notion of female sexuality permeating the Buddhist texts and the limitations prescribed to her by her reproductive faculties. By renouncing womanhood altogether, a nun is finally free to pursue her inner spirituality. (Kawanami, 2001, p. 137) Moreover, in exchange for religious participation, Buddhist nuns must behave in a way that enables both service and subservience. The Buddha enacts a set of conditions upon women who wish to practice their faith in an official capacity—namely, the Eight Garudhammas (‘heavy rules’), which include edicts such as ordained Buddhist nuns must show monks more respect than a woman who holds/practices a holy position longer, they can neither scold nor advise monks, and they must live their lives to the standards of both monks and nuns (O’Brien, 2019). The role of women in an official spiritual capacity is to serve men and defer to their authority. Additionally, Buddhist nuns are expected to obey 348 conduct rules, compared to 250 rules for Buddhist monks (O’Brien, 2019). Nuns are the ideal form of Buddhist womanhood as they follow the rules and are closest 127

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to the nature of religious philosophy and practice, unhindered by the intricacies of daily life such as children, spouses, and the complications of earning a living. Women can achieve spiritual fulfillment, but at the cost of their core gender identities. Under the tenets of Buddhism, a woman must strip away her traditional societal role as wife and mother, as well as any sexual urges, to become the ideal version of womanhood—and still her actions must defer to a man in a similar religious position. She is not an authority; she is a servant to the authority. A woman must completely neuter herself to get closer to Nirvana or a better reincarnation, while adhering to a hierarchy that demands more of her in terms of subservience and gender deference. In the context of Onibaba and Nang Nak, the three main female characters do not appear to have a great chance at achieving a higher spiritual standing in line with Buddhist scripture and practice. War has taken the men from these women’s lives: Older Woman and Younger Woman are starving and resort to theft and murder to survive, while Nak is buried unceremoniously after she dies in childbirth. In an optimal scenario, the best chance these female characters have at excelling spiritually is to undertake the role of the nun—chaste, pious, and suffering—to ensure proper behavior within the confines of strict religious definitions. In a real-world scenario, this expectation is both difficult and cruel; when life presents real complications, these women are forced to confront their dependence upon the men in their lives, often reflecting a failure on the part of their men to provide for them. An abstract promise of spiritual salvation is a cold comfort in the face of difficult choices that must be made in order to ensure survival, and instructing these women to believe that they cannot achieve spiritual fulfillment without a male 128

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counterpart to properly guide them implies that they do not fully hold equality—that they are merely mechanisms to prop up male practitioners. The conflict then becomes one between the natural world and Buddhist belief. Every creature holds the potential to achieve Nirvana and may undergo countless rebirths while atoning for past indiscretions. A bodhisattva will wait for everyone to be saved before entering Nirvana, providing reassurance that all is not lost for a spirit who stumbles. Once social norms and mores are factored in, the task becomes far trickier; dependence upon men is fostered to place the power of the spiritual path squarely onto one sex, with the only way out being to give up femininity completely. The resulting structure is lopsided and contradictory. What comfort could any religion possibly salvage if it continually demands that its female practitioners are held to a different standard—one that values subservience and neutered existence over integration and application of the religion’s core values into real-life situations and complications? Onibaba and Nang Nak work to place these contradictions into stark contrast with the far more cheerful perception of Buddhism. On one hand, Onibaba presents women who attempt to provide for themselves despite massive upheaval. In the absence of men, they depend on each other and undertake different roles in order to survive, viewing returning male characters as either a threat or release. Nang Nak presents the negative side of spousal attachment, as devotion is replaced by a stubborn need to retain a former way of life. The larger issue in both Onibaba and Nang Nak is one of gender and spiritual accomplishment. In both films, women require the presence of a man in addition to their own good behavior in order to succeed spiritually. Some may view 129

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this aspect to be a statement on the necessity of multiple components to ensure a happy afterlife or future incarnation, but the question still remains: do the male characters require women to be seen as virtuous and deserving of spiritual salvation? That is a thought upon which to meditate.

REFERENCES Coleman, G., & Thupten Jinpa. (Eds.). (2005). The Tibetan Book of the Dead: First Complete Translation (G. Dorje, Trans.). New York, NY: Penguin Books. Dhammapada, The. (2010). (V.J. Roebuck, Trans.). London, England: Penguin Books. Eckel, M.D. (2002). Buddhism: Origins, Beliefs, Practices, Holy Texts, Sacred Places. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Gombrich, R.F. (1988). Theravāda Buddhism: A Social History from Ancient Benares to Modern Colombo. London, England & New York, NY: Routledge. Henshall, K. (2012). A History of Japan: From Stone Age to Superpower. New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan. Ikeda, D. (1996, September). Gender Equality in Buddhism. Soka Gakkai International. Retrieved from https://www.sgi.org/ru/sgi-president/ writings-by-sgi-president-ikeda/a-grand-declaration-of-gender-equality. html Kawanami, H. (2001). Can Women Be Celibate? Sexuality and Abstinence in Theravada Buddhism. In E.J. Sobo & S. Bell (Eds.), Celibacy, Culture and Society: The Anthropology of Sexual Abstinence. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Lester, R.C. (1998). Buddhism: The Path to Nirvana. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press Inc. Nimibutr, N. (Director). (1999). Nang Nak [Motion picture]. Thailand: Tai Entertainment.

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needful things Nirvana [Def. 1 & 3]. (n.d.). Dictionary.com. Retrieved from http://www. dictionary.com/browse/nirvana Noh Masks Database. (n.d.). Onryo: Hannya. Retrieved from http://www.the-noh.com/sub/jp/index. php?mode=db&action=e_view_detail&data_id=11&class_id=1 O’Brien, B. (2019, February 4). Maha Pajapati and the First Nuns: The Beginning of Barriers? Learn Religions. Retrieved from https://www. thoughtco.com/maha-pajapati-and-the-first-nuns-449897 Shindô, K. (Director). (1964). Onibaba [Motion picture]. Japan: Toho. Udāna, The. (1997). (J.D. Ireland, Trans.). Kandy, Sri Lanka: Buddhist Publication Society. Wangu, M.B. (2009). World Religions: Buddhism (4th Ed.). New York, NY: Chelsea House Publishers. Zander, R. (2014, January 9). Mae Nak Shrine—Home to Thailand’s Most Famous Ghost. Retrieved from http://siamandbeyond.com/ mae-nak-shrine-home-thailands-famous-ghost/

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BETWEEN TWO WORLDS: REGRESSION, RESTITUTION AND SOUL TRANSMIGRATION IN THE DYBBUK (1937) AND DEMON (2015) REBECCA BOOTH

Judaism is not a religion that is fixed on images, statues, or objects but rather is rooted in the power of memory, ideas, and words. (Elior, 2018)

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his chapter centers on two Polish films that depict soul transmigration, or metempsychosis, via the folkloric figure of the dybbuk in Jewish culture: Michal Waszyński’s Der Dibuk (The Dybbuk, 1937), based on S. Ansky’s play, The Dybbuk, or Between Two Worlds (written between 1913 and 1916), and Marcin Wrona’s Demon (2015), adapted from Piotr Rowicki’s play  Przylgnięcie (Cling or Adherence, 2008). The marital unions in both films resonate as a site of tension between traditional and modern values, and, via a process of regression and restitution specific to Polish-Jewish relations, reveal that the past—even when buried— informs the present. Restitution is defined as “a restoration of something to its rightful owner”; “a making good of or giving an 133

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equivalent for some injury”; and “a legal action serving to cause restoration of a previous state” (Merriam-Webster, n.d.). Both films explore the concept from different perspectives within this idiosyncratic relationship, concentrating respectively on allegorical agency via soul transmigration and the specific act of property expropriation and restitution. Each film ultimately transgresses the boundary between two worlds, as the mystical or metaphysical possession and exorcism of the dybbuk is used as a folkloric construct to frame and dissect the sociopolitical history of Polish-Jewish relations. The history of Jewry is long, incredibly complex, and well-documented elsewhere (see Schama, 2014; 2018); though it is not possible to detail the culture and its practices, politics, and geographical journey from ancient to modern times here, the historical suffering of Jewish people is clear, as is their resilience and hope in the face of overwhelming adversity. As Simon Schama (2014) writes: What the Jews have been through, and somehow survived to tell the tale, has been the most intense version known to human history of adversities endured […] a culture perennially resisting its annihilation, of remaking homes and habitats, writing the prose and the poetry of life, through a succession of uprootings and assaults. (“Foreword,” para. 9) Schama’s words echo in the two films discussed in this chapter, in the way each presents a culture that is simultaneously haunted by the past and present. To fully consider the films within this historical framework, it is appropriate to provide a brief history of the relationship between the Jewish community and Poland. The 134

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Kingdom of Poland was founded in 1025 and has been described by historians as one of the most tolerant and peaceful European states until the seventeenth century (Klier, 2007). During this time, referred to by historians as paradisus Iudaeorum (‘Paradise for the Jews’), Poland became home to the largest collective Jewish community in the world (Sliwinski, 2014). The unique Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was created in 1569, its diverse population of many ethnicities and religions protected (to varying degree) by the Warsaw Confederation Act (1573). The Protestant Reformation swept through Europe in the sixteenth century, disturbing the predominantly Christian region. Ongoing religious conflict was compounded by political and economic struggles and led to the Partitions of Poland (1791-95), during which the Commonwealth was dissolved and the land divided between the Habsburg-Austrian Empire, the Kingdom of Prussia, and the Russian Empire. No longer a sovereign state, present-day Poland and Ukraine were located in Imperial Russia until the nineteenth century. Jewish people were subject to increasing restrictions under the governance of the Russian Empire, which included occupational boundaries and led to the establishment of the Pale of Settlement in 1791, an area to the west of the empire in which the majority of Jewish people were legally obligated to reside. The Russian Empire’s class-based social structure comprised “five estates or soslovie: the nobility, the clergy, the peasantry, and two urban estates of merchants and townspeople” (Klier, 2007, p. 4). All Jews under Russian governance were required to register within the two latter classes as of 1780; though they were initially afforded the resulting rights and privileges, the dominant Christian population was displeased by this status and the opportunities it offered to a group of people it previously considered inferior 135

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(Klier, 2007). As John Doyle Klier (2007) notes, “Attempts by Jews to exercise their promised estate rights – chiefly participation in municipal self-government – were greeted with resentment and violence” (p. 4). The kahal, the Jewish system of self-government, was abolished in 1844 (Klier, 2007). The emancipation of the peasantry in 1861 provoked further conflict, and the Pale witnessed several devastating pogroms (violent riots against ethnic and/or religious groups) between 1881 and 1884 (Klier, 2007). As Klier writes (2011), “religion was only one element of a complex matrix of visible and assumed differences that divided Jews from their non-Jewish neighbors, and which was evolving in the nineteenth century into a conscious ethnic identity” (p. 71). Increasingly anti-Semitic attitudes throughout Europe in the early twentieth century only served to incite further violence in Poland under the Russian Empire, with several pogroms occurring between 1903 and 1906. Though Poland regained autonomy after World War I (1914-18), it was again partitioned and occupied in 1939 by Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union. Three million Polish Jews were killed during the Holocaust (1941-45). In the aftermath of World War II (193945), Polish Communists maneuvered to establish the country as a Soviet state, and the Polish People’s Republic was formed in 1947. During the transition period, the Sovietization of Poland exploited ethnic tensions and hindered property restitution claims for privately owned land confiscated by the Nazis, contributing to further violence. The Kielce pogrom in 1946, during which more than 40 people were killed, contributed to the mass migration of a large portion of the Jewish community. It is important, however, to note that the history of Polish-Jewish relations is incredibly complex. As Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 136

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(2015) writes, “The history of Polish Jews must not be reduced to a history of antisemitism and Polish-Jewish relations to a history of Polish antisemitism” (p. 278). Multiple factors caused civil unrest and political tensions during the postwar period, including economic hardship and the Communist nationalization of the country, which initiated land reforms that led to further industrial and private property expropriation. This lack of legislation has led to contemporary complications surrounding property relations in Poland and many postwar property restitution claims remain unresolved, contributing to ongoing sociopolitical and cultural tensions within Polish-Jewish relations: Throughout these upheavals the notion of witness—false or otherwise—has been prominent and has in some ways come to define the public discourse on Polish-Jewish reconciliation. The term “witness” (or occasionally “bystander”) is widely used to categorize the Polish position regarding the Holocaust, as distinct from “perpetrators” (Nazis/Germans), or “victims” (Jews). (Lehrer, 2007, p. 86) The role of “perpetrator” can of course be extended to the process of Sovietization, and academic discourse continues to discuss the difficulty of navigating accounts catering to different perspectives during the postwar period (Lehrer, 2007). Citing contemporary considerations from Polish-Jewish sociologist Zygmunt Bauman and writer Henryk Grynberg, Erica Lehrer (2007) notes their emphasis on “the trauma experienced by Poles because of what they were witnesses to” and posits that the “problem of bearing witness has taken center stage” (p. 86). Each of the films explored in this chapter focus on restitution and opposite 137

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perspectives within Polish-Jewish relations: The Dybbuk tackles the theme of restitution allegorically, alluding to the violence suffered by Polish Jews during the pogroms prior to World War II, and Demon focuses on the specific subject of property restitution and the repressed trauma endured by Poles as “witnesses” during the post-World War II period. As this brief historical overview suggests, pushed and pulled, its traditions, laws, and culture constantly at risk from an incoming tide of modernity, oppression, and persecution, the Jewish community has historically undergone cycles of rebirth in a variety of ways—much like the theme of transmigration.

TRANSMIGRATION D. Alfred Bertholet’s (1909) seminal The Transmigration of Souls begins with three speculations for the study of metempsychosis: “man has a soul which can be separated from his material body”; “non-human organisms (animals, plants, and perhaps even inanimate objects) possess souls of like nature”; and “the souls both of men and of lower organisms can be transferred from one organism to another” (p. 2). These presuppositions exist in many forms across world history and folklore: “The Egyptians believed in the transmigration of souls, and their priests composed a series of Chapters, the recital of which enabled the souls of the dead to take any form they pleased” (Wallis Budge, 1973, p. 139). Bertholet (1909) acknowledges some references to soul transmigration in the Bible, an import from Greek intellectualism, but writes that metempsychosis would be fully embraced in the later Jewish philosophy of the Kabbalists. 138

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Kabbalah refers to the esoteric and mystical teachings and methods within Judaism that explore the relationship between God, the soul, and the universe. The Kabbalist literary tradition, a “meta-reflection on classical Jewish texts,” grew from Hebrew rationalist philosophy, influenced by the expansion of Jewish communities to Christian as well as Islamic regions (Dauber, 2012, p. 3). Though the oral origins of this tradition (‘kabbalot’) were practiced before the thirteenth century, the movement grew exponentially during this period in the Languedoc (now Occitane, France) and Catalonia, Spain (Dauber, 2012). At the center of Kabbalist teachings and practice is the Zohar. Distributed by Castilian Kabbalists throughout Western Europe ca. 1300, this fusion of Aramaic and Hebrew writings (Green, 2004) acts as a companion to the Torah. As Colin Wilson (2015) notes, “Jewish religion tends to be harsh, dogmatic and pedantic, with its rules and disciplines; the Kabbalah is its mystical and devotional side” (p. 267). Wilson (2015) continues: The importance of the Kabbalah lies in this: it is one of the oldest systems of mystical thought in the world; it was regarded for many centuries as the key to all the mysteries of the universe; and it was an influence on practically every philosopher and religious thinker from the founder of the Essenes to Roger Bacon. (p. 262) Though the term ‘mysticism’ is inherent in any reference to the Kabbalist tradition, Arthur Green (2004) notes that the etymological root of the word is both Christian and Greek. Universally, mysticism is essentially concerned with the transformation of human consciousness in some form, and Green (2004) 139

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acknowledges that the use of the word must be appropriated for a Kabbalist context: We should bear in mind that in Jewish mysticism, or even within the specific traditions known as Kabbalah, we do not have before us a single linear development of a particular type of mysticism, but rather a variety of mysticisms against the shared background of Judaism, including its sacred texts, its praxis, its interpretive traditions, and the panorama of Jewish history and life experience in the periods under discussion. (p. 7) A study of metempsychosis within Jewish folklore must therefore be rooted within this context. Wilson (2015) refers to mankind as “soul-conscious” in terms of philosophical and existentialist classicism (p. 274). Rather than a fatalistic belief in reincarnation, Judaism promotes perfection via rectification. If a Jew does not succeed in soul-perfection in one lifetime, they will return via metempsychosis until their religious duty is complete (Schweid, 2008). In Jewish folklore, there are three types of soul transmigration. The first is gilgul (Hebrew for ‘rolling’). This transmigration refers to the rebirth of a sole reincarnated soul within a single human body at the moment of birth; the purpose of this rebirth is a form of contrition, an opportunity for the soul to reach a level of perfection (Neugroschel, 2000). Upon death, the soul is released from its mortal coil and in this state can drift, sometimes settling in humans (later doctrine also accepted that souls could enter inanimate objects and animals). If a blessing is said over the host, the second soul can ascend to the Garden of Eden. If not, this wandering soul can be lost. 140

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There are then two further types of metempsychosis, both of which are intentional and involve the transmigrating soul entering a body that already has a spiritual tenant, and are thus a possession of some kind. The first is the ibbur (Hebrew for ‘conception’) and is a temporary, and sometimes consensual, union within the human host between the original soul and the possessing soul (Chajes, 2003, p. 14). Here, the cleaving soul is righteous and has entered the body of the living person to assist the rightful soul to effect positive change—this is often a Mitzvah (religious deed)—before departing. The third type of soul transmigration is the parasitic dybbuk (‘to cleave’ in Hebrew) and refers to the insidious, forceful tethering of a damned tenant to a human host (containing a rightful or original soul). The dybbukim (plural) are human spirits unable to enter the Garden of Eden, as the gravity of their earthly sins has bound them to this plane. Doomed to walk the Earth alone, these souls are relentlessly tormented by angels. Lore states that the dybbukim cannot be touched by angels while in the body of a host, suggesting that the dybbuk would jump into the nearest animal or human out of desperation. The dybbuk must be excised from the host by the ritual of the Jewish exorcism, which can only be performed by a rabbi who is an adept of Kabbalist magic. The Jewish exorcism is different to the Roman Catholic rite in two ways: in the latter, the invading entity is generally considered to be a demon, and the goal of the exorcism is to banish this invader from the body of the afflicted. Though early Jewish writings posit that the invading force was demonic, Kabbalist influence suggested dybbuk possession was a form of soul transmigration and thus relates to a human spirit (Chajes, 2003). The purpose of the Jewish exorcism is to dually remove the cleaving 141

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soul from the host and simultaneously guide the invading soul to the Garden of Eden. Ansky embraces this aspect of soul transmigration in his infamous play, which redefined the figure of the dybbuk within popular culture.

THE DYBBUK: THE PROPHETIC PLAY Ansky (or An-ski) was born in Czaśniki, Vitebsk Governate of the Russian Empire (modern-day Belarus) in 1863 as ShloymeZanvl Rappaport. He renounced his Jewish faith and orthodox educational institution (‘yeshiva’) aged 17, taught himself Russian, and left his community to spread the teachings of Haskalah (‘wisdom’) or the Jewish Enlightenment in 1881 under the guise of teaching Russian (Peñalosa, 2012, pp. 1-3). In the years that followed, he became a passionate socialist, revolutionary, ethnographer, and relief worker. Though his devotion to socialism never wavered—he was a founding member of the Russian Social Revolutionist Party in Switzerland in 1901, during his exile as a result of his political activity—he was sympathetic to both Jewish and Russian positions and this is reflected in the many facets of his writing (Loeffler, 2010). From 1904, he wrote mostly in Yiddish, composing political essays, plays, and even songs (he wrote the Jewish Socialist anthem, Di Shvue (‘the Oath’) in 1902) (Safran, 2010). Fusing his love of writing, political activism, and ethnographic study, Ansky was a leading figure in an ethnographic census commissioned by Baron Vladimir Günzburg and traveled through the Pale, notably Podolia and Volhynia, with the purpose of recording the customs, traditions, and oral folklore 142

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of native Jewish people from 1912 to 1914 (Elior, 2014). This work culminated in a historiographical report detailing the deliberate ruination of Jewish communities by the Russian military, which was banned by the Soviet government. Ansky passed away in 1920 and the report was published posthumously in Yiddish (a fitting return to the language Ansky rejected in his youth) as The Destruction of Galicia in 1925. The study was recently translated and published by Joachim Neugroschel in The Enemy at His Pleasure: A Journey Through the Jewish Pale of Settlement During World War I (2003). The Dybbuk was created from a fusion of Ansky’s political ideals, the horror of Russian persecution, and the preservation of the folklore he collected during his travels. Originally written in Russian (1913-14) to appeal to a non-Jewish audience, Ansky subsequently rewrote the play in Yiddish and began to organize a Hebrew translation (Safran, 2010; Peñalosa, 2012). Though he would sadly not live to see the work staged in any language due to several setbacks with the Russian performance, the Yiddish version debuted in his honor 30 days after his death (as per the customary period of mourning), and The Dybbuk went on to become the most widely produced Jewish play in history (Safran, 2010). It has been translated and performed in several languages, including English, French, German, Japanese, Polish, and Swedish, and has also been adapted multiple times across several mediums. As well as Leonard Bernstein and Jerome Robbins’ 1974 ballet, Dybbuk, CBS Radio Mystery Theater released a recording in the same year titled The Demon Spirit, and the first Yiddish opera was based on the play, The Dybbuk: An Opera (1999). Ansky’s work endures due to the romanticizing of the folktale via the inclusion of lost love, dressing the story’s sociopolitical 143

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sentiments with mystical themes of regression and restitution, as immortalized in Waszyński’s cinematic adaptation.

THE DANSE MACABRE: WASZYŃSKI’S THE DYBBUK In the Pale of Settlement in the nineteenth century, expectant fathers Nisn (Gershon Lemberger) and Sender (Moyshe Lipman), best friends since their days as yeshiva students, betroth their unborn children. A stranger warns against the dangers of securing such attachments, realized in the deaths of one parent from each family during the births: Nisn drowns during a storm as his son Khonnon is delivered, and Sender’s wife dies in labor, leaving behind a daughter, Leah. Nisn’s final words echo his wish: for Sender to ensure their children’s engagement is not broken. Sender promises to fulfill this request but becomes increasingly parsimonious as his wealth grows over the years. Khonnon (Leon Liebgold), a poor yeshiva student, arrives in Sender’s shtetl (‘village’) and is invited to stay with the rabbi. He and Leah (Lili Liliana) fall in love but know that Sender—who is also at this point unaware of the characters’ connection—will not approve the match due to Khonnon’s lack of fortune. Khonnon turns to Kabbalah in hopes of a mystical intervention. However, upon hearing that Sender has arranged Leah’s engagement to another, richer man, Menache (M. Messinger), notably without her consent, Khonnon desperately implores Satan to aid him. Overcome by his pain and ardor, he dies. Brokenhearted, Leah visits the cemetery to ‘invite’ both her mother and Khonnon to attend the wedding, pleading with her lost love to dance with her on what should have been their 144

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wedding day. The Messenger (Isaac Samberg) appears and informs her that if “the bride is left alone before the wedding, demons come and carry her off.” Ansky’s romanticism thus redesigns the intentions of the dybbuk, vocalized by Leah in her reply that demons do not exist, just the “souls of people whose light went out too early and forever.” She cradles Knonnon’s grave marker and beseeches, “Come, my bridegroom. I’ll carry our souls and those of our unborn children.” Leah’s words are both pathetic and prophetic in that they speak to the persecution of her people—past and future. Inspired by pogromist violence, specifically the Khmelnytsky massacres (1648-49), the town square in the play and film is the resting place of a bride and groom murdered before they were able to seal their union (Neugroschel, 2000). This unusual inuring serves as “a daily reminder of past and present horrors” (Neugroschel, 2000, p. xi) and acts as a marker between two worlds: the metaphysical world of the dead and the historical sins of the living. As Rachel Elior (2014) writes, these boundaries extend to the wedding ceremony itself: The wedding ceremony is associated in Jewish tradition with the wearing of shrouds on the one hand and the hope for new life on the other; it thus illustrates the danger of death and catastrophe implicit in a situation whose purpose is to create a framework for continuing and renewing life but whose essence is tied to the premise that human beings live simultaneously in different worlds, revealed and concealed, that participate in the struggle between fertility and destruction. (p. 110) This is beautifully illustrated in Waszyński’s expressionist dance scenes during the prenuptial ceremony. The Beggars’ Dance, or 145

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Dance of the Beggars, draws from traditional Jewish custom in which the entire shtetl is invited to the wedding (Rossen, 2014, p. 100). In Waszyński’s film, the ritual culminates in the Dance of Death. Though the scene did not appear in Ansky’s original version of the play, having been introduced in the 1920 stage production, it has since become synonymous with the story due to cinematographer Albert Wywerka’s haunting use of shadows and light, and Judith Berg’s ethereal choreography. With the words, “From dust you came/To dust you will return […] For man’s life is like unto the Dance of Death,” the figure of Death appears. Among the beggars’ contorted, unnatural movements, the wraithlike Dancer of Death (played beautifully by Berg) steals toward Leah, engaging her in the danse macabre. At first afraid and reluctant, Leah embraces the figure, and her fate, when Khonnon’s face is superimposed over Death’s skeletal features. Leah’s physical acceptance thus permits the metaphysical possession. During the nuptials, she is unable to complete her vows and escapes to the grave marker of the murdered bride and groom, begging them for protection. She then speaks in Khonnon’s voice, “I have returned to my promised bride and will not leave her,” suggesting that the spiritual alliance of their souls in her body is more powerful than the (second) physical or social union it has rejected. This lore is extended to the transmigration itself; furthering the purification process, Ansky’s play employs a system of metempsychosis in which “sinful souls are transformed into beasts, fish and plants.” If “the souls of the dead return to the world and wander about before they receive purification,” then this wording collectively suggests that the souls of sinners cannot enter the body of a human. Not only is their journey to reach a state of perfection much longer, via a series of incremental 146

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rebirths, it is implied that a sinful soul cannot occupy the same space as a righteous, natural soul. In Ansky’s play, despite Khonnon’s appeal to dark forces, his love is true and the historical sin lies with Sender. In the play, Sender is unaware of Khonnon’s true identity; in the film, he does not act upon this realization, choosing instead to marry Leah to the wealthier suitor. During the exorcism, though the rabbinical court is successful in drawing Khonnon’s soul from Leah’s body, his essence lingers to claim Leah’s soul. Khonnon is thus “a figure drawn from the recesses of the premodern occult who also testifies to the modern creed of the inalienability of romantic choice” (Seidman, 2004, p. 231). As his spirit explains to Leah, “I had forgotten. It is only through your thoughts that I can remember who I am.” Leah instructs him, her “husband,” to take her soul and dies. This spiritual union is the ultimate unification and suggests that Khonnon’s soul transmigration is more aligned with the ibbur, in that his soul is righteous and has returned to amend a moral injustice. This act of regression, acknowledging and accepting the repressed truth of the past, as symbolically displayed in the public ‘holy grave’ of the bride and groom killed during one of the many pogroms throughout Jewish history, suggests the film also takes restitution as one of its central allegorical themes. Ansky (2000) describes his play as “a realistic drama about mystics” in which “there is a battle between the individual and the collective—more precisely, between the individual’s striving for happiness and the survival of the nation” (p. 1). This is also true of Waszyński’s adaptation, in that Sender’s deliberate dismissal of his best friend’s dying wish is righted by Leah’s individual and moral agency. As Neugroschel (2000) writes, “Through the lovers’ atonement in death, the collective is made whole again. 147

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Metaphysically Leah is passive, but psychologically, by admitting or imagining the dybbuk, she is active” (p. xii). Conversely, Demon explores repression, regression, and restitution from a Polish perspective.

DEMON Demon’s opening shots immediately capture the film’s central thematic tension between tradition and modernity, and repression and restitution. The initial scene follows a digger, a tool used to quarry and excavate, traveling through the deserted streets of a Polish town. Though the location is not stated, Demon was filmed near Bochnia, which is a town on the Raba River in southern Poland. At the same time, Piotr (Itay Tiran) arrives by boat. As he approaches the bank from a distance, a woman’s cries can be heard as several people thrash in the shallow water. Like the audience, Piotr is transfixed, and the long shot prevents any distinction between play and violence. Closer, it is apparent that the woman is being subjected to some form of religious ceremony: she is repeatedly plunged into the water and is dressed in a thin undergarment. The boat bumping against the bank startles Piotr; his unfamiliarity with the custom, as well as his shocked reaction, pits him from the outset as an outsider. Having emigrated to England years before, Piotr has traveled to his native Poland to prepare for his imminent wedding to Polish fiancée, Zaneta (Agnieszka Zulewska). It is quickly apparent that they have not spent any time together in person; after meeting online (Piotr knew Zaneta’s brother Jasny (Tomasz Schuchardt) when he lived in Poland) the pair proceeded to court a long-distance 148

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relationship. Zaneta’s family is wealthy and respected in the local community, and Piotr is acutely aware of the fact that he has lost touch with his culture and country. This is reiterated by Piotr’s clunky Polish, prompting his soonto-be father-in-law, Zygmond (Andrzej Grabowski), who owns a large quarry in the local area, genially conversing with him in English and addressing him by the Anglicized version of his name: Peter. Piotr insistently corrects him and proceeds to use his mother tongue in an almost desperate attempt to connect with his heritage. The film is thus a folktale about the importance of the past and how it cannot stay buried. Piotr has been gifted land from Zaneta’s family as a blessing upon the union. To display his gratitude, his gesture to prepare the barn and surrounding land for the ceremony, on the eve of his wedding, is symbolic: in the process of physically digging his land, he unearths his history— literally exhuming human remains. Understandably shaken, he drives to the house where Zaneta is staying with her family. Shrieking with delight, Zaneta twirls in her wedding dress on the balcony as Piotr watches her in turmoil. Zaneta is the only person in Poland he knows and feels he can trust; she is exultant, enjoying the eve of what promises to be one of the happiest days of her life, and her family members are likely implicated in the grisly discovery he has made. Piotr drives home, fittingly now under the curtain of darkness, and reburies the remains. Rather than delay the union, Piotr decides to keep his discovery a secret. From this moment, he is preoccupied with the weight of this burden, and his fiancée and her family all take his distraction to be wedding nerves. The ceremony takes place without a hitch, aside from Piotr making a small ceremonial mistake that Zaneta gently corrects. However, upon leaving the church, 149

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Piotr Kmiecik’s editing juxtaposes blissful shots of the couple with a concurrent funeral procession; along with a jarring string score from Marcin Macuk and Krzysztof Penderecki, the scene is chaotic, almost feverish, and ominously presages the first signs of Piotr’s physical illness. It is not long before he repeatedly spies a figure, a woman in a wedding dress, among the guests. He believes at first that the woman is a member of the congregation, but it is soon apparent that others cannot see her. Piotr is feverish, and his increasingly strange behavior is attributed to the fact that he is unable to hold his drink like the other men—again, another sign of his otherness. After referring to his new bride as “Hana” during his speech, Piotr suffers a fit as the ghostly woman approaches him through the crowd and is taken to another part of the estate. Trying to appease the worried congregation, Zaneta’s father plies the party with alcohol while a doctor and then the local priest attend to the distressed Piotr. It is soon apparent to Szymon Wentz (Wlodzimierz Press), the only Jewish resident left in the town, that Piotr is not only speaking Yiddish but is claiming to be a young Jewish woman named Hana (Maria Dębska) who disappeared years before. At first confused, Hana recognizes and joins in when he gently sings a song from their past. As she realizes that her own life has been taken from her, she refuses to leave Piotr’s body; despite the evident pain this is causing Zaneta, the film implies that her family were implicated in Hana’s death. Though the film does not reveal specifics surrounding Hana’s story, the literal reburial of her remains by Piotr and the decision to keep the discovery from Zaneta and the wedding guests by Zaneta’s family reveals the ongoing trauma of this repression from their perspective, as witnesses of past misdeeds. Hana’s 150

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return is a double form of restitution in that she reclaims the physical possessions stolen from her, both corporeal and material, via the metaphysical process of possession. Piotr is thus not only haunted but also inhabited, literally, by the demons or trauma of this shared history. The title of the film is purposefully misleading in that it suggests the invading entity is demonic. Piotr is referred to by a Polish guest at the wedding as being “possessed by a Jewish demon.” This demeaning reference acts as an allegorical lexical example of historical anti-Semitism and provides the initial foundation of the film’s central theme: the tension, repression, and trauma specific to Polish-Jewish relations. Though most accounts of the dybbuk are male, and their hosts or victims female—as in the eighteenth-century fragment discovered in 2009, which contains a prayer used to expel a late husband’s spirit from his widow, now engaged to or just married to her second husband (University of Manchester)—it is also suggested that the dybbuk chooses the most vulnerable person to possess. Demon’s inversion of traditional gendered roles within the lore is further politicized by the timing of the possession in the film. The wedding ceremony marks “a transitory stage in life” (Elior, 2014, p. 110) in that it is the linking of two souls, two families, and the past and present. Elior (2014) refers to the historical connection between alleged accounts of possession and exorcism with the ritual of the wedding, noting that this “Conjugal union takes place in private, willingly and consensually,” whereas the “expulsion of the dybbuk involves public disclosure of sins performed in private, arbitrarily and violently” (p. 109). The wedding as the central stage in Demon is thus symbolic of historical sins and conflict—literally in terms of Zaneta’s family’s 151

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personal complicity and repression—and the regression experienced first by Piotr’s possession and then Szymon as he tearfully recalls memories of the town’s Jewish community, pointing out the physical spaces they inhabited. In the documentary “Synagogues: Absence and Presence,” part of the 2018 Sacred Spaces series, Elior notes that Jews have an immaterial connection to their faith, which is reflected in their practices and bound to their nomadic past and persecution; the religion’s “sacredness is in the community, so the sanctity is not about a building. It’s about the memory, about the ritual, about the text. About the ongoing engagement of study and creativity.” The weight of this loss, repression, and restitution lies heavy on Zaneta, who defies her father’s instructions and discovers Hana’s buried body as her family realize that Piotr/Hana has vanished. Their search proves unfruitful, and Zaneta’s father desperately denies the truth to the last. As he bellows a speech in Russian to the remaining inebriated guests, the language of the oppressors, Zaneta sits stunned in her stained wedding dress, the broken wine glass in her hand slowly repairing itself. The film is thus a metaphor for the repression and rewriting of the past. Zaneta both accepts and rejects her history by leaving her homeland, which is physically scarred from her family’s quarry business (the film implies that Zaneta’s family prospered at the expense of property expropriation during the post-World War II period). Her restitution is allowing Hana/Piotr to reclaim something of their past. Though Piotr’s heritage is not overtly referenced in the film, the final scenes reveal a photograph, unearthed in the apparent demolition of the family barn/plot, that appears to depict Hana’s wedding day—and her husband bears a striking resemblance to Piotr. 152

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Demon carries a certain melancholic weight in that it would be the final film from late director Wrona, who also co-wrote the film with Pawel Maslona. Aged 42, he tragically took his own life in 2015, during the Gdynia Polish Film Festival at which Demon competed and screened. He left behind his new bride, the film’s producer, Olga Szymanska. Continuing Ansky’s documentation of Jewish culture and stories, Wrona’s lens beautifully captures a nuanced exploration of haunted histories, tensions between tradition and modernity, and the complex connection between life and death. His film is a testament to his life and career, and an important contribution to Jewish folklore and the Polish horror film industry.

REFERENCES Ansky, S. (2000). From a Letter to Khaim Zhitlovsky. In The Dybbuk and the Yiddish Imagination: A Haunted Reader (J. Neugroschel, Trans. & Ed.). New York, NY: Syracuse University Press. Ansky, S. (2003). The Enemy at His Pleasure: A Journey Through the Jewish Pale of Settlement During World War I (J. Neugroschel, Trans. & Ed.). New York, NY: Metropolitan Books. Bernstein, L., & Robbins, J. (Creators). (1974). Dybbuk [Ballet]. United States: New York City Ballet. Bertholet, D.A. (1909). The Transmigration of Souls (Rev. H.J. Chaytor, Trans.). London, England & New York, NY: Harper & Brothers. Brown, H. (Creator). (1974). The Spirit Demon [Radio series episode]. In H. Brown (Director), CBS Radio Mystery Theater (1974-82). United States: CBS Radio Network. Chajes, J.H. (2003). Between Worlds: Dybbuks, Exorcists, and Early Modern Judaism. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Dauber, J. (2012). Knowledge of God and the Development of Early Kabbalah. Leiden, The Netherlands: Koninklijke Brill NV.

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scared sacred Elior, R. (2014). Dybbuks and Jewish Women in Social History, Mysticism and Folklore (J. Linsider, Trans.). Jerusalem, Israel & New York, NY: Urim Publications. Elior, R. (2018). In C. Lowenstein (Director). Sacred Spaces - From Temple to Synagogue: Absence and Presence [Motion picture]. France: [n.p.]. Epstein, S. (Composer). (1999). The Dybbuk: An Opera in Yiddish [Opera]. Israel: The Lerner Yiddish Fund and Ben-Gurion University. Green, A. (2004). A Guide to the Zohar. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. (2015). The Museum of the History of Polish Jews: A Postwar, Post-Holocaust, Post-Communist Story. In E.T. Lehrer & M. Meng (Eds.), Jewish Space in Contemporary Poland. Bloomington & Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press. Klier, J.D., & Lambroza, S. (Eds). (2007). Pogroms: Anti-Jewish Violence in Modern Russian History. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Klier, J.D. (2011). Russians, Jews, and the Pogroms of 1881-1882. Cambridge, England & New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Lehrer, E. (2007). Bearing False Witness? “Vicarious” Jewish Identity and the Politics of Affinity. In D. Glowacka & J. Zylinska (Eds.), Imaginary Neighbors: Mediating Polish-Jewish Relations After the Holocaust. London, England & Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. Loeffler, J.B. (2010). The Most Musical Nation: Jews and Culture in the Late Russian Empire. London, England & New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Neugroschel, J. (2000). Ansky’s The Dybbuk and the Yiddish Imagination. In The Dybbuk and the Yiddish Imagination: A Haunted Reader (J. Neugroschel, Trans. & Ed.). New York, NY: Syracuse University Press. Peñalosa, F. (2012). The Dybbuk: Text, Subtext, and Context. Rancho Palos Verdes: Tsiterboym Books. Restitution [Def. 1 & 2]. (n.d.). Merriam-Webster. Retrieved from https:// www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/restitution Rossen, R. (2014). Dancing Jewish: Jewish Identity in American Modern and Postmodern Dance. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Rowicki, P. (2008). Przylgnięcie [Cling or Adherence; play]. Poland: Drama Laboratory.

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between two worlds Safran, G. (2010). Wandering Soul: The Dybbuk’s Creator, S. An-sky. London, England & Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Schama, S. (2014). The Story of the Jews: Finding the Words: 1000BCE-1492CE. London, England: Vintage. Schama, S. (2018). Belonging: The Story of the Jews 1492-1900. London, England: Vintage.  Schweid, E. (2008). The Classic Jewish Philosophers: From Saadia Through the Renaissance (L. Levin, Trans.). Leiden, The Netherlands & Boston, MA: Brill. Seidman, N. (2003). The Ghost of Queer Loves Past: Ansky’s “Dybbuk” and the Sexual Transformation of Ashkenaz. In D. Boyarin, D. Itzkovitz, & A. Pellegrini (Eds.), Queer Theory and the Jewish Question. New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Sliwinski, K. (2014). Poland: A Nation of the In-Between. In R. Vogt, W. Cristaudo, & A. Leutzsch (Eds.), European National Identities: Elements, Transitions, Conflicts. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers. University of Manchester. (2009, December 16). Text of Jewish Exorcism Discovered. Retrieved from https://www.manchester.ac.uk/discover/ news/text-of-jewish-exorcism-discovered/ Wallis Budge, E.A. (1973). Osiris and the Egyptian Resurrection. New York, NY: Dover Publications Inc. Waszyński, M. (Director). (1937). Der Dibuk [The Dybbuk; motion picture]. Poland: Warszawskie Biuro Kinematograficzne Feniks. Wilson, C. (2015). The Occult. London, England: Watkins. Wrona, M. (Director). (2015). Demon [Motion picture]. Poland: The Orchard.

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FROM THE STAKE TO THE SANITARIUM: TAMING THE DISRUPTIVE FEMININE IN HÄXAN (1922) AND ANTICHRIST (2009) VALESKA GRIFFITHS

Medieval or modern, the witch/hysteric remains caught, disturbed, disturbing, and thus in need of rescue and rehabilitation. (Doty & Ingham, 2014, pp. 60-61)

2

017 marks the year the concept of the witch hunt came back in vogue in popular culture in a big way—or perhaps ‘bigly’ would be more appropriate. Two distinct (but not entirely disparate) cultural events precipitated this: the explosion of the #MeToo movement, exposing widespread sexual assault and harassment in the entertainment industry, and a high-level investigation into the Donald Trump campaign’s collusion with Russian agents to secure the United States presidency. In the former, the term is used to describe allegations of sexual misconduct by powerful men against (primarily) women. In the latter, the beleaguered ‘witches’ are Trump and the core members of his inner circle (primarily male) who endured intense scrutiny by a Special Counsel. The term ‘witch hunt’ is deployed in both 157

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cases to support a narrative in which men are falsely accused and unfairly punished, a misuse that ignores and erases the particularly gendered history of the figure of the witch, and the subtle (and not-so-subtle) legacy of Medieval and Early Modern witch narratives on modern gender politics. While it is important to note that the concept of the witch as a person possessing supernatural knowledge or power has appeared around the world in geographically and temporally unique ways, the primary focus in this study relates most strongly to the European witch of the Middle Ages and Early Modern period. The witch has long been a destabilizing and tantalizing figure. Alternately reviled and celebrated, feared and fetishized, she has throughout history been linked to oft-shifting sets of symbols and meanings, including that of disruptive femininity. Cultural narratives are regularly used to uphold white supremacist patriarchy; both witch hunts and the concept of witches in general are very real historical phenomena, strongly rooted in religiopolitical strategy and steeped in a tradition of misogyny validated and supported by cultural narratives regarding women. As Christina Larner observes, “On average, witchcraft, the ultimate in human evil, was sex-related to women in much the same proportion as sanctity, the ultimate in human good, was sex-related to men” (cited in Barstow, 1988, p. 7). Accusations of witchcraft during the Early Modern period spanning the early fifteenth century until the mid-eighteenth century in parts of Europe and the United States could result in torture and death. Those accused were often women who had lain claim to a level of power or clout in their communities—healers, midwives, and wise women. When a widespread shift from religious to secular modes of thinking diminished the power of the witchcraft discourse, society 158

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embraced a new label and narrative through which they could identify and control unruly women: the hysteric. This figure took its place as a primary site of female disruption and instability, sending a clear message regarding cultural expectations and the dangers of flouting them. The tortured body of the accused witch gave way to the tortured mind of the Victorian hysteric—the stake replaced by the sanitarium. Female sexuality and idealized maternity play an outsized role in the narratives surrounding both archetypes and reflect the historical and ongoing cultural preoccupation with the sexual lives of women; the punishment/ treatment for the witch/hysteric often involved exploitative methods that put the heretic/patient in sexually vulnerable or exposed positions, and ‘abnormal’ sexual drives, desires, and practices were ascribed to both. Witches were said to indulge in all manner of perversions, often with demons, and hysterics could be accused of having sex drives that were too strong or too weak, depending upon the time and culture in which they lived. Both Benjamin Christensen’s 1922 Swedish-Danish quasi-documentary Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages and Lars von Trier’s polarizing 2009 horror film Antichrist address the archetypes of the witch and the hysteric, and their shared lineage of misogyny and oppression. Themes of disruptive female sexuality and maternity play vital roles in both, as does the dichotomy between male rationality and female emotionality. Through Häxan, Christensen links Medieval and Early Modern witchcraft discourse to the hysteria of the modern era, complicating beliefs about the static nature of these archetypes and, deliberately or not, highlighting the political utility of these labels in identifying and containing disorderly femininity. Antichrist similarly attends to the narratives connecting the supernatural, emotional 159

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instability, and the disruptive feminine, offering a more intimate tour of the psychic wounds they cause. These films highlight the ways that narratives are weaponized to develop and maintain hegemonic cultural beliefs, as well as to support institutional measures designed to curtail threats to patriarchy. Together, these films provide valuable insight into the use of narratives in upholding historical and contemporary misogyny, and their impact on both a societal and individual level.

RUNNIN’ WITH THE DEVIL: THE WITCH AND THE SPECTER OF SEXUAL IMMORALITY Christian mythology has long given space to ideas of demons, heretics, and maleficium (black magic). But, as Hans Peter Broedel (2003) notes, the development in the fifteenth century of the figure of the witch introduced the convergence of these three concepts and solidified particularly gendered theological and institutional responses to this apparent threat. Estimates regarding the total number of executions stemming from the European witch panic vary. Historian Brian P. Levack (2006) estimates 60,000. Anne Llewellyn Barstow (1988) suggests 100,000 throughout Europe between 1300 and 1700, with women comprising 85%. Christensen himself claims eight million (Doty & Ingham, 2014). While women were not the only victims, men were often accused because they were associated with women already under scrutiny (Barstow, 1988). In smaller villages, it was not unheard of for nearly all of the women to be arrested for witchcraft (Midelfort cited in Barstow, 1988; Robbins cited in Barstow, 1988). Wise women, healers, and midwives traditionally acted as the 160

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physicians of the people (Ehrenreich & English, 2010), offering herbal remedies and services pertaining to nutrition, reproduction, and palliative care, and were consulted more frequently than the parish clergy or the university-trained physician (Thomas, 1971; Ehrenreich & English, 2010). European medicine began to undergo the process of professionalization in the thirteenth century, prior to the most feverish and violent period of the European witch hunts; medical schools of this time were closely tied to the Catholic Church and almost entirely barred women from attending or legally practicing medicine (Ehrenreich & English, 2010). The essential character of the Early Modern witch hunts was, as Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English (2010) observe, “that of a ruling class campaign of terror directed against the female peasant population” (p. 33). The growing power of female healers and midwives—who contributed to women’s autonomy over reproduction—constituted a growing crisis in a cultural milieu that increasingly devalued women (Cubitt, 2002; McNamara, 1994). Eventually, these women became a primary target for witch hunts (Barstow, 1988; Ehrenreich & English, 2010), reflecting Christian demonologists’ obsession with female sexuality and maternity. The stage was set for a fierce and violent backlash. Themes of female sexuality and maternity are intrinsic to Häxan and Antichrist, as well as many other stories recounted about women in fables, songs, literature, and more postmodern forms of storytelling, including reality television and various platforms catering to celebrity gossip. Female promiscuity, infidelity, and impurity continue to fascinate, emblazoned on the covers of magazines and on screens big and small, whispered about on playgrounds, and snidely alluded to at cocktail parties. The societal devaluation of women whose sexual expressions 161

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and desires diverge from a narrowly defined ideal is insidious and ongoing; this cultural narrative is a live wire that connects women undeniably to a superstitious and ‘backwards’ past. Men, while also confined by strict cultural expectations concerning masculinity, have typically enjoyed more leeway when it comes to heterosexual sexual expression, at least. The witchcraft discourse of the Medieval and Early Modern period is rife with explicit discussions about female sexuality, bodies, and the reproductive process. As Julia M. Garrett (2013) observes in her article “Witchcraft and Sexual Knowledge in Early Modern England,” ‘The era of the witch trials also reveals an important shift from a concern with the sexual temptations faced by “many persons of both sexes” to a heightened scrutiny of women’s sexuality as unavoidably bound to the demonic through its excesses’ (p. 34). The foremost tome on witchcraft discourse at the time (and arguably since) was the Malleus Maleficarum. Published in 1487, the book is most frequently credited to Heinrich Kramer and Jacob Sprenger, though historians are divided on whether Sprenger truly contributed to the work (Kramer, 2000; Mackay, 2009). The Malleus Maleficarum was sharply critical and fearful of female sexuality, particularly when divorced from matrimony and maternity. The treatise identified the genitals as especially vulnerable to demonic influence and posited that midwives were more dangerous than witches, particularly to the Catholic faith (Horsley & Horsley, 1987; Ehrenreich & English, 2010; Garrett, 2013). Unmanageable female carnality was a growing concern at the time and often strongly implicated in accusations of witchcraft (Barstow, 1988). Witches were routinely accused of bewitching men’s reproductive organs, inspiring lust or causing 162

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impotence, and blamed for miscarriages, stillbirths, and preventing conception entirely—while witches were said to engage in intercourse with and birth demons (Horsley & Horsley, 1987; Barstow, 1988). These contemporaneous beliefs about womanhood are vividly represented in Häxan through ‘historical’ vignettes divided into chapters. In the second chapter, a woman visits the village sorceress to obtain a love potion in order to inflame the passions of the monk for whom she cooks. In a fantasy sequence, the woman is chased around a kitchen by the lusty friar, who has succumbed to primal desires after she slips the draught into his meal. The sacrilegious nature of this woman’s infatuation and her underhanded manner of achieving her carnal desires serves to underscore the danger that witches—and women in general—were believed to pose for men, and particularly men of faith. During this age of heightened religiosity, women’s carnality was seen as insatiable and uncontrollable, a stark threat to the righteousness of men (Barstow, 1988). Double standards for sexual morality required higher standards of conduct for women, to counteract their essentially sinful nature (Bennett, Clark, O’Barr, Vilen & Westphal-Wihl, 1994). That this dichotomy would later be reversed did nothing to diminish the sexual double-standard and in fact created new obstacles to healthy sexuality in both women and men. Active sexuality—with numerous partners—is both expected and praised behavior for men (Jackson & Cram, 2003). Women are looked down upon for having a high ‘body count’ (a colloquialism referring to one’s total number of sexual partners) and are more likely to turn down sex they genuinely desire based on the fear that their partner buys into the sexual double-standard and will lose respect for them (Muehlenhard & McCoy, 1991). 163

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Witchcraft’s strong links to sexual immorality and heresy, both of which were socially and religiopolitically sanctioned, were leveraged by authorities to justify harsher punishments and aggressive prosecution (Garrett, 2013). Descriptions of the Witches’ Sabbath, in particular, were sensationalized in a way that seems intended to both disturb and titillate, including graphic descriptions of nudity and explicitly sexual rituals. In one of the more provocative sequences in Häxan, Christensen’s elaborate rendition of the Witches’ Sabbath includes the still-shocking rite of the Osculum Infame (‘Kiss of Shame’), a greeting wherein the witch kneels to kiss the Devil’s anus. In addition to their sinful sexuality, witches were demonized for turning their backs on maternity and corrupting it through grotesque practices such as boiling and eating infants (Garrett, 2013), both of which are referenced in Häxan. To interfere with procreation (as midwives did) and to sacrifice unbaptized infants (as witches were said to do) were perversions of what was believed to be the natural—and only acceptable—female role: to bear and care for children. Many people still strongly cling to these beliefs—witness the furor and stigma surrounding abortion rights, working mothers, and the childfree movement. Motherhood remains the linchpin of cultural femininity; as Karen Christopher (2012) observes, maternity is “central to the feminine accomplishment of gender” (p. 74). The preeminent cultural model of proper femininity still expects women to view marriage and children as their overarching goal, viewing deviations from this path as suspect or indicative of abnormality (Oakley, 1979). The figure of the witch was a site wherein cultural/male anxieties surrounding female sexuality, reproduction, and power could be explored, as well as erotic fantasies (Garrett, 2013). As the 164

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witch gradually faded from popular discourse, society required (and created) a new narrative through which female sexuality could be discussed, disciplined, and punished—one that extrapolated from the beliefs solidified during the Early Modern era.

SHE’S COME UNDONE: UNRAVELING THE VICTORIAN HYSTERIC The discursive journey from the stake to the sanitarium was not an overnight shift. Long before the witch trials, the Greeks, Egyptians, and Romans had theorized at length about hysteria. An Egyptian papyrus dated around 1990 BCE posited that hysteria was caused by the frustrated wanderings of an unfruitful womb, while Greek physician and philosopher Galen considered abstinence and blocked menstrual flow as the culprit (Novais, Araújo & Godinho, 2015). Over time, discourses surrounding hysteria evolved to “mirror the preoccupations [of] societies” (Novais, Araújo & Godinho, 2015, para. 2), yet the threads of female sexuality and disturbed femininity always weave through this patchwork of pseudo-pathology. Medieval theologians shifted away from organic explanations, theorizing hysteria not as a physical illness but “a manifestation of demonic possession” (Novais, Araújo & Godinho, 2015, para. 5) still strongly tied to the rejection of normative sexuality and maternity. This new supernatural etiology created a tension between the pathological and possessed hysteric. The possessed hysteric functioned under sinister supernatural influence, but the pathological hysteric could be the victim of a confused mind. Was the afflicted woman suffering a psychological defect—or a spiritual one? One of the 165

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earliest refutations of the Malleus Maleficarum, by Dutch physician Johann Weyer, posited mental instability as the determining factor behind many confessions (Doty & Ingham, 2014). In 1603, Edward Jorden’s Briefe Discourse of a Disease Called the Suffocation of the Mother described a disease specific to women called Hysterica passio, with symptoms echoing those of bewitchment (Levin, 2002). In the final chapters of Häxan, Christensen deliberately and methodically works to build the case that Early Modern witches were, in fact, pathological hysterics, misunderstood and mistreated by a superstitious and outdated Catholic Church; the film was initially inspired by his discovery of the Malleus Maleficarum in a used bookstore. Christensen was not the only modern figure to link the two; by the time he stumbled upon the tome, connections between witchcraft and diagnoses of hysteria had been made by leading thinkers of the time, including Jean-Martin Charcot, Josef Breuer, and Sigmund Freud—who cited the Medieval witch as a key element in the prehistory of his work on hysteria (Doty & Ingham, 2014). Häxan’s final chapter references Charcot’s extensive work with modern hysterics through a striking series of images modeled on previously published clinical photographs (Bourneville & Regnard, 1876-80), the bizarrely posed images emphasizing the strange otherness of the women pictured. While Häxan may be viewed as progressive for its time in its attempted ‘rehabilitation’ of the witch, it is worth noting the impetus behind it was political in more ways than one. Alexander Doty and Patricia Clare Ingham (2014) point out that during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, religious authorities and secular scientists in Europe were “engaged in a bitter 166

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struggle for control of important social and political institutions, the hospital among them” (p. 43). Thus, the project of discrediting the Church by conflating it with Medieval and Early Modern superstitions and contrasting it with modern rationalism served a specific propagandist purpose (Doty & Ingham, 2014). Moreover, replacing accusations of witchcraft with a blanket diagnosis of hysteria is no feminist victory. Both narratives sought to control, deter, and discipline the disruptive femininity that refused to conform to cultural expectations; both were linked to the regulation of female sexuality and reproduction, wore a paternalistic sheen, and positioned women as erroneous objects in need of correction. As Joanna Levin (2002) observes, “Such a limited rewriting of traditional demonology betrays its own impetus, its political need to ease the transition from the supernatural to the natural: the foundation shifted, but dominant conceptions of womanhood remained largely intact and compelled acceptance through familiarity” (p. 28). As women in the Middle Ages were considered more vulnerable to demonic interference, so too did modern women allegedly suffer from a heightened susceptibility to emotional instability and neurosis. As argued by Marianne Hester (1992), the powerful and dangerous witch was discursively downgraded to hysterical woman. This resulted in an unruly femininity that was no longer feared but patronized, one that “both confounded patriarchal authority and provided the occasion for its legitimation” (Levin, 2002, p. 25). For both the witch and the hysteric, male authorities were responsible for defining, identifying, and correcting their disruptive femininity. As Doty and Ingham (2014) state, “Precisely as a mother/model for the later figure of the hysteric, the witch highlights a diverse asynchrony of gender, one keyed to the 167

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representational politics surrounding the female subject and her male examiners, whether persecutors or rescuers” (p. 5). Narratives surrounding both witches and hysterics served a double purpose of constraining women while elevating and legitimating male authority—an authority Christensen himself benefits from as the “documentarian” or “diagnostician” (Doty & Ingham, 2014, p. 52). Christensen acknowledges this enduring male examiner/female subject dynamic throughout the film, as well as the shifting structures responsible for controlling feminine disorder. As Levin (2002) points out, both the religious persecution of witchcraft and the “scientific” diagnosis of hysteria involve State-level power relations—as well as a decidedly gendered imbalance. Throughout the ‘historical’ chapters of Häxan, male agents (accusers, interrogators, judges, jailers, and executioners) confine, coerce, and control the lives of their female victims. The final chapter, set in the present day, includes a sequence in which a doctor examines a suspected hysteric. Eavesdropping at the clinic door, she is horrified to overhear his recommendation to her mother that she remain at his clinic for treatment. “Poor little hysterical witch!” reads the intertitle, “In the Middle Ages you were in conflict with the Church. Now it is with the law.” The label and enforcers may have changed, but the troubled and troubling woman remains at the mercy of paternalistic accusers and the cultural narratives guiding their perceptions of her. Like Medieval and Early Modern demonologists, modern proponents of hysteria diagnoses were similarly preoccupied with the sexual drives, desires, and fantasies of female patients. Many ‘hysterical’ symptoms were consistent with normal female sexual functioning, particularly when frustrated by a ruling sexual ethos 168

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that privileged erotic practices largely inconsistent with female gratification. Jane Gerhard’s (2000) excellent article, ‘Revisiting “The Myth of the Vaginal Orgasm”: The Female Orgasm in American Sexual Thought and Second Wave Feminism,’ observed that twentieth-century experts “reinvented female heterosexuality through their theories about the female orgasm and genitals and through their treatment for female sexual dysfunction such as frigidity, nymphomania, and hysteria” (p. 451). Gerhard (2000) explains how Freud’s work in psychoanalysis was a major contributor to this continuing fascination with cataloguing and pathologizing women’s sexuality: Starting with Freud in 1905, the vagina had carried the double mission in expert discourse of naturalizing heterosexuality and essentializing the erotic underpinnings of reproduction. Psychoanalysts, physicians, and marriage experts who followed Freud used the diagnosis of frigidity, defined as the absence of an orgasm during intercourse, to establish the parameters of normal female heterosexuality. (p. 450) Freudian theory posited that healthy, adult women found their pleasure in penetration only—oral sex was something enjoyed only by emotionally immature women (no wonder that the diagnosis was so common and widespread). Female dissatisfaction with androcentric models of ‘successful’ coitus was pathologized and these effects were long-lasting; Freudian discourses about female sexuality proliferated among medical professionals and popular culture, “[elevating] the twin notions of the vaginal orgasm and frigidity to the heights they enjoyed from the 1920s through the 1960s” (Gerhard, 2000, p. 454). Prior to the Victorian 169

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era, symptoms of hysteria resembled those of chronic arousal, including sleeplessness, irritability, erotic fantasy, lower pelvic edema, and vaginal lubrication; its onset was blamed on lack of sufficient intercourse or sexual gratification. Of course, only certain types of sexual gratification were considered healthy in the Victorian era, and many experts of the period feared that female self-pleasure—or even manipulation of the clitoris by a woman’s partner—would “lead directly to compulsive masturbation, nymphomania, or an outright rejection of intercourse” (Gerhard, 2000, p. 452). (Perhaps the latter point reflects a certain level of self-awareness regarding the average male’s sexual performance and generosity at the time.) As with witch narratives, hysteria created a space for men to discuss, debate, and define normative parameters for female sexuality and provided an ideological state apparatus through which to regulate it. Too little sex, too much sex, the wrong type of sex, the wrong sexual object—any combination of these could lead to a woman’s pathologization by male authorities. Yet, the nosological position and symptomology of modern hysteria remained ill-defined and often subject to the whims of those diagnosing it. This shifting and nebulous nature was not lost on the physicians who sought to legitimize it. W.R. Russell (1935), writing about major hysteria for the British Medical Journal, mused that “[to those] unfamiliar with the endless variety of physical disturbances which may occur […] the disease presents many diagnostic pitfalls” (p. 872). Maintaining women’s particular susceptibility, Russell (1935) nevertheless concedes that most people carry “the germ of hysterical behaviour” (p. 872), linking it to traits as common as forgetting undesirable appointments; “The diagnosis of hysteria becomes almost a matter of instinct,” he 170

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concludes (p. 875), a surprising admission from a physician eager to scientifically validate the diagnosis. It is curious that, although Christensen takes pains to establish a historical context for beliefs about witchcraft, he does not do the same for hysteria. Barstow’s thoughtful 1988 paper “On Studying Witchcraft as Women’s History: A Historiography of the European Witch Persecutions” addresses the troubling phenomenon of historical scholars who fail to interpret the Early Modern witch panic as a gynocide facilitated by a patriarchal society and instead lay blame entirely on religious or economic upheavals. Barstow (1988) admonishes these historians for failing to “[demythologize] their own attitudes toward the women they write about” (p. 11). In Häxan, Christensen’s most obvious motive appears to be an attack on religious superstition rather than patriarchy per se. Yet, while Christensen does not offer a deeper analysis of the cultural misogyny that pervaded and pre-dated both the superstitious Medieval and Early Modern periods and the ‘enlightened’ modern period, nor does he explicitly critique the rise of hysteria as the feminine disorder du jour, he does take a somewhat sympathetic (or, at least, ambivalent) approach to the subjects of his cinematic/political project and rightly acknowledges the patriarchal control under which they live. As Doty and Ingham (2014) argue, his visual and narrative juxtaposition between the exploitative historical inquisition and the voyeuristic psychiatric examination in Häxan’s final chapter consciously or unconsciously allows for an alternate reading of the film, one which implicates modern psychiatry in the ongoing use of archaic investigative methods and targeting of women; fittingly, the film ends with an image of a modern hysteric stepping into a therapeutic shower dissolving into that of a witch burning at the stake. 171

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While the film endeavors to trace a linear progression from religious superstition to scientific rationality, Doty and Ingham (2014) affirm that Häxan actually reveals the witch/hysteric as a figure for category crisis. During the period in which Christensen was preparing the screenplay for Häxan, the modern iteration of hysteria was actually divided into two groups: the first included those now considered to be classic hysterics—affluent, neurotic women with often bizarre physical symptoms—and the second were men suffering from what was later known as ‘shell shock,’ after the horrors of the Second Boer War (1899-1902) and World War I (1914-18) (Baxstrom & Meyers, 2016), and is now called post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Interestingly, this category of hysteric is nowhere to be found in Christensen’s film. The absence of the high-profile, war-torn male hysteric is noteworthy. Through this exclusion, Häxan reveals itself to be less concerned with modern psychiatric advances and technologies than with cultural anxieties surrounding womanhood. As Richard Baxstrom and Todd Meyers (2016) observe, Häxan is less a film about witches and hysterics, and more a film about “a mobile force that, in particular times and places, has gone by the name ‘witch’ or ‘hysteric’” (p. 189). This, they agree, is the true source of the film’s power. Christensen’s ostensible objective in Häxan is to retroactively diagnose Medieval and Early Modern women accused of witchcraft with hysteria, an endeavor that, while interesting as a thought experiment, is both naïve and reductive. However, Häxan does serve as a useful text through which to draw attention to the shifting mechanisms that structure the ongoing control and regulation of disruptive femininity by male authorities and how their supporting narratives evolve over time. 172

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While his ‘historical’ vignettes are vividly imagined and executed, Christensen’s work offers little in the way of exploring the emotional interiority of his characters or the ongoing psychological impact of these narratives. Lars von Trier, on the other hand, has built a career out of translating affect into visceral cinema.

ANTICHRIST and THE FERTILE TERRITORY OF LINGERING PSYCHIC TRAUMA While Häxan seeks to narratively replace the witch with the hysteric, Lars von Trier’s Antichrist allocates both narratives within one body—that of a grieving mother dealing with an intense guilt borne from her mixed feelings about motherhood. The film is centered on an unnamed married couple, sublimely portrayed by Charlotte Gainsbourg and Willem Dafoe. In a tragedy fraught with significance, their toddler son, Nic (Storm Acheche Sahlstrøm), accidentally tumbles from a second-floor window while they, believing him to be asleep, have sex in another room. Throughout the film, the woman and man (identified as “She” and “He”) act out in ways that reify the rational male/over-emotional female dichotomy, serving as exaggerated embodiments of this cultural narrative. The cold and aloof therapist husband is intent on ‘fixing’ his wife’s “atypical” grief against her protests, and they travel to Eden, the isolated cottage where She spent the previous summer working on her thesis. Echoing the plight of the Victorian hysteric, She is subjected to a series of domineering treatments by her husband, throughout which She and He wrestle for control over her physicality. As Amy Simmons (2015) observes, “At the centre of Antichrist’s thematic agenda is 173

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the female character’s body” (p. 77). However, it is in the battle for her mind that He finds his greatest challenge. His paternalistic efforts to rationalize away her fear are no match for the dark and primitive natural forces lurking in the woods to which she soon succumbs (including a trio of uncanny, supernatural animals called “The Three Beggars,” a name borrowed from Russian folklore: a miscarrying doe that represents Grief, a self-mutilating fox that represents Pain, and a crow, unable to die, that represents Despair). The film’s final act is infamously brutal, graphic, and disturbing, as He is forced to bear the (specifically sexual) punishment for hundreds of years of gender terrorism and oppression. Both the therapeutic trials endured by She and the physical torture inflicted on He call to mind the consequences of specific and gendered cultural narratives. Antichrist is a strange and wild film, a slippery and elusive nightmare ill-suited to the faint of heart or stomach. It is visceral, unforgiving, and shockingly graphic. Yet, this is its great strength, or at least one of them; its evocative imagery and attention to detail serve a deliberate and necessary purpose. As argued by Simmons (2015), Antichrist “encourages us to share the woman’s excruciating experiences, both physical and emotional, through cinematic devices which privilege her sensory point of view” (p. 25). A haptic cinematographic approach uses a near-sighted focus to evoke the specific sensations of how it feels to touch what is being looked at (Thomsen, 2009). Von Trier utilizes this technique and further intensifies the sensory experience through his use of extreme slow motion, particularly in the film’s prologue, granting endless space in which to imagine the impact of a falling toothbrush on naked skin, among myriad other sensations. The use of slow motion is repeated at several points when She is the 174

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sole character onscreen, establishing her as the film’s emotional center. This identification is underscored elsewhere in the film when close-ups of a throbbing vein in her throat, perspiration on her breasts, her twitching fingers, and her rapid breathing invite the audience to share her experience of a panic attack. Antichrist is more than a vivid portrait of maternal grief complicated by ambivalent motherhood; it is a cogent illustration of the damage done to the psyches of women through centuries of narratives linking the embrace of and control over their own sexuality to moral decay, demonology, and mental illness, as well as to cultural constructions of femininity which emphasize and prioritize maternity above all else. Von Trier makes it clear that this gendered grief is complicated by the psychic wounds of internalized misogyny, intensified by her study of the witch narratives and gynocide of the Early Modern period. Antichrist positions her as both an irrational therapeutic patient and a woman knowledgeable about the secrets and dangers of nature— as both ‘hysteric’ and ‘witch.’ While these specific archetypes no longer carry the same cultural weight and danger for women, the narratives surrounding them have been hugely instrumental in shaping sociocultural understandings of womanhood, even to this day. Both discourses built upon even earlier narratives; the Malleus Maleficarum drew extensively from biblical and classical sources as it characterized women as duplicitous, immoderate, and untrustworthy (Barstow, 1988). Despite the audience’s temporal distance, the lingering and ongoing effects of these narratives reverberate—effects which von Trier explores through the dreamlike, Gothic unreality of Eden. Antichrist is indirect but steadfast in its portrayal of maternal ambivalence. The clues are many and varied: a brief shot of 175

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a muted baby monitor, a photograph in which Nic’s shoes are (absentmindedly?) placed on the wrong feet, a stray remark about the toddler’s apparent disinterest in emotionally supporting his mother. Her “atypical” grief is exacerbated by guilt stemming from both dissatisfaction with motherhood and the role that her erotic desire played in the accident. Despite her husband’s active role in the sex that distracted them both while their child was in danger, She blames herself. This impulse makes sense within a framework heavily influenced by longstanding cultural narratives demonizing female desire and pathologizing ambivalence or disinterest regarding motherhood. “It’s my fault,” she cries. “I could have stopped it.” A better mother would have, is the unspoken verdict. Ann Snitow (1992) recognizes the difficulty, even in feminist circles, of criticizing Western culture’s pervasive pronatalism and imperative for women to become mothers. January W. Payne calls attention to the ways that postpubescent women in Western culture are treated as perpetually potentially pregnant, advised to avoid smoking and drinking, and to take folic acid supplements— just in case (cited in Malacrida & Boulton, 2012). It can be nearly impossible to find a doctor willing to perform tubal ligation on a woman younger than 30, even one adamant about her desire to remain childfree. The use of birth control can be read as an act of rebellion against patriarchal control; its characterization as sacrilegious or immoral, rather than an exercise of the natural right to bodily autonomy, reflects the societal desire to uphold patriarchal norms. This hyperfocus on procreation places severe pressure on women for whom maternity is undesirable or unviable and can lead to self-doubt or even a crisis of identity. As Ann Oakley (1979) observes, “It may even be in motherhood that we 176

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can trace the diagnosis and prognosis of female oppression” (p. 608). The woods surrounding Eden are associated with the feminine principle: the wild, the natural. When asked by her husband to name the place most terrifying to her, She identifies these woods. Her particular fear of a foxhole near the cottage is posited by Simmons (2015) as directly connected to her own femininity: “With its dark, uterine-like opening, the hole evokes feelings of terror for her […] an early indication that she fears her own nature” (p. 37). She affirms that this nature is not under her control, telling her husband that “Women do not control their own bodies; nature does.” Motherhood may not have been something that She would have chosen for herself, but female fertility sometimes overcomes the obstacles deliberately put in place, and the prevailing cultural narrative upholds motherhood as the ultimate manifestation of ‘natural’ femininity. This latter point is especially pertinent when considering her “narcissistic need for her husband and son [and] extreme fear of abandonment” (Simmons, 2015, p. 44). After all, what is a woman’s worth without a husband and children? It is She’s suspicion that He plans to abandon her during the final act of the film that triggers an outpouring of rage and extreme violence—a suspicion fueled by her own guilt regarding her ‘failed’ femininity. Female sexuality is a site of contention in Antichrist, as in the witch narratives that von Trier explicitly identifies as potent influences on She’s behavior at various points in the film. The woman’s body becomes “the site of potential danger, where female sexuality itself is an assault on the male ego” (Simmons, 2015, p. 77). Her sexuality is portrayed (and treated by her husband) as increasingly ravenous, chaotic, and destructive, but 177

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there is room to wonder whether this should be interpreted as inherently transgressive sexuality or the inevitable product of her husband’s cold refusal to provide comfort and intimacy during her time of grief. In the film’s third chapter, “Despair (Gynocide),” a disturbing and violent sexual encounter between the two takes place among the roots of an old tree and ends with the haunting image of numerous ghostly hands materializing around the couple. During the act, She references “the sisters from Ratisbon,” two condemned witches alleged to be able to control the weather and compelled by their insatiable lust to have sex with demons. At another point, She speaks to him about her academic findings: She: I discovered something else in my material than I expected. If human nature is evil, then that goes as well for the nature of… He: Of the women. Female nature. She: The nature of all of the sisters. While He disputes her conclusions, urging her to think critically about the material, this exchange gestures toward the larger societal absorption of the historical narratives about women. Through her research, She has spent many months immersed in texts describing the inherently evil nature of witches: their sinful carnality, their maternal unsuitability. As Simmons (2015) concludes, “her historical texts have activated archaic layers in her psyche, where in her grief-induced delirium following Nic’s death, she believes herself to be evil, a witch who deserves punishment and will in fact be burnt” (p. 41). If the unnamed She is read as a symbolic stand-in for all women, then her capitulation to witchcraft narratives is a 178

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poignant reflection of the internalized misogyny experienced by nearly all women in some form or another—and her eventual disintegration is a fated catharsis. “From this point onwards,” writes Simmons (2015), “the woman knows instinctively that she will be judged, and ultimately face her own annihilation” (p. 64). The final act of the film submerges both characters in a liminal temporal space, one in which reality is shared by both the present-day couple and the spectral victims of past gynocide, with whom the woman is now inexorably aligned. The violence She enacts upon her husband must be considered within a framework that considers this history of gendered violence; it is a rebellion against gendered victimization, one which “seeks to intercept and cancel the rationalizing powers of masculinity” (Zolkos, 2011, p. 184). Simmons (2015) agrees: “Now, having fully embraced her research, and taken on the historic burden of guilt, the tension between the couple becomes more than just a struggle between two individuals trying to resolve grief. Instead, the pain of centuries of suspicion and gender unbalance bubbles to the surface of the film” (pp. 63-64). The consequences for eras of discursive and physical gendered violence have finally come home to roost and are unleashed upon the man. Convinced that he is going to leave her as a result of her failure to conform to idealized maternity, she attacks him in a now-infamous series of relentlessly brutal and graphic scenes. Medieval beliefs about the vulnerability of male genitalia to a witch’s interference are validated in the most extreme way possible, as She first bludgeons his member and then masturbates it until He ejaculates blood. The control that He exercised over her body earlier in the film is repaid tenfold; She drills into his leg and anchors him with a heavy grindstone. In the fourth chapter, 179

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“The Three Beggars,” her storm of rage has passed. She expresses remorse, leading to the film’s most controversial scene in which She uses a pair of scissors to perform her own clitoridectomy, symbolically repudiating the sexuality that society has historically deemed wanton, corrupting, and aberrant. It is only when she has been figuratively unsexed and stripped of her capacity for erotic pleasure that he is able to gain the upper hand. Exhausted and resigned, She does not fight back as he strangles her to death. Antichrist implicates the influence of misogynistic cultural narratives not only in her behavior but in his as well. Despite her repeated warnings about the dangers of Eden, He continually dismisses the threat, ascribing to her a confused and unstable emotionality that is no match for his rationality and intellectualism. Even as He experiences the inexplicable himself, witnessing the first two of the supernatural Three Beggars, he is unable or unwilling to validate her ‘hysterical’ claims, ignoring her wisdom at his own peril. Throughout the film, the audience is shown glimpses of alternate ‘truths’ from his perspective. Where She hypothesizes Nic’s erroneously fitted shoes as a “slip of the mind that day,” He later imagines the incident as part of a deliberate, long-term campaign of abuse against their son. The end of the film features a scene that echoes the prologue, with one crucial difference. Where in the prologue her eyes were closed at the moment her son climbed to the window, in this new ‘flashback’ She witnesses the fall but chooses not to act. If the prologue is considered to be an accurate depiction of events, this new detail reveals a suspicion on the imaginer’s part that would fit seamlessly into witch narratives: She “prefers the pleasure of orgasm to her obligations as a mother” (Thomsen, 2009, para. 13). Simmons (2015) stresses the background of historical, gendered 180

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violence alluded to throughout the film, noting that “nowhere is this more evident than in the film’s closing scenes, where she will be discredited and found guilty in her husband’s eyes” (p. 64). As Levin (2002) writes, narratives surrounding both the witch and the hysteric “promised to reveal the hidden truth of femininity, its latent potential for disorder and deception” (p. 29). Neither the libidinous hysteric nor the sexually insatiable witch can be trusted—their duplicity is in their nature (Levin, 2002). Despite his professed love and support for his wife, despite his ‘objective’ rationality and best intentions, the narratives about disruptive femininity are too deeply rooted to resist. Cinema will always be a prime site for the propagation of harmful cultural narratives. As old narratives fall out of favor, new ones are popularized. Hysteria diagnoses have fallen to the wayside, but popular culture has seen the growing visibility of Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), an exceedingly stigmatizing diagnosis far more frequently applied to women than to men (Lieb, Zanarini, Schmahl, Linehan & Bohus, 2004). Modern relationship thrillers like Fatal Attraction (1987), Bad Match (2017), and You Get Me (2017) feature female characters who exhibit many of the symptoms of BPD with an additional tendency toward externalized extreme violent aggression, further perpetuating a narrative regularly conveyed in common parlance as ‘bitches be crazy.’ But, as Antichrist demonstrates, films can also explore the damaging impacts of these narratives, creating space for new dialogues and offering different perspectives. On a more hopeful note, cultural narratives can be subverted and recreated as sites of strength and community. The counter-narrative of the ‘good’ witch gained support in the mid-twentieth century through the development of a contemporary 181

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pagan religion now known as Wicca. In many circles, the witch has been reclaimed as a feminist icon. A growing trend to adopt witch aesthetics and natural spiritualism has exploded of late with musicians such as Lana Del Rey, Lorde, and Grimes embracing the label. Sympathetic portrayals of witches have appeared in popular television shows including Bewitched (1964-72), two separate series featuring teenage-witch Sabrina, Sabrina the Teenage Witch (1996-2003) and Chilling Tales of Sabrina (2018-), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997-2003), and Charmed (1998-2006), as well as films such as Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989) and Practical Magic (1998). While 1996’s beloved sleepover classic The Craft did feature a villainous witch, the film worked to humanize her and shed light on the circumstances that influenced her choices. The new popularity of the phrase ‘witch hunt’ and its revisionist history, pushed by the villains and enablers of the Hollywood abuse scandals and America’s ersatz administration, has fortunately been accompanied by a sympathetic renaissance— one that recognizes and acknowledges the figure’s history. This movement has also coincided with a period when more diverse voices are finally breaking through the barriers to their inclusion and claiming their time in the spotlight. As more women and marginalized groups push for and seize powerful creative roles in cinema, television, and online entertainment, the power of damaging cultural narratives is diluted. The voices of the witch and the hysteric belie the propaganda that would silence them.

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REFERENCES Aguirre-Sacasa, R. (Creator). (2018-). Chilling Adventures of Sabrina [Television series]. United States: Netflix. Barstow, A.L. (1988). On Studying Witchcraft as Women’s History: A Historiography of the European Witch Persecutions. Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion, 4(2). Baxstrom, R., & Meyers, T. (2016). Realizing the Witch: Science, Cinema, and the Mastery of the Invisible. New York, NY: Fordham University Press. Bennett, J.M., Clark, E.A., O’Barr, J.F., Vilen, B.A., & Westphal-Wihl, S. (Eds.). (1994). Sisters and Workers in the Middle Ages. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Bonacorso, B. (Director). (2017). You Get Me [Motion picture]. United States: Netflix. Bourneville, D.M., & Regnard, P.M.L. (1876-80). Iconographie Photographique de la Salpêtrière. Service de M. Charcot. Paris, France: Les Bureaux du Progrès Médical. Broedel, H.P. (2003). The “Malleus Maleficarum” and the Construction of Witchcraft: Theology and Popular Belief. New York, NY: Manchester University Press. Burge, C.M. (Creator). (1998-2006). Charmed [Television series]. United States: Paramount Domestic Television. Chirchirillo, D. (Director). (2017). Bad Match [Motion picture]. United States: Orion Pictures. Christensen, B. (Director). (1922). Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages [Motion picture]. Denmark & Sweden: Svensk Filmindustri. Christopher, K. (2012). Extensive Mothering: Employed Mothers’ Constructions of the Good Mother. Gender and Society, 26(1). Cubitt, C. (2002). Virginity and Misogyny in Tenth- and Eleventh-Century England. Gender & History, 12(1). Doty, A., & Ingham, P.C. (2014). The Witch and the Hysteric: The Monstrous Medieval in Benjamin Christensen’s Häxan. Brooklyn, NY: Punctum Books. Dunne, G. (Director). (1998). Practical Magic [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros.

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scared sacred Ehrenreich, B., & English, D. (2010). Witches, Midwives & Nurses (Second Edition): A History of Women Healers. New York, NY: The Feminist Press. Fleming, A. (Director). (1996). The Craft [Motion picture]. United States: Columbia Pictures. Garrett, J.M. (2013). Witchcraft and Sexual Knowledge in Early Modern England. Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies, 13(1). Gerhard, J. (2000). Revisiting “The Myth of the Vaginal Orgasm”: The Female Orgasm in American Sexual Thought and Second Wave Feminism. Feminist Studies, 26(2). Hester, M. (1992). Lewd Women and Wicked Witches: A Study of the Dynamics of Male Domination. New York, NY: Routledge. Horsley, R.J., & Horsley, R.A. (1987). On the Trail of the “Witches”: Wise Women, Midwives and the European Witch Hunts. Women in German Yearbook, 3. Jackson, S.M., & Cram, F. (2003). Disrupting the Sexual Double Standard: Young Women Talk About Heterosexuality. British Journal of Social Psychology, 42(1). Kramer, H. (2000). Der Hexenhammer: Malleus Maleficarum (W. Behringer & G. Jerouschek, Trans. & Eds.). Munich, Germany: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag. Laycock, J. (2012). Carnal Knowledge: The Epistemology of Sexual Trauma in Witches’ Sabbaths, Satanic Ritual Abuse, and Alien Abduction Narratives. Preternature: Critical and Historical Studies on the Preternatural, 1(1). Levack, B.P. (2006). The Witch-Hunt in Early Modern Europe (Third Edition). London, England & New York, NY: Routledge. Levin, J. (2002). Lady MacBeth and the Daemonologie of Hysteria. ELH, 69(1). Lieb, K., Zanarini, M.C., Schmahl, C., Linehan, M.M., & Bohus, M. (2004). Borderline Personality Disorder. The Lancet, 364(9432). Lyne, A. (Director). (1987). Fatal Attraction [Motion picture]. United States: Paramount Pictures. McNamara, J.A. (1994). The Herrenfrage: The Restructuring of the Gender System, 1050-1150. In C.A. Lees (Ed.), Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle Ages. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Mackay, C.S. (2009). The Hammer of Witches: A Complete Translation of the Malleus Maleficarum. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press.

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from the stake to the sanitarium Malacrida, C., & Boulton, T. (2012). Women’s Perceptions of Childbirth “Choices”: Competing Discourses of Motherhood, Sexuality, and Selflessness. Gender & Society, 26(5). Miyazaki, H. (Director). (1989). Kiki’s Delivery Service [Motion picture]. Japan: Studio Ghibli. Muehlenhard, C.L., & McCoy, M.L. (1991). Double Standard/Double Bind: The Sexual Double Standard and Women’s Communication About Sex. Psychology of Women Quarterly, 15(3). Novais, F., Araújo, A., & Godinho, P. (2015). Historical Roots of Histrionic Personality Disorder. Frontiers in Psychology, 6. Oakley, A. (1979). A Case of Maternity: Paradigms of Women as Maternity Cases. Signs, 4(4). Russell, W.R. (1935). Major Hysteria. The British Medical Journal, 1(3877). Saks, S. (Creator). (1964-72). Bewitched [Television series]. United States: American Broadcasting Company. Schleiner, W. (2009). Early Modern Green Sickness and Pre-Freudian Hysteria. Early Science and Medicine, 14(5). Scovell, N. (Creator). (1996-2003). Sabrina the Teenage Witch [Television series]. United States: Paramount Domestic Television & CBS Television Distribution. Simmons, A. (2015). Devil’s Advocates: Antichrist. Leighton Buzzard, England: Auteur. Snitow, A. (1992). Feminism and Motherhood: An American Reading. Feminist Review, 40. Thomas, K. (1971). Religion and the Decline of Magic. New York, NY: Scribner. Thomsen, B.M.S. (2009). Antichrist—Chaos Reigns: The Event of Violence and the Haptic Image in Lars von Trier’s Film. Journal of Aesthetics & Culture, 1(1). Von Trier, L. (Director). (2009). Antichrist [Motion picture]. Denmark, France, Germany, Italy, Poland & Sweden: Zentropa Entertainments. Whedon, J. (Creator). (1997-2003). Buffy the Vampire Slayer [Television series]. United States: 20th Century Fox Television. Zolkos, M. (2011). Violent Affects: Nature and the Feminine in Lars Von Trier’s Antichrist. Parrhesia, 13.

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MONSTROUS REALISM: IRRELIGIOUS RELIGION IN H.P. LOVECRAFT’S COSMIC HORROR ANYA STANLEY

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. (Sagan, 1997, p. 7)

has long grappled with anything that defies Humankind comprehension. Entire religions have formed around

attempts to account for the unknown, from the stars in the sky to creatures that lurk in the dirt. The unknown is the unpredictable, and the unpredictable is horrifying. Horror as a genre has made its bread and butter from this concept across time and medium: Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings distill the fire-and-brimstone brutality of the Old Testament through surrealism, the orientation of the soul finds Jewish infusion in the golem and dybbuk, and the world entire compartmentalizes—often malevolently—the 187

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untamed feminine in witch lore. The purpose of this chapter is to provide a brief outline of theism, atheism, and cosmicism before relating the latter two constructs to H.P. Lovecraft’s work. Further exploration of Lovecraft’s theological frame of mind can be found in two films proximate to his original body of work, Stuart Gordon’s From Beyond (1986) and John Carpenter’s In the Mouth of Madness (1994). Most attempts to explain the unknown are enveloped within a religious framework, but not all. Atheism finds contentment in absence, a lack or outright rejection of belief in the existence of any deity. Human reason takes an elevated position within this absence; not only is the existence of any god or gods unlikely, but anyone laying indisputable claim of such is a charlatan. Most religions are based upon faith in some form or another, and the transition from desire-based faith to evidence-based knowledge requires just that: evidence. To the atheist, the preacher who claims divine prerogative over their congregation without tangible proof is as predatory as the Hindu guru who claims to hold privileged secrets to total peace; to the atheist, both leaders exploit the naïveté of their followers, most often for financial gain. Atheism lays the foundations for a skeptical philosophy that is represented by an entire subgenre of horror literature. Cosmicism operates under the observation that no grand explanation and no singular divine entity exists, particularly one invested in the existence of humans. With its atheism-adjacent framework, cosmicism is primarily concerned with humanity’s ultimate insignificance in the cosmos, positing that gods are nothing more than the arrogant reproductions of humankind’s ignorance. Many popular writers have dabbled in cosmic horror: the works of Arthur Machen, particularly his seminal tale of 188

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delirium The Great God Pan (1894), are considered cornerstones of this philosophy, and Thomas Ligotti’s body of work served as an inspiration for the first series of True Detective (2014), channeled through enigmatically nihilistic police detective Rustin Cohle (Matthew McConaughey). However, no author in the domain of cosmicism is more famous than the author whose very name has become synonymous with the philosophy itself: Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Born in 1890 to a middle-class family in Rhode Island, young Howard showed godless inclinations from a young age. In his 1922 essay “A Confession of Unfaith,” Lovecraft credited his skepticism and the unlearning of his Baptist faith to the classic mythology, astronomy, and literature he immersed himself in during preadolescence: “The most poignant sensations of my existence are those of […] 1902, when I discovered the myriad suns and worlds of infinite space […] By my thirteenth birthday I was thoroughly impressed with man’s impermanence and insignificance” (cited in Joshi, 2010, p. 8). He devoured everything from the Brothers Grimm to Coleridge in his youth, informing the cosmic futility that permeated the phantasmic narratives for which he would later become known (Joshi, 2010). Lovecraft was vocal about his insistence upon the insignificance of humankind, even in his personal life. Throughout his writing career, he corresponded with several other amateur writers collectively known as the Kleicomolo, a term formed from the first syllable of their surnames. One such letter from 1916 proclaims: Our human race is only a trivial incident in the history of creation. It is of no more importance in the annals of eternity and 189

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infinity than is the child’s snow-man in the annals of terrestrial tribes and nations. And more: may not all mankind be a mistake […] an excrescence on the body of infinite progression like a wart on the human hand? […] How arrogant of us, creatures of the moment […] to arrogate to ourselves an immortal future and considerable status! (cited in Joshi, 2010, p. 12) This quote, and Lovecraft’s cosmic attitude overall, echoes one of atheism’s fundamental creeds: not the unassailable presumption of a godless universe, but the refusal to acknowledge any person who claims for certain to know of such a god’s existence. In cosmicism, cosmic knowledge and the attempt to gain such knowledge is arrogance of the highest order. During his lifetime, Lovecraft authored a wealth of cosmic poems and stories from the weird to the terrifying. This emphasis on humanity’s pathetic position at the mercy of the universe is explored in the vast majority of Lovecraft’s works in varying levels of cheek, but it has found its most popular rendition in the “Cthulhu Mythos,” a collective term employed by Lovecraft’s friend and correspondent August Derleth in 1969 to reference the shared style, tenets, and lore created by Lovecraft and continued by his successors (Haefele, 2014). Following his death in 1937, Lovecraft’s mythology expanded with the release of previously unpublished writings and posthumous collaborations with other writers. Derleth’s contribution to the mythology controversially permeated Lovecraft’s worldview with his personal Christian perspective, and many critics consider his developments to be both unsatisfying and distasteful. Derleth somewhat redeemed himself in editing and publishing the first Cthulhu Mythos anthology Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (1969). However, in addition to an array of 190

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stories from successors such as Robert Bloch and Ramsey Campbell, only two of Lovecraft’s original stories were included in this collection: “The Call of Cthulhu” (1928) and “The Haunter of the Dark” (1936). There are several stories which must be added to this canon, as they are the most direct distillations of Lovecraft’s own worldview: “The Dunwich Horror” (1929); “The Whisperer in Darkness” (1931); “At the Mountains of Madness” (1936); “The Shadow Over Innsmouth” (1936); and “The Shadow Out of Time” (1936).4 These stories form the spine of the Cthulhu Mythos: they collectively span Lovecraft’s horrific cosmos—running from science fiction to fantasy and from oceanic depths to the far reaches of space—and serve as perhaps the greatest influence on later works of cosmic horror. Structurally, the Cthulhu Mythos stories are situated in fictional New England towns and feature the Great Old Ones, a terrible extraterrestrial array of timeless all-powerful deities that once ruled the Earth. Now, they lie dormant in outer space— until something, or somebody, wakes them. They exist alongside the Deep Ones, an immortal race of deep-sea humanoids who occasionally surface to reign chaos, serving deities like Dagon and Cthulhu. Of the Great Old Ones, the most infamous is Cthulhu, a colossal dragon-like god with a cephalopodic head that lies in a deep slumber somewhere in the Southeast Pacific. “The Call of Cthulhu” foresees an awesome alignment of the stars that results in Cthulhu awakening and ascending from the depths of the ocean, laying waste upon the Earth. Cthulhu is not, surprisingly, the most powerful or even the central deity of the Mythos. Azathoth is an amoral demon-deity with phenomenal 4 For a complete collection of his works, see Lovecraft (2016).

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cosmic power and is the ruler of the Outer Gods, a pantheon of numerous and varied incarnations of time and space that present as anything from a green flame to a wolf-fiend to a gargantuan amoebic mass. “The Whisperer in Darkness” describes Azathoth as a “monstrous nuclear chaos beyond angled space” (Lovecraft, 2016, p. 762), referring to his position at the center of the universe. “The Haunter of the Dark” goes further in its characterization of the “blind idiot god […] encircled by his flopping horde of mindless and amorphous dancers” (Lovecraft, 2016, p. 1090). Azathoth is without sight and mind, unaware and uncaring. He simply is, a monstrous representation of the atheistic worldview of a causeand-effect existence. These creatures share multiple common threads that, together with thematic elements embroidered into Lovecraft’s narratives, weave a tapestry that bears out irreligious philosophies. The Cthulhu Mythos suggests that reality is illusory. Humankind only perceives the tip of the cosmic iceberg, and it is probably for the best; to look upon what lies beyond our world and under the veil within it is to flirt with insanity. Ignorance truly is bliss in Lovecraft’s literary realm. In the Cthulhu Mythos, humans have been known to accidentally encounter the larger part of this cosmic iceberg from time to time, resulting in sightings of these entities from space. The protagonists of “From Beyond” (1920), for example, toyed around with science and uncovered slithering, maddening horrors beyond belief. Whether by accident or audacity, these encounters are often fatal to any humans who peek behind the cosmic curtain. If not fatal, simply looking upon any of the Outer Ones for the briefest of moments drives the gazer insane, due to the limited comprehension faculties of the human brain. The Cthulhu Mythos, while creature-centric, 192

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does not find its horror in things that go bump in the night. For Lovecraft’s protagonists, the terror is found in the realization that humankind is the ant in the arena. In this cosmic auditorium dwells deities whose very existence belies the subversion of any earthly religious system that humankind’s ego has created. Rather than outright dismiss the Judeo-Christian God that he was raised to worship as a child, Lovecraft opts for gods and monsters as one and the same, which carry no stock in humanity’s success or survival. No higher purpose exists for aspiration; in fact, any deeper intent or meaning behind Cthulhu’s smiting and sparing of humans is beyond the understanding of any human character in these stories. This does not mean that organized religion avoids embracing the mysterious negative space between established truths: the Bible dedicates its entire Book of Job to questioning the inquisitor’s attempts to understand divine events. Taking to task the concept of divine justice, the pious Job endures untold amounts of torment and misfortune at the hands of his god and eventually admits that he cannot possibly fathom God’s agency or methodology within the cosmos. Atheistic cosmology places heavy emphasis on the futility of trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. In his literary works, astronomer Carl Sagan (1980; 1997; 2014) echoes the sentiments of Lovecraft and other atheist minds: unassuming humanity plays out its act on the smallest of stages in the grandest of auditoriums. Thus, any self-important assertions of a central role in the universe, to include divine favoritism, is the height of human conceit. Humanity could inadvertently open portals to worlds other than these as in “At the Mountains of Madness,” or an overzealous mortal could drop the veil between secular reality and a maddening realm of indifferent, omnipotent creatures, as in Lovecraft’s 193

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“From Beyond.” In 1920, the same year that Ernest Rutherford predicted the existence of the neutron, and just a year after John T. Thompson finalized the design of the Thompson submachine (or ‘Tommy’) gun, Lovecraft penned a tale of curiosity and delusion featuring a classic mad-scientist archetype (though the story would not be published until 1934). An anonymous narrator recounts his strange ordeal with a scientist named Dr. Tillinghast, who engineers a wave-releasing device that when placed near a human subject stimulates the pineal gland of their brain to access a heightened cognizance, which allows the subject to perceive previously hidden planes of reality. The narrator bears witness as the cosmic curtain is lifted and bizarre creatures appear. The body count in the building rises until the terrified narrator takes a gun and shoots at the machine, disabling it before passing out. Upon waking, the narrator learns that Tillinghast is the final casualty of the story, having died from a stroke. As with so many science fiction stories before and after “From Beyond,” Tillinghast is what genre authority David J. Skal (1999) calls a “prototype outsider,” serving as “a lightning rod for otherwise unbearable anxieties about the meaning of scientific thinking and the uses and consequences of modern technology” (p. 18). Here, Tillinghast fulfills a simple, personified purpose in a cautionary, pretentious quest for knowledge he is not entitled to seek. Science was once humanity’s buffer against delusion, reducing the unknown—and the religions that exploited it—to a diminishing sand castle of unfamiliarity. Once infused with cosmic horror, that safeguard now inspires “breathless and unexplainable dread” (Lovecraft, 1973, p. 15). In Lovecraft’s world, scientists are largely unhelpful, demonstrating to the audience what they do not want to know: 194

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monstrosity to the point of insanity, should one learn of it. The supernatural does not defy the natural order; it underlines natural order and finds horror in plain and simple truth. The creatures in “From Beyond” are features of the system, not bugs. Cthulhu is neither an anomaly nor a B-movie science experiment gone wrong; it simply is, and always has been. The horrendous entities contained within the Cthulhu Mythos have, and do, exist regardless of human awareness of them. This chaotic readjustment of the status quo positions its fright factor not in any evil, willful contempt of the natural order, but in the amoral, random existence humanity floats around in. Monstrosity is merely an after-effect. The blind idiot god Azathoth is a far cry from the Christian outlook that orients all of Creation around a benevolent and ever-present God. Lovecraft’s horror, and cosmic horror, is negative. Nearly every tentacled protoplasmic horror is brought forth through scientific advancements. The scientific method acts as a catalyst in “From Beyond”; through it, Tillinghast exposes miniscule horrors that have long existed. Likewise, Miskatonic University professor Albert Wilmarth’s investigation uncovers shocking evidence of (and inadvertently converses with) a secretive alien presence in “The Whisperer in the Darkness.” Learned men act as revelators of cosmic truth, and dread follows. With the release of From Beyond in 1986, Gordon provided the standard Hollywood nip-and-tuck that accompanies any medium-crossing adaptation, but Lovecraft’s cosmic horror still endures within. The fearful narrator has been excised from the story, his metaphysical interpretations dispersed through the dialogue of Dr. Crawford Tillinghast (Jeffrey Combs), who is now second-in-command to scientist Dr. Edward Pretorious (Ted Sorel). The cinematic adaptation sees the duo aiming to unleash 195

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and document a sixth sense in the pineal gland through a powerful contraption they call the Resonator. The film opens with the Resonator seemingly killing its creator and driving his associate to madness. Tillinghast is believed to have murdered Pretorius and is evaluated by psychiatrist Dr. Katherine McMichaels (Barbara Crampton) to ascertain whether he is psychologically able to stand trial. In the ensuing investigation, Tillinghast claims that the vibrations of the Resonator allow afflicted subjects to see into a hidden reality within humanity’s continuum, which contains hostile creatures. McMichaels orders a brain scan that reveals Tillinghast’s pineal gland to be enlarged. She decides to run with it and takes both him and a detective, Bubba Brownlee (Ken Foree), back to the scene of the crime to find out what truly happened to Pretorius. They repair the Resonator and, upon turning it on, see the same wriggling creatures that Tillinghast claimed to see before. At this point, a horrifically disfigured Pretorius appears in the house and tells the three guests that he is “…not dead. Just passed beyond,” alluding to another world. From Beyond demonstrates a core precept of cosmicism: a Faustian pact for otherworldly proficiency and power. The quest for enlightenment, whether by people of faith or people of science, is always met with brutal consequence. The formula aligns closely with Lovecraft’s own reasoning regarding the conceit of humanity’s attempts to fathom the unfathomable: “Human thought […] is amusing because of its contradictions, and because of the pompousness with which its possessors try to analyse dogmatically an utterly unknown and unknowable cosmos in which all mankind forms but a transient, negligible atom” (cited in Joshi, 2010, p. 45). The hypervision that the doctors chase after works to underline 196

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two concepts central to Lovecraft’s work: it stresses science’s hand in revealing the greater magnificence of the universe (would the curtain between realities have ever been pulled if not for the Resonator?), and shows gods to be puny while maintaining a dreadful reverence for that same universe. Conventional faiths often headline their respective gods as most awesome, but From Beyond’s worm-like creatures, by the very revelation of their presence, underscore both the universe’s greater inaccessible profundity and humankind’s greater ignorance. From Beyond’s greater ignorance is infused into its characters’ presumptuous search for a higher cognizance. Both Pretorius and McMichaels reference “seeing.” In the opening scenes, Pretorius demands to “see more…more than any man has ever seen!” Similarly, McMichaels justifies succumbing to the Resonator’s dark appeal late in the film with the line, “I have to see more… feel more!” Sight is inextricably linked to discovery in cosmic horror: seeing is believing, which is rooted in sentient feeling. In this sense, cosmicism shares a thread with mysticism. Just as clairvoyance uses the common term ‘second sight’ to describe the unlocking of a previously unseen realm, cosmicism connects ‘seeing’ to a psycho-spiritual apprehension of total cosmic cognizance—for better or worse. However, knowledge does not necessarily bring wisdom in Lovecraft’s world, just exposure and vulnerability. Suddenly, humankind is fragile. Humankind is small. Atheism itself finds nothing fearful in that, but cosmicism has no pleasant way of dealing with such exposure. Instead, it drives the exposed to lunacy. As Lovecraft (2016) states in the opening lines of “The Call of Cthulhu,” “The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents” 197

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(p. 25). The scientists who dare to toy around with the Resonator are promptly given what they desire, to their detriment. From Beyond is certainly not the only film to draw from this well: haughty, power-hungry men have been put in their existential place as early as 1927’s Faust, while 1997’s Lovecraft-in-space horror Event Horizon took the theme literally with its main character gouging out his own eyes, growling, “Where we’re going, we won’t need eyes to see.” The horror is not in ‘seeing’ but in the terrible revelations humankind becomes exposed to: humanity is nothing and cannot be saved. Humankind’s cavalier aspirations to god-like heights have long been a staple of storytelling both religious and secular, but cosmic horror puts a devious spin on the theme that takes the story from Grecian tragedy to grim odyssey. The motifs of external terrors, internal breakdowns, and naïve skeptics are used to serve heavy themes surrounding the desolation and hopelessness of humanity. It is a spoonful of salt in what Lovecraft considered to be a selfishly optimistic spiritual elixir. While not a direct adaptation of any Lovecraft work, In the Mouth of Madness is Lovecraft-referential and adjacent in its unapologetic cosmicism. The third entry in Carpenter’s Apocalypse Trilogy series (after The Thing (1982) and The Prince of Darkness (1987)), the story follows insurance investigator John Trent (Sam Neill), hired by a publisher to locate missing horror author Sutter Cane (Jürgen Prochnow) and recover an unreleased manuscript titled “In the Mouth of Madness.” Cane’s works enjoy immense popularity and a near-rabid fan base. During lunch with a colleague, Trent is attacked by an axe-wielding maniac who asks him beforehand, “Do you read Sutter Cane?” By the time Cane’s publisher Jackson Harglow (Charlton Heston) hires 198

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Trent, it is apparent that the nature of Cane’s novels are similar to various texts in cosmic stories of decades past: upon reading, or ‘seeing,’ Cane’s novels, readers are reported to suffer from hallucinations, aggression, and madness. Cane’s popularity among readers rises with each successive novel, and his audience is simultaneously corrupted, turning mentally and physically monstrous. The aforementioned axe-wielding maniac is revealed to be Cane’s former publisher, who is clearly distressed after reading Cane’s manuscript, with bleeding, sunken eyes. Rioting readers are glimpsed in flurries of violent movement, and a store clerk exhibiting the same sickly, unhinged countenance approaches Trent as he looks for copies of Cane’s past works. Trent’s scrutiny takes him to the small, supposedly fictional New Hampshire town of Hobb’s End, which serves as the setting of Cane’s novels. Accompanied by Cane’s editor Linda (Julie Carmen), Trent experiences a series of strange events from lost time to bizarre sightings. The pair encounter townspeople and places bearing a striking similarity to those found in Cane’s books: the bed-andbreakfast owner is a carbon copy of a murderess in one of Cane’s novels, a painting in the hotel seems to become more distorted and unsettling every time Trent sets eyes upon it, and the town church matches the description in one of Cane’s stories word-forword—an excerpt from Lovecraft’s “Haunter of the Dark.” Ever the skeptic, Trent suspects the entire experience to be a hoax. Linda concedes the original insurance claim was a staged promotion for Cane’s latest book but denies any knowledge of, or participation in, what seems to be a perfect recreation of the fictional Hobb’s End. After the duo is separated, Linda enters the church and finds Cane, who allows her to ‘see’ the final draft of his manuscript. As Danforth does in Lovecraft’s “At the Mountains 199

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of Madness,” and as the unnamed narrator does when he looks upon the Deep Ones in “The Shadow Over Innsmouth,” Linda goes mad when she ‘sees.’ Trent sees more than enough in the town to convince him that he is in danger and attempts to leave Hobb’s End, but the town will not let him escape. He awakens in the church alongside Linda. Amid a crimson, sinewed hallway resembling the inner depths of some horrible creature, Cane emerges from behind his typewriter, having just finished his manuscript. He hands it to Trent for delivery, whimsically quipping, “I’ll be joining my new publishers now.” The publishers appear to be Others, creatures beyond time who lay claim to Earth. Cane reveals he has long been hearing voices that inform his writing. These voices turn out to be the same race of beasts with an unfathomable level of power that includes the ability to bend space and time, blurring fiction and reality. The entities employed Cane as a conduit toward gaining mass influence, embroidering more maddening revelations into every novel. Each new book allows more fans to ‘see’ things that no human can comprehend, resulting in symptoms which older cosmic horror works would simply dub ‘madness.’ Every new reader of Cane’s work further empowers these entities, causing humanity to slowly lose its grip on reality. Cane then drops the bomb: Trent is nothing more than a player on his stage, a character in his plot conjured precisely to deliver “In the Mouth of Madness” to the publisher and catalyze the destruction of the human race. By the end of the film, the plot has succeeded: the radio reports the mass infestation of horrifying creatures and mutated people, resulting in rampant suicides and homicides. Cosmicism abounds in In the Mouth of Madness. On the 200

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surface, the film functions as a fan letter to Lovecraft: his works are reconfigured into the titles of both the film and each of Cane’s novels, and a verbatim excerpt from one of his short stories is read aloud as Cane’s creation. As with From Beyond, creatures from an ethereal elsewhere manage to access Earth via an ambitious human conduit. Cane has committed the classic Faustian pact for power; as an architect of fictional worlds, he willingly acts as a mouthpiece for the creatures in exchange for a promotion to an apocalyptic guiding-hand in the destruction of reality. Upon finishing his manuscript, Cane fashions a gash in the very fabric of reality, allowing the creatures to slip through. The hands that tapped at his humble typewriter are now creators and destroyers of worlds, a literary Oppenheimer aspiring to the magnificent power of the gods: Cane turns to Trent and grins, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m God now.” Cane is not a god who can be bothered to allow for free will among his creations. The post-World War I (1914-18) determinism that Lovecraft embraced in early adulthood (Joshi, 2010) is reflected in Trent’s horrified realization that his entire purpose was to bring the manuscript into the real world, thus jump-starting the apocalypse. Not only is reality a construct wielded by a cold, uncaring hand, but the entire thing rests on Trent’s belief that everything is real. He must believe that he is the best investigator in his firm because of his attention to detail and instinct. This unwavering faith works in tandem with Cane’s typewritten puppet-mastery toward shaping Trent’s perception of reality: because he believes that the fictional town exists, it materializes when he travels there. As Trent quips early in the film, “Reality is not what it used to be.” Those looking for the loving hand of an invested deity to save 201

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the day will not find it in In the Mouth of Madness or any work of cosmic horror. Lovecraft is not coy about his disdain for the happy ending: supernatural literature, he insists, is a legitimate antidote to “naively inspired idealism” that orients the reader toward “smirking optimism” (Lovecraft, 1973, p. 12). The enduring success of the weird horror story rests upon a basic premise that is, on the whole, both “poignant and permanent” (Lovecraft, 1973, p. 12). His work and cosmicism at large is, by nature, desolate and transcendent. In “The Rats in the Walls,” written in 1923 and published in 1924, Lovecraft concedes that cosmic horror does not hold universal appeal. Whereas most readers are concerned with the day-to-day horrors that make up the human experience, it takes a soaring suspension of disbelief to respond to cosmicism’s “rappings from outside” (Lovecraft, 1973, p. 12). Horror master Stephen King (2010) emphasizes its potency in Danse Macabre: And yet it is the concept of outside evil (predestined from a cosmically foreign force) that is larger, more awesome. Lovecraft grasped this, and it is what makes his stories of stupendous, Cyclopean evil so effective when they are good […] The best of them make us feel the size of the universe we hang suspended in, and suggest shadowy forces that could destroy us all if they so much as grunted in their sleep. After all, what is the paltry inside evil of the A-bomb when compared to Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, or Shub-Niggurath, the Goat with a Thousand Young? (p. 65) For his own part, Lovecraft wrote an entire essay on his love for outside evil. In Supernatural Horror in Literature, he writes that 202

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cosmic horror “is a narrow though essential branch of human expression” (Lovecraft, 1973, p. 105). All horror contains the ability to strike a primal nerve, a base fear of the unknown. For those whose fear of the unknown joins in unholy union with the fear of what should not be known, Lovecraft’s body of work is indeed an essential branch of expression. Cosmicism—and by extension atheism—concerns itself with everything and nothing all at once: both the vastness of reality and humankind’s miniscule existence writhe together in a dreadful dance of existentialism. Lovecraft centers this ethos within his works and especially within the literary universe of the Cthulhu Mythos. This borderline-nihilistic philosophical outlook generated enough intensity to permeate later adaptations and films inspired by his literature, as in From Beyond and In the Mouth of Madness. Not only do these films retain the core enlightened realism of Lovecraft’s most beloved stories, they further explore his themes regarding the monstrosity of hubris and the relative precariousness of perceived reality. For atheists, this is an unforgiving truth, but these concepts continue to be a source of horror for both the godless and the god-fearing.

REFERENCES Anderson, P.W.S. (Director). (1997). Event Horizon [Motion picture]. United States: Paramount Pictures. Carpenter, J. (Director). (1982). The Thing [Motion picture]. United States: Universal Pictures. Carpenter, J. (Director). (1987). Prince of Darkness [Motion picture]. United States: Universal Pictures.

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scared sacred Carpenter, J. (Director). (1994). In the Mouth of Madness [Motion picture]. United States: New Line Cinema. Derleth, A. (Ed.). (1969). Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos. Sauk City, WI: Arkham House. Gordon, S. (Director). (1986). From Beyond [Motion picture]. United States: Empire Pictures. Haefele, J.D. (2014). A Look Behind the Derleth Mythos: Origins of the “Cthulhu Mythos”. [n.p.]: The Cimmerian Press. Joshi, S.T. (2010). Against Religion: The Atheist Writings of H.P. Lovecraft. New York, NY: Sporting Gentlemen Inc. King, S. (2010). Danse Macabre. New York, NY: Gallery Books. Lovecraft, H.P. (1973). Supernatural Horror in Literature. New York, NY: Dover Publications. Lovecraft, H.P. (2016). The Complete Fiction of H.P. Lovecraft. New York, NY: Chartwell Books. Machen, A. (2005). The Great God Pan. Rockville, MD: Wildside Press. Murnau, F.W. (Director). (1927). Faust [Motion picture]. Germany & United States: UFA & Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Pizzolatto, N. (Creator). (2014-19). True Detective [Television series]. United States: Warner Bros. Television Distribution. Sagan, C. (1980). Cosmos. New York, NY: Random House. Sagan, C. (1997). Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space. New York, NY & Toronto, Canada: Ballantine Books. Sagan, C. (2014). The Demon-Haunted World. New York, NY: Ballantine Books. Skal, D.J. (1999). Screams of Reason: Mad Science and Modern Culture. London, England & New York, NY: W. W. Norton and Company.

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“NOT EVERYTHING THAT MOVES, BREATHES AND TALKS IS ALIVE”: CHRISTIANITY, KOREAN SHAMANISM AND REINCARNATION IN WHISPERING CORRIDORS (1998) AND THE WAILING (2016) FRAZER LEE

The indigenous religion of Korea is a form of shamanism […] and this continues to this day. (Harvey, 1990, p. 159)

is one of the oldest religious practices in Korea, Shamanism though the region has historically played host to a succession

of religious beliefs as a result of repeated occupation by foreign powers. Over the centuries, this subjugation, in which invading forces instilled oppressive regimes and dominant religious ideologies, meant that the country has seen popular shifts toward Confucianism, Buddhism, Christianity, and, more recently, Islam. Buddhism arrived in Korea from China during the fourth century, leading to the establishment of thousands of temples erected to the faith. Confucianism was adopted by the Joseon Dynasty (1392-1910) as the state religion and was embedded in 207

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Korean culture, becoming an ethical code with a focus on ancestor worship. Like Buddhism, Catholicism and Christianity were Chinese exports to Korea, taking hold during the nineteenth century/late Joseon period. Japanese military occupation during the first half of the twentieth century led to the prominence of Christianity and Buddhism. The Japanese surrendered their military hold at the end of World War II (1939–45), as the Soviet Union occupied and supported the North region and the United States did the same in the South. Korea was officially divided into two states in 1948, resulting in thousands fleeing from the Communist regime in North Korea to South Korea, or the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. This included the majority of Korean Christians. It is difficult to obtain figures for North Korea, which remains an autonomous totalitarian country. In the South, 2015 statistics reveal that 44% of the population practice a recognized religion (Korean Culture and Information Service, n.d.). This chapter explores the historical and cultural tensions between two of these belief systems, shamanism and Christianity, amid the backdrop of this religious melting pot and their representation in South Korean horror cinema. The incessant onslaught of oppressive regimes struggling for a religious foothold has permeated the spiritual atmosphere of South Korea and manifested in the idiosyncratically Korean han. A culturally collective feeling of injustice and powerlessness, han is an expression of, and a reaction to, successive invasions by oppressive supremacies and their attendant religions. This struggle also filtered into the educational sphere, resulting in brutalist school regimes. The imposition of top-down patriarchal, authoritarian structures and their deep conflict with Korean shamanistic tradition is expressed in South Korean horror cinema and 208

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is particularly evident in Yeogo goedam (Whispering Corridors, 1998) and Gokseong (The Wailing, 2016). Whispering Corridors manifests oppressive Christian guilt in the emotional and physical abuse of female school pupils while struggling with traditional female-driven shamanism, while The Wailing presents the necessity of shamanism’s rituals to provide closure for the dead and restore natural order in an idealized rural community setting still haunted by the han of repeated ideological and spiritual occupations by invading cultures. Despite competition from the dominant religions of Christianity and Buddhism, shamanism still thrives in South Korea. By 1983, the region housed approximately 43,000 registered shamanic practitioners, or one for every thousand inhabitants (Guillemoz, 1992, pp. 115-116). The South Korean government has recognized the cultural importance of this practice, distinguishing some practitioners as Intangible National Treasures, a designation existing in several countries which identifies “individuals who hold the highest skills in an aspect of the cultural heritage of a people” (Grant, 2016). This distinction allows mudang (the Korean word for ‘shaman’) to operate as freelance workers and grants them the freedom to earn a living via the practice of shamanism (Kister, 2004, p. 681). Definitive research into the origin of Korean shamanism is difficult, though it does appear to have roots in a new year’s ritual called Welcoming the Drum, first recorded in the third century CE (Kister, 2004). This ritual involved several days’ drinking, feasting, dancing, and singing, culminating in the sacrifice of an ox and divination using its hooves (Kister, 2006). Figurative myths explaining the origins of the shaman imply that they are intermediaries of gods, spirits, or demons, and historical records 209

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show that the practice was traditionally reserved for royal prophets (Kim cited in Kister, 2004). Modern practitioners are predominantly female and the role of the Korean shaman is often passed down from mother to daughter. The shaman is traditionally believed to have been born into the lower classes of society, and these myths acknowledge that the figure has forgotten her divine, or even royal, nature (Lee, 1981). The Korean shaman must learn emotional intelligence in order to heal her community. As Chungmoo Choi (1987) identifies, “In order for a shaman to produce the intended effect of a shamanic ritual, she needs both spiritual power (yonghom) and social sensitivity (nunch’i)” (pp. 143-144). The ritual itself is “an endeavor to make sense of human experiences and articulate them in a traditional form of artistic communication” (Choi, 1987, pp. 143-144). In contrast to other forms of shamanic practice, such as the vision questing of Siberian shamanism or the totemic animal-guides of South American shamans, the mudang function as a conduit for gods and spirits, who elect to speak through the shaman via complex rituals involving theatrical performance and role play. The shaman is a revered figure in society, but all practitioners must face a contradiction. In order to become a mudang, the adept must first contract the shinbyeong (‘spirit illness’) that allows contact with the divine. The symptoms of this illness manifest as hallucinatory contact with spirits and gods, combined with loss of appetite and physical weakness. Recovery from the shinbyeong can only be achieved if the sufferer accepts the spirit into their daily life and embarks upon the path of the mudang via gangshinje, an initiation rite during which the individual accepts the spirit into her body, which in turn grants her shamanic powers (Garrigues, 2019). Once on the path to 210

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becoming a mudang, she must then endure the subsequent social isolation associated with the role.

THE SHAMANIC FIGURE IN WHISPERING CORRIDORS Social exclusion as a result of this spiritual responsibility is a predominant theme in Park Ki-hyung’s Whispering Corridors. The original Korean title translates to ‘Girls High School Ghost Story’ and the isolated, authoritarian high school is an effective setting for the kuel-dam—a traditional narrative in which a troubled ghost is unable to move on, stuck in a torturous limbo informed by past sins or tragedy (Black, 2003, p. 192). Mrs. Park (Lee Yongnyeo), a teacher nicknamed ‘Old Fox,’ dies mysteriously before she manages to complete a telephoned warning to teacher and former pupil Miss Hur (Lee Mi-yeon) about the identity of the ghost haunting the school, leaving student Ji-oh (Kim Gyu-ri) and her fellow schoolgirls at the mercy of patriarchal, controlling teacher Mr. ‘Mad Dog’ Oh (Park Yong-soo). The ‘whodunnit’ structure is simple and well-executed, with the active question of the ghost’s identity holding the audience’s attention throughout. Ji-oh and Miss Hur discover that the ghost of former pupil Jin-ju (Choi Se-yeon) has been returning to the school each year in the guise of a new pupil. When they promise Jin-ju that they will never forget her, the ghost is able to move on. The Korean shaman figure is present in the narrative from the outset, with Mad Dog bullying Ji-oh because she is the child of a shaman woman (Black, 2003). He insinuates that Ji-oh’s perceived academic inadequacies stem from her shamanic lineage, a viewpoint that is as sexist as it is religiously intolerant. This belief is reflected socially by Ji-oh’s classmates, who 211

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describe her as “nothing special, apart from her ability to call the spirits.” Ji-oh’s peers seek to misuse this ability for their own cynical aims, divination of their final grades, before dismissing her gift as merely an attention-seeking device. Mad Dog’s cruelty toward Ji-oh crushes her self-confidence, and, when he dies, she wonders if her shamanic heritage is somehow to blame. Mudangs find themselves at the lower end of the social spectrum due to the reclusion required as part of their faith. They are known to make a fairly easy living from their duties, with families paying fees in return for rituals (‘kut’). The kut can have many variations, depending upon the specific purpose of the ritual, but typically involves dramatized exchanges between human participants and spirits or deities, framed by the communal ecstasy of music and song. As Daniel Kister (2006) observes, ‘kut segments often begin, not with “Let us pray,” but “Let’s play”’ (p. 157). In Whispering Corridors, the experiences and performances of the characters mirror the style of the shamanic kut. Events at the school are being replayed, reflecting the primary purpose of the kut—a theatrical performance of the spirit’s life story or parables from the stories of the gods which give closure to those who have suffered and may wish to move on. One such ritual can involve a lonely spirit haunting a family, with the shaman marrying the spirit to another deceased villager to help them both find peace and depart; the ensuing kut includes dolls of the two spirits to help the participants visualize their bonding in the hereafter (Kister, 2004). A strong visual signifier binding the players together in Whispering Corridors is Ji-oh’s pair of silver bells, identical to a gift given to Miss Hur by student Jin-ju; Jin-ju’s mother was a shaman, just like Ji-oh’s. Bells, whistles, and other simple instruments are a vital 212

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part of the Korean shaman’s rituals, with many kut performances driven by the steady beat of a drum. Vocal performance is used to strong effect in the second and fourth films in the Whispering Corridors series, Kim Tae-yong and Min Kyu-dong’s Yeogo goedam II (Memento Mori, 1999) and Choi Ik-hwan’s Yeogo goedam 4: Moksori (Voice, 2005). In Memento Mori, the taboo-breaking lesbian couple communicate telepathically due to muteness; their state of otherness—spiritual and sexual—results in them being cut off from one of the five senses, and they develop spiritual methods to communicate. Like the experience and practice of the Korean shaman, their social isolation informs their spiritual transference, which in turn only serves to enhance their spirit-power. Similarly, Voice explores connectivity to the spirit realm via the central dramatic conceit that only a schoolgirl can hear the lingering voice of her best friend, who is presumed missing but is in fact dead and haunting the school building. In one particularly eerie and effective sequence, the girl hears her dead friend’s voice during a live broadcast on the school radio. She then suffers derision and social exclusion from her peers similar to that of the shamanic experience; she, like a mudang, is the only one in her school/community who can converse with the dead. The haunting of the young female pupil becomes indistinguishable from the spirit illness contracted by young female shamans. She becomes physically weakened by her hallucinatory contact with the spirit world. The ritual drumming used by the mudang to access the spirit world is here represented by the communal singing of the classmates in music class. And, just as the shaman uses ritual to play out the past in order to heal the present and future, so too must the schoolgirl protagonist of the Whispering Corridors films. Like drumming and vocal performance, artworks, including 213

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sculptures, paintings, and even figurines or dolls representing the spirits and dominant character traits of ancestors, are common components of the Korean shaman’s ritual presentations. In Whispering Corridors, Miss Hur finds Ji-oh working at a canvas in the abandoned art room. Ji-oh feels compelled to create an artwork depicting Old Fox’s death in order to process the event emotionally and psychologically. The art room where Ji-oh works is the same room in which Jin-ju committed suicide, a metaphor for the danger of engaging in the freedom of creative expression under a brutal educational regime. The female lead characters in the Whispering Corridors films are connected spiritually and find expression through art and music, much like their shamanic matriarchs. This positions them in opposition to Mad Dog’s patriarchal regime of “divide and rule,” a worldview in which he celebrates only academic excellence in math and the sciences, denigrates the arts, and victimizes femininity. He sexually harasses and openly despises his charges, and his autocracy over his students runs rampant following Old Fox’s death. Mad Dog likens their twelfth year at school to warfare, in which they are fighting against each other and their own weaknesses. In one particularly explosive tirade, he destroys Ji-oh’s artwork and punishes her for the act of making it, calling into question once again her parents’ influence upon what he sees as her degeneracy. Mad Dog’s classroom is akin to the strict environment of the Catholic girls’ school commonly found in Gothic fiction and horror films such as Norifumi Suzuki’s Seijū gakuen (School of the Holy Beast, 1974), Andrew Fleming’s The Craft (1996), and Lucky McKee’s boarding school-set The Woods (2006). The controlling patriarchs roaming the corridors of these fictional institutions rule over their inmates with strict study schedules 214

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and disciplinary practices such as caning and public humiliation that border on the perverse. In flashback, Old Fox dishes out the same brand of corporal punishment to her charges, drawing blood with her cane, but Mad Dog’s position is one of entrenched anti-shamanism. His character shares the critical view of psychological anthropologist Anthony F.C. Wallace (1997), who asserts, “the potential shaman is a very sick human being, suffering from serious mental and physical disorders which spring from or involve profound identity conflict” while also arguing that primitive societies reward such “psychotics” with socially sanctioned roles, such as the village healer (cited in Glazier, 1997, p. 454). Mad Dog’s cries of “degenerate” certainly hold with this world view, and his school of hard knocks approach is, to him, entirely justified. However, Mad Dog misses the point, which proves his undoing. From a shamanic perspective, Jin-ju’s haunting is a necessary evil. She is in essence “a vengeful ghost in the family whose presence needs to be dramatized” (Choi, 1987, pp. 143-144). In shamanic communities, “Well-refined and sophisticated artistic skills are believed to be god-given and thus, a sign of numinosity” (Choi, 1987, pp. 143-144). Aspects perceived as weaknesses by the Korean high school patriarchy, represented so vividly by Mad Dog’s character, form the keystone of shamanic practice and healing procedures. The misogynistic, bullying teacher perceives weakness in his artistic charges, but the enlightenment offered by the attitude of the mudang means that shamanism triumphs. Mad Dog represents the enforced, invading belief system of Christian guilt, with Ji-oh an embodiment of the progressive shamanic tradition. On a larger scale, from the high school to South Korean society at large, Whispering Corridors shows that the traditions 215

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of shamanism will always provide the spiritual nourishment needed by a people reeling from the post-colonial effects of han and the imposed doctrine of a Catholic school education system. Mad Dog’s cruelties do not go unnoticed—or unpunished—by the vengeful spirit haunting the eponymous corridors. His violent end leaves Mad Dog with a severed ear, a blatant Vincent Willem van Gogh reference that also symbolizes his closed-minded lack of duty of care for his pupils. Mad Dog’s death becomes a form of artistic revenge, painted in the most vivid scarlet hues, a color motif that director Park deploys throughout the film to foreshadow danger, unfinished business, and impending death. This explosion of color, accentuated by a dramatic soundtrack, references the visceral qualities of the kut with its flags and colorful robes, along with its use of chanting and drumming. Mad Dog becomes the sacrificial ox in a ritualistic performance welcoming a new era of freedom via shamanistic self-expression. This sanguinary motif is established in the opening minutes of Whispering Corridors, when blood spots appear on the yearbook that unlocks the secret for Old Fox, and blood also drips onto the desk bearing the graffiti with Jin-ju’s initials. During the film’s climax, the walls flow with luridly-hued blood, as Jin-ju holds the fabric of the school in her vengeful, supernatural grasp. Parallels with earlier Western horror films are many, such as the prom-turned-bloodbath of Brian De Palma’s Carrie (1976), based on Stephen King’s debut novel from 1974, and the gushing elevator shaft in Stanley Kubrick’s 1980 film adaptation of King’s The Shining (1977). Blood as provocation and protest also features memorably in William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973), with Regan (Linda Blair), in the throes of demonic possession by the demon Pazuzu, penetrating herself with a crucifix while 216

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uttering blasphemies and staining her white nightdress with blood. Whispering Corridors offers quieter horror than any of the above examples, though it was still subject to an attempted ban by the Korean National Teachers’ Association (Black, 2003). The unsuccessful ban backfired and fueled publicity for the film, which subsequently became a box office hit (Black, 2003). Whereas the full-blooded cinema of Carrie and The Exorcist examines female characters becoming vengeful women possessed by telekinetic powers or by Old Testament demons, the subtler approach of Whispering Corridors reveals the Buddhist concepts that remain at the heart of South Korean religion and culture. Most prominent of all is the Buddhist concept of rebirth, which replaces the Christian concept of eternal damnation for sinners with a more layered belief system allowing for a wider range of outcomes: “In South Korea, Buddhism remains in a Westernized and rapidly modernizing society, along with Confucianism, Taoism and the native Shamanism” (Harvey, 1990, p. 283). Buddhist belief hinges on each being going through a series of rebirths as animals, humans, gods, and ghosts via their allotted realms. In Buddhist belief, the lotus flower represents rebirth as reincarnation and the continuation of an individual into another state of being. In Korean shamanism, ‘the dead are imagined as crossing to the “other shore,” which presumes a horizontal, not vertical schema of the world’ (Kister, 2004, p. 687). The baptismal waters of Christianity allow worshippers to be reborn, or Born Again, as devotees of Christ, their savior. Whereas the characters of Carrie White (Sissy Spacek) and Regan must be absolved by the Holy waters of the Christian faith, the women and girls in the Whispering Corridors films must learn to channel the concepts

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of life, death, and rebirth in order to become the religious figureheads (the mudang) in their communities.

WET FOOTPRINTS: REINCARNATION AND REBIRTH IN WHISPERING CORRIDORS In the opening scene of Whispering Corridors, shortly before her grisly death, a terrified Old Fox tells Miss Hur over the telephone that Jin-ju is “Definitely dead, but she has always been here.” The first sighting of the vengeful ghost reveals Jin-ju walking barefoot through puddles of reflective water outside the school at night, on her way to settle the score with Old Fox. The image provides a parallel with the Christian concept of walking on water, suggesting Jin-ju is a divine messenger returning to the mortal world to teach humanity the error of its ways. Water and reflective imagery are prominent throughout later installments in the Whispering Corridors series. For example, water is used in Voice to symbolize the elemental intersection between the worlds of the living and the departed via dripping pipes in the basement boiler room where the shamanic school girl speaks to the ghost of her best friend. In this respect, Jin-ju comes from the realm of the peta, a Buddhist term relating to the departed. Petas are perceived to be “frustrated ghostly beings who frequent the human world due to their strong earthly attachments, not unlike the ghosts of Western literature” (Harvey, 1990, p. 33). In Christianity, ghosts are often represented as being trapped on the earthly plane, stuck in limbo between Heaven and Hell—a purgatorial hierarchy that speaks of the ghost’s decisions in life and how this may inform their final spiritual destination. 218

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In traditional Christianity, if one repents their sins, these sins may be forgiven, more or less guaranteeing a place in Heaven. The Buddhist concept of rebirth explodes the birth, life, death, afterlife (or damnation to Hell) life-cycle structure of Christianity. In Buddhism, “each being has been an animal, ghost, hell-being and god in the past” (Harvey, 1990, p. 38), passing through each of the realms at some stage of the Buddhist journey. John Snelling (1991) makes a useful analogy of the film reel, suggesting that life is “made up of individual frames, each slightly different from the next. As the film is run through a projector, however, the frames blend into each other and the illusion of flow is created. Our fascination with the ongoing drama obscures the true nature of what is happening” (p. 60). In contrast to Buddhism, the ghost of South Korean shamanism, by definition, matches that of Christianity: the tortured individual trapped in a repeating pattern of behavior, unable or unwilling to move on. Only lessons learned in ensuing rebirths will allow the ghost to escape this realm. This description matches Jin-ju in Whispering Corridors, who states that she has killed out of a need to love and be loved. Having experienced cruelties in life, she is trapped within them in death, taking on the guise of a student to seek companionship and avenge herself against the teachers who turned her classmates against her. The performer of the kut and the film itself become as one in Whispering Corridors, with the act of rebirth presented as a triumphant piece of performance art. Jin-ju channels the spirit (of her past lives) in much the same way the shaman channels spirits in a performance. The character of the new pupil that Jin-ju plays, with all the attendant emotional trauma from echoing past events, reflects the experience of the mudang. Just as the shaman absorbs 219

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the spirit illness that in turn gives her power in her community, so too does Jin-ju in her repeated performances. By the end of Whispering Corridors, the school community represented by Ji-oh and Miss Hur becomes transformed by its interaction with the spirit world in the form of Jin-ju’s ghostly visitation. Each plays her part in the dramatized ritual of a schoolgirl seeking forgiveness, sharing the unfolding trauma. Despite establishing a defined trajectory for emotional progression via shared trauma, Korean shamanism is less clear-cut than Christianity in its hierarchies of life, death, and the hereafter. Korean shamanism “has no clear notion of the cosmos. It partly reflects the classic shamanist schema of a world divided into the plane of the spirits above and that of man below” (Eliade cited in Kister, 2004, p. 687). Further, Korean shamanic “death rites focus on the passage through death, not on what lies beyond” (Kister, 2004, p. 687). This lack of clarity creates spiritual confusion but also provokes those sensitive to the potential closure offered by participation in shamanic ritual to subscribe to the shadow-play of the kut. This aspect of shamanism is brilliantly echoed in the closing moments of Whispering Corridors, when Miss Hur and Ji-oh confront Jin-ju’s ghost. In forgiving the sins she has committed and persuading Jin-ju to move on to the afterlife, the teacher and surviving pupil embody the shaman role in their non-judgemental, emotionally intuitive, and therapeutic approach to negotiations with her spirit. Past and present play out in the dramatic narrative; Miss Hur and Ji-oh’s shamanic ritual performance, or kut, addresses the ghost of the past by placing her in the context of the current predicament. Parallel to a village ritual in which a shaman will use emotional intelligence to heal a family’s problems, the family unit in Whispering Corridors is the school 220

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year-group. The healing is successful and Jin-ju is free to move on because the shamanic figures of Miss Hur and Ji-oh have achieved social sensitivity to understand and forgive her violent actions. As Kister (2004) describes, “Kut manifest little concern about sin or guilt. Forces of impurity threaten life whether or not one is guilty, and the Kop-uri [the Rite] promises release whether or not one repents of one’s sinful actions” (p. 687). Being a horror film, however, the obligatory sequel beckons; in a coda, the ghost of another pupil readies to take Jin-ju’s place in class next semester, and the cycle of death, limbo, and rebirth continues throughout the Whispering Corridors series.

GOOD, EVIL AND THE SHAMAN FIGURE IN THE WAILING These aspects of Korean shamanism are explored in Na Hongjin’s The Wailing. Police detective Jong-goo (Kwak Do-won) and his family hire a shaman to remedy the possession of their only daughter by an evil that grips their village, passing from household to household. A strange disease presents itself in the form of a rash, swiftly followed by outbreaks of homicidal rage. Once the infected villager has murdered their family, they fall into a zombie-like stupor and succumb to a torturous death. As the bodies begin to stack up, the prime suspect becomes a Japanese recluse (Jun Kunimura) who lives in shamanic social exclusion on the hillside. Jong-goo’s investigation leads his partner Oh Sung-bok (Son Kang-gook) to a secret altar room, complete with photographs of dead villagers and animal totems. When his partner reveals that he found one of Jong-goo’s daughter’s shoes among the personal effects, Jong-goo returns with a Christian deacon 221

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(Kim Do-yoon), who translates between Japanese and Korean, to confront and interrogate the Japanese stranger. He finds that the stranger has removed the altar and all of the photos and belongings. Frustration at the stranger’s stoic denial boils over into rage. Jong-goo’s aggression provokes the stranger’s guard dog to attack, and he kills it in self-defense. The symbolism of the dog is twofold: a hound of hell archetype, straining at the leash to attack the righteous cop and his holy man, the snarling creature also functions as a threshold guardian from the classically established ‘hero’s journey’ mythic storytelling structures of Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces (2008) and Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey (2007). The idyllic rural South Korean community faces threats on all sides—an unholy trinity of demonized immigration, satanic ritual, and Jong-goo’s own self-doubts in his role as protector. The imported evil in The Wailing may or may not have the Japanese stranger as its source, with Hyo-jin (Kim Hwan-hee), Jong-goo’s daughter, the latest innocent victim. Similar to the narrative of Whispering Corridors, this active question provides the ‘whodunnit’ structure and duality of The Wailing’s religious and cultural tensions. Jong-goo, stuck between the world of the rational (his policing) and faith (shamanism), with his daughter’s safety in the balance, teams with the inexperienced junior deacon to face the devil figure. This demon manifests in the rural community’s distrust of outsiders, with the Japanese stranger echoing the han resulting in part from Japan’s prior occupation of the region, when Koreans were expected to adopt Japanese surnames and to learn and speak Japanese in school and daily life. Jong-goo’s disturbing nightmare sequences show the stranger as a bestial creature, feasting on raw animal flesh in the woods. The film reveals 222

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a process of projection by which the villagers cast the stranger as a devil, with him ultimately becoming that devil. The Christian deacon acts as a filter for the community’s collective han, first translating for Jong-goo when he interrogates the stranger, and then conversing with the demonic stranger in a cave. By looking inward, represented by the journey into the cave, the deacon has translated the community’s xenophobia into a self-fulfilling prophecy. The demon exists while the community fails to heal itself—a failure informed by its inability to trust in shamanic ritual healing to put the past to rest. In The Wailing, the good versus evil morality of Christianity is again at odds with the progressive and exploratory practices of shamanism, a dynamic that reveals a stark contrast between the two religions. An accepted commonality in shamanism involves the shaman and/or a family member becoming possessed by ancestor spirits who speak through them. In Christianity, the possession of a living person is seen as an abomination—one that must be cast out. Shamanism has a different goal: instead of simply casting out, the shaman helps the spirit move on. Kister (2004) writes, “Korean shamanist believers seek contact with the gods and spirits not as an end in itself, but as a means to deal with painful anxieties and evil tangles. Kut envision evil as an impure, binding force that threatens human life” (p. 687). This shamanic path is akin to group therapy, whereas the Catholic exorcism ritual is by comparison a form of pest control. The female shamanic tradition is subverted by the male shaman character of Il-gwang (Hwang Jung-min), who has a rock-star persona similar to that of a reality television ghost-hunter or televangelist. His arrival heralds the traditional sequence of shamanic investigation and ritual performance, clashing with the changing 223

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culture. Jong-goo is told by the women in the household that only the shaman will be able to heal Hyo-jin, but his self-defined role as father-protector and his police procedural investigation often conflict with this directive. The source of the strange illness sweeping the village is suspected to be a herbal remedy, setting Jong-goo at odds with the holistic world. After sex, Jong-goo asks his wife (Jang So-yeon) to buy him some herbal supplements in order to maintain his virility, tempting fate in doing so. The clash reflects the changing culture, as some Korean shamanic rituals “bring out a tension between the villagers’ religious belief and a keen Korean sense of skeptical realism” (Kister, 2004, p. 684). Jong-goo wants to believe in the power of herbal medicine to make him more virile, but this simple belief is later subverted when a news report blames the pills for the fatal illness affecting the village. In this story, blind faith can become an act of societal self-harm. Eventually, Jong-goo succumbs to the shaman’s rituals over his rational attempts to solve the problem, unable to cope with the disturbing personality change within his young daughter. Il-gwang’s nunch’i, or the ability to read moods, is ultimately presented as a cynical process in The Wailing—more sham than shamanism. The shaman’s paid ‘investigation’ of the possessed girl leads him to a dead bird in the sauce fermenting pot. Upon the final twist reveal, the shaman is inferred to have purposefully planted the bird, setting the evil in action and affording him credibility to do his dirty work in league with the demon. In the South Korean kut, “the shaman enters a shamanic state, and after a sometimes lengthy period of drumming and chanting, and often journeying to other worlds, spirits are allowed to enter the shaman’s body and talk with those attending the ceremony” (Glazier, 1997, p. 443). Il-gwang’s kut, ostensibly to cast the evil 224

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out of Hyo-jin, is a ruse rather than the channeling of spiritual truth. He appears to be dancing and ritualizing to help her, but the opposite is true. Rather than the nunch’i of social sensitivity, this disingenuous male shaman offers an act of social subterfuge. This deliberately undermines the principle behind the maturing of a shaman in South Korea. Traditionally, the shaman will “tailor rituals to individual needs, thereby earning them efficacy. This is what sustains a shaman’s reputation and establishes her profession” (Choi, 2003, p. 172). In The Wailing, the shaman instead learns how to manipulate the families in order to guide them toward making the fatal interjection that allows the souls to be devoured by his demonic accomplice. The photographs from the secret altar room are glimpsed in the back of the shaman’s car when he makes his hasty escape—presumably to the next village and his next unwitting victims. It is traditionally acknowledged that “‘The older a shaman grows, the more powerful she becomes’” (Oksun cited in Choi, 2003, p. 172); in this case, this power is in conflict with the shaman-entrepreneur’s overwhelming temptation to pervert spiritual intentions to satisfy his greed. Il-gwang’s base motivation appears to be the accumulation of wealth, a subversion of the genuine living earned by most shamans via their close and respected interactions with communities in need. In The Wailing’s arguably most effective sequence, Na juxtaposes the community ritual at Jong-goo’s house with that of the Japanese stranger at his cabin. This visual sleight of hand manipulates the audience into thinking that Il-gwang’s ritual is an attack on the Japanese demon, with the stranger using ritual animal sacrifice and counter-chanting to defend himself and his evil. However, another character is glimpsed on the hillside near 225

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the stranger’s cabin during the two rituals—a mysterious woman in white, Moo-myeong (Chun Woo-hee). She is the true shaman figure in The Wailing, launching a psychic attack on the demon to prevent him from doing further harm. In this regard, Na reinforces the importance and authenticity of the female shaman in Korean culture; Moo-myeong is the only religious figure who can be fully trusted and relied upon, as even the deacon is conflicted in the cave when he faces the demon. Yet, Jong-goo’s inability to trust in Moo-myeong, and therefore his lack of faith in traditional ritual practice, leads to destruction. As Il-gwang’s ritual plays out, rising in intensity, Jong-goo loses his faith in tradition and interrupts the shaman, unable to bear witness to his child’s agony. Jong-goo behaves as predicted, or at least hoped for, by the evil forces at work in his community. Hyo-jin, however, appears to be back to normal. In an emotional reunion at the hospital, Jong-goo holds her tight and weeps, tragically foreshadowing their final moments together. Jong-goo is ignorant of the real forces at work in his village and blissfully unaware that his daughter will not be herself for much longer. This scene provides an emotional counterpoint to an earlier, comedic scene in which his daughter interrupts her parents during their lovemaking in the family car—the only place they (mistakenly) believe they can be intimate.

HUMOR AND HORROR IN THE WAILING In The Wailing, humor is more than a narrative technique, demonstrating one of the core aspects of Korean shamanism. As Kister (2004) observes, “While taking their gods quite seriously, 226

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Korean believers have an innate urge to turn everything into a joke” (p. 688). The Wailing itself becomes a 150-minute kut, taking audiences on a rollercoaster ride of fear, dread, and intensity of emotion from all points along the spectrum to learn its spiritual lessons. Jong-goo is forced by the women of the house to eat breakfast, thus making him arrive late to a murder scene, and he is told after having intercourse with his wife to climb off as he is too heavy. Their intimate act takes place on the backseat of their car, as they do not have any privacy in their home with the permanent fixture of the grandmother. The fight between Jong-goo’s ragtag posse and the shuffling, murderous dead at the Japanese stranger’s shack plays out into farcical slapstick. During The Wailing’s screen time, there are as many belly laughs as there are screams of terror. Na’s film playfully suggests that the central shamanic figure of Moo-myeong is angelic, using this inference to create tension when Jong-goo must decide if he believes she is good or evil. Their first meeting is, superficially, pure slapstick, with Moo-myeong throwing rocks in front of Jong-goo as he waits at the roadside. The encounter’s deeper meaning may be an interpretation of the biblical lesson about being without sin and casting the first stone. If the visual subtext holds true, Moo-myeong is entirely without sin and a Christian reading of The Wailing might lead to the conclusion that she is an angel. When the Japanese man tumbles into the path of Jong-goo’s van, the implication is that he has been literally and figuratively banished from the mountain top. Moo-myeong has cast the devil out for now, but, as she reminds the police officer later, “death cannot touch him.” A Buddhist reading might position Moo-myeong as a reincarnated god, watching over the villagers and attempting to protect 227

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them from evil forces within and outside their community. While these readings do make a compelling argument that The Wailing functions as an interfaith horror narrative, Moo-myeong’s character is overwhelmingly portrayed as a socially excluded, angelic madwoman of the village—in effect, a Korean shaman. Jong-goo berates Moo-myeong, shouting that someone will get hurt if she keeps throwing stones and in doing so misses the point entirely. She shows him the true face of the devil in the hanged woman’s burnt-out home, and when she later reminds him of this he dismisses it as a dream. The fatal significance of his misunderstandings is revealed later when she gives him his final choice: to rush home to interfere and hurt his family or to trust in her good intentions and to leave them to face their fate under her protection. Again, he misinterprets the signs. Seeing that Moo-myeong is wearing personal effects of some of the victims, including—crucially—his daughter’s hair-clip, he believes her to be the demon. Jong-goo is trapped at the intersection of competing faiths in his village. The deacon takes him to see the old father at his church, and the elder immediately casts doubt on shamanism, asking Jong-goo how he can believe in the Japanese man’s guilt without witnessing something with his own eyes. He also speaks about a rumor that the Japanese man is a Buddhist monk, subtly questioning the authenticity of the Buddhist faith. He then squares the circle by advising Jong-goo to trust in modern medicine and the hospital to save Hyo-jin, adding, “There’s nothing the church can do for you now.” The mirror for this sentiment arrives at the climax of the film, with Jong-goo unable to trust his instincts about what to believe. He angrily demands that Moo-myeong tell him what she really is, and she simply states 228

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that she is a woman who wants to save his daughter. Il-gwang calls Jong-goo’s cell phone during this confrontation and tells him not to trust Moo-myeong, as she is the demon. In the demon’s cave, the Japanese stranger asks the deacon, “Why do you still doubt?” before revealing his true form. As Jong-goo flees from Moo-myeong, he reverts to the only archetype that he truly knows: the father-protector clad in a police uniform. As he crosses the threshold of his family home, Moo-myeong’s garlands wither and die, just like the ones he investigated at the opening murder scene. His daughter awaits, having murdered her mother and grandmother with a knife. The evil pattern is doomed to repeat, as Moo-myeong’s shamanistic protection spell—meant for the corrupt shaman and his demon— is broken by Jong-goo. As Jong-goo lies bleeding, his infected and catatonic daughter slumped and covered in blood on the doorstep, Il-gwang returns to photograph the victims. The false shaman carries the photos of the dead in a box in the trunk of his car, showing that Moo-myeong had spoken the truth all along: Il-gwang and the demon are “in it together.” This ending could be interpreted as a karmic outcome for Jonggoo: “What determines the nature of a karmic ‘seed’ is the will or intention behind an act […] Actions, then, must be intentional if they are to generate karmic fruits” (Harvey, 1990, p. 40). Christian morality, shamanic free will, and Buddhist karma are in conflict within Jong-goo throughout his tragic character journey. His character embodies the han of his society, as he struggles to accommodate the differing belief systems of his country and proves himself unable to trust in the pre-occupation tradition of shamanism in order to move beyond the han itself. In The Wailing, the demon uses the karmic efforts of Jong-goo against 229

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him; here, evil manipulates the good intentions of an individual because the good father does not trust in the truth of the female shaman. In this reading, Korean shamanism once again overrides the other belief systems, embodied by the socially excluded ‘mad woman of the village.’ Another reading of The Wailing is that Il-gwang is merely doing his job as an agent of a higher power—restoring balance via a ledger of souls to be devoured by the darkness or rescued by the light. He plays his part via the kut, but the outcome is up to the villagers and their choices. As Stephen D. Glazier (1997) suggests, “It is the shaman’s joy to restore balance” (p. 437); Moo-myeong appears utterly distraught when Jong-goo makes his choice, despite her best efforts to guide him toward a better one for his family. The crucial leap of faith required by Jong-goo to trust in the healing process of the shaman’s kut is at odds with the concepts of Christian damnation and Buddhist rebirth. The Wailing seeks to reaffirm the pivotal role of the shaman in Korean society, represented by Moo-myeong, while confronting opposition by Christianity—as seen in the deacon’s inability to make a leap of faith about the identity of the demon that is harming the village. Just as Ji-oh is labeled the crazy girl in the classroom in Whispering Corridors, Moo-myeong is the madwoman of the village in The Wailing. Only by accepting the shamanic woman, and the healing power of her kut, can the characters in these films thrive. The Wailing references Christianity, Buddhism, and shamanism in the difficult choices and ultimate failures made by Jong-goo across its narrative structure and in its symbolic image system of ritual altars, lightning strikes, and the casting of stones. The family’s need to turn to a shaman to heal their daughter demonstrates a spiritual lack in the Christian and Buddhist 230

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faiths that only shamanism can address. The course and function of healing is shown to belong to traditional shamanism and its kut, which is as performative as the act of storytelling deployed by scriptwriters and filmmakers. The horror narratives of Whispering Corridors and The Wailing share aspects of the Korean shaman’s kut, establishing and investigating family histories and human relationships before presenting dramatic portrayals of the traumas that can break them apart. The resolution of a horror tale, as with that of a shamanic ritual, sees tragedies doomed to be repeated until life lessons are learned. Is this not the purpose of a horror film—to heal via an often-playful exploration of trauma? Ernst Cassirer (1955) writes, “At some time in its history, Korean shamanism attained the kind of mature religious vision that exists when a people recognize that the gods they worship do not provide an answer for everything” (p. 139). Perhaps the purpose of horror narratives such as Whispering Corridors and The Wailing lies in maintaining that all things, both earthly and supernatural, are open to emotionally intelligent interpretation—and that humanity’s deities do not have all the answers we seek.

REFERENCES Black, A. (2003). Coming of Age: The South Korean Horror Film. In S.J. Schneider (Ed.), Fear Without Frontiers: Horror Cinema Across the Globe. Surrey, England: FAB Press. Campbell, J. (2008). The Hero with a Thousand Faces (3rd Edition). Novato, CA: New World Library. Cassirer, E. (1955). The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms: Mythical Thought (R. Manheim, Trans.). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

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scared sacred Choi, C. (1987). The Competence of Korean Shamans as Performers of Folklore. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University. Choi, C. (2003). The Artistry and Ritual Aesthethics of Urban Korean Shamans. In G. Harvey (Ed.), Shamanism: A Reader. London, England & New York, NY: Routledge. Choi, I. (Director). (2005). Yeogo goedam 4: Moksori [Voice; motion picture]. South Korea: Cinema Service. De Palma, B. (Director). (1976). Carrie [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists. Fleming, A. (Director). (1996). The Craft [Motion picture]. United States: Columbia Pictures. Friedkin, W. (Director). (1973). The Exorcist [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Garrigues, S. (2019). General Characteristics of Shamanism. Korean Shamanism. Retrieved from http://shamanism.sgarrigues.net Glazier, S.D. (1997). Anthropology of Religion: A Handbook. Westport, CT & London, England: Praeger. Grant, C. (2016). Music Sustainability: Strategies and Interventions. In H. Schippers & C. Grant (Eds.), Sustainable Futures for Music Cultures: An Ecological Perspective. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Guillemoz, A. (1992). Seoul, the Widow, and the Mudang: Transformations of Urban Korean Shamanism. Diogenes, 40(158). Harvey, P. (1990). An Introduction to Buddhism: Teachings, History and Practices. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Kister, D.A. (2004). Korean Shamanism. In M.N. Walter & E.J.N. Fridman (Eds.), Shamanism: An Encyclopedia of World Beliefs, Practices, and Culture (Volume II). Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO. King. S. (1974). Carrie. New York, NY: Doubleday. King, S. (1977). The Shining. New York, NY: Doubleday. Kister, D.A. (2006). Korean Shamanist Ritual: Symbols and Dramas of Transformation. Fremont, CA: Jain Publishing Company Inc. Korean Culture and Information Service. (n.d.). Religion. Retrieved from http://www.korea.net/AboutKorea/Korean-Life/Religion Kubrick, S. (Director). (1980). The Shining [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Warner Bros.

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christianity, korean shamanism and reincarnation Lee, J.Y. (1981). Korean Shamanistic Rituals. The Hague, The Netherlands: Mouton Publishers. McKee, L. (Director). (2006). The Woods [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists. Min, K., & Kim, T. (Directors). (1999). Yeogo goedam II [Memento Mori; motion picture]. South Korea: Cinema Service. Na, H. (Director). (2016). Gokseong [The Wailing; motion picture]. South Korea & United States: 20th Century Fox. Park, K. (Director). (1998). Yeogo goedam [Whispering Corridors; motion picture]. South Korea: CJ Entertainment. Snelling, J. (1991). The Buddhist Handbook: The Complete Guide to Buddhist Schools, Teaching, Practice, and History. Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions International. Suzuki, N. (Director). (1974). Seijū gakuen [School of the Holy Beast; motion picture]. Japan: Toei. Vogler, C. (2007). The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers (Third Edition). London, England: Michael Wiese Productions.

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DEPROGRAMMING THE PROGRAM: THE IMAGE AND ANXIETY OF THE RELIGIOUS CULT IN THE MADE-FOR-TELEVISION FILM AMANDA REYES

a 19-year-old woman named Roberta McElfish joined a Innew1973,religious movement called the Thomas Family. She disappeared for a number of years, resurfacing in the latter part of the 1970s, still a member of the Thomas family and with a young son in tow. McElfish’s concerned parents hired Ted Patrick, known as the ‘Father of Deprogramming,’ to save their daughter from what they believed to be a dangerous new religious movement invading the mainstream and threatening the safety and sanctity of the conservative nuclear family: the cult. Patrick advised the McElfishes to kidnap their own child, then in her mid-20s, and bring her to him. The abduction was plagued by a series of mishaps, and Roberta was able to free herself before filing charges against Patrick for false imprisonment. This would be Patrick’s first criminal conviction, but he had been deprogramming supposed cult members (for a fee) for years. The controversy surrounding his methods was only beginning to garner attention: after the McElfish debacle, Stephanie Riethmiller was maced 235

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on the street and taken to a safe house, where she endured a seven-day deprogramming session that involved harassment, imprisonment, and rape. As far as anyone outside of Patrick, his cohorts, and Stephanie’s family could tell, Stephanie was not a member of any new religious movement. Her parents, however, feared she might be a lesbian and felt that Stephanie’s roommate was wielding some sort of mind control over her (Koff, 1982). Patrick took their payment and conducted one of the most heinous acts of deprogramming ever recorded. Looking back at the widespread fear of cult indoctrinations in the 1970s, it is not difficult to see why theatrical films about deprogramming, such as 1982’s Split Image, could sometimes be found in the horror section in local video stores. Similarly, the made-for-television film, or telefilm, further underlines cultural unease surrounding brainwashing and emerging religious movements, while also hoisting the reputation of the deprogrammer in accentuating the role of family and its importance in saving children lost to cults. It is essential to remember that during the 1970s, one of the most popular formats for the television medium was the telefilm. The two major telefilms to air during this heightened level of cult awareness, Can Ellen Be Saved? (1974) and Blinded by the Light (1980), were packaged as dramas but essentially intended to stoke the flames of a prevalent cultural anxiety. Though released several years apart, they have startling similarities: both attempt to tap into the terror of brainwashing while also depicting deprogrammers as anti-heroes. But, most profoundly, both telefilms portray the family as the ultimate savior against emerging religious propaganda, consequentially suggesting that the domestic order is even more important than almighty God Himself. 236

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Though sociologist Eileen Barker has concentrated much of her research and writing on new religious movements, she acknowledges the difficulty of clearly delineating what classifies a cult. In “The Not-So-New Religious Movements: Changes in ‘the Cult Scene’ Over the Past Forty Years,” Barker (2014) points out that movements “differ in their beliefs, practices, lifestyle, leadership, finances, attitudes, and their potential for harm” (p. 240). In another article written for The Guardian, Barker’s (2009) cheekier, but perhaps more culturally apt, response to how a general population would answer the question “What is a cult?” is simply: “In popular parlance, a cult is a religion I don’t like; or it is a cult rather than a religion – either way, it is a group or movement of which I disapprove” (para. 1). However sarcastic the response may sound, it does accentuate the ignorance and unease surrounding emerging religious movements that sit outside of society’s boundaries. Certainly, dubious movements existed well before the 1970s, but it was Charles Manson’s use of religion as a doctrine for control and the subsequent string of ritualistic killings executed by members of his ‘Family’ in 1968 that incited a media frenzy. A decade later, Rev. Jim Jones and the Jonestown massacre of 1978—which led to the deaths of over 900 people—still stands as one of the most shocking examples of the power of cult leaders. To confuse matters, more benign organizations such as the Hare Krishnas and the Unification Church (the members of which were described as ‘Moonies’ after the group’s leader, Sun Myung Moon) were lumped into the same groupings as violent cults. Undoubtedly, for many families, alleged cult participation felt as though their children were being stolen and isolated from loved ones as they were inculcated into a belief system that veered too 237

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far from the traditional path. However, it is important to remember that a large portion of these ‘children’ were of an adult age, and, whether their families agreed with it or not, they were more than legally capable of making their own decisions. While the fluidity of emerging religious movements and their motives for existing are not easily outlined, anthropologist Willa Appel (1983) offers some reasoning behind why certain individuals may be enticed to join: While it is impossible to speak of cults as a monolithic entity, for there are many kinds, requiring different degrees of commitment – all share certain elements. They offer community, meaning, and spiritual direction, serving as ad hoc rites of passage in a society where traditional institutions seem to be failing. (p. 11) The national panic regarding new religious movements during the 1970s underlines an important role the media played in structuring how the types of cult reproduced, and the types of followers, like the ones Appel describes, would be seen on television. According to Sean McCloud’s (2004) Making the American Religious Fringe: Exotics, Subversives, & Journalists, 1955-1993, magazines and newspapers targeted “guru-based Asian religions, Evangelical Jesus movements, and occult practices that were attracting predominantly white, middle- and upper-middle-class youth” (p. 98). The media focused its attention on groups contaminating the privileged. Young, white Americans tempted by cults responded to the upheaval and change that came about in the late 1960s. Often referred to as ‘The Fourth Great Awakening,’ this period was 238

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characterized by a growth in spirituality, as people rejected the sort of rational mentality that got them into wars and built a distrustful government. However, McCloud (2004) argues that because a solid terminology has eluded even specialists on emerging religions, the media can liberally paint a movement with broad enough strokes that it can meet whatever the journalists’ needs may be. Therefore, if families were already concerned about their children being whisked away to cult communes and work farms, the media only served to reinforce that anxiety because any movement could be portrayed so vaguely that it would inevitably conform to whatever story the reporter wanted to tell. However, it was not just the news exploiting a hip, new American angst. Fictional episodic television also played a role in developing America’s perception of then-emerging religious cults. The general depiction of cults in shows as diverse as What’s Happening!! (1976-79), Barney Miller (1975-82), Police Woman (1974-78), and Hawaii Five-O (1968-80) was essentially “exotic and dangerous,” and their followers portrayed as the “young, gullible, maladjusted ‘loser’” (Dawson cited in Diffrient, 2010, p. 464). Television’s goal was to return the naïve, such as Arnold Horshack (Ron Palillo) from Welcome Back Kotter (1975–79), back into their concerned and loving families’ arms. This type of “reductionist discourse” (Diffrient, 2010, p. 464) further served to keep parents up at night. Adding to the fear, deprogramming scenes on these shows were sometimes played out like phantasmagorias more akin to horror films. The two-part Ironside episode “Raise the Devil” (1974) includes a scene with the private investigator ‘deprogramming’ a brainwashed woman who believes she is possessed. The set piece is likened to an exorcism, a term Los Angeles Times critic Kevin 239

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Thomas (1974) used to describe the depiction of deprogramming in Can Ellen Be Saved? Despite the media attention, it is difficult to know if cults were actually rising in number during this era. Determining how many cults exist at any given time is a challenge, largely because the majority of new religious movements surface and then quickly disappear. Reports claim that while cult membership was dwindling by the early 1980s, there were still approximately 200 new religious movements operating in the United States. About six were well known to the general population, including the Unification Church which had almost 30,000 members in total (Mariani, 1982, p. 158). Nevertheless, regardless of actual numbers, it was essentially that the idea of cult indoctrination was prevalent enough to birth a faction called the Anti-Cult Movement (ACM). Established in the mid-1970s, the ACM was widespread and diverse; of its independent sects, the most famous was named The Citizens’ Freedom Foundation. Established in 1975, it still exists and is now known as the Cult Awareness Network. Undoubtedly, much of the work being done by the ACM was well-intentioned and ultimately compassionate. Some groups were made up of mental health professionals, distributing literature and offering relevant information to concerned families. However, other ACM members were as troublesome as the cults they were fighting, and their methods of deprogramming remain questionable at best. These offshoots permitted kidnapping and enforced imprisonment, qualifying these actions as necessary. An example of forceful deprogramming is the experience endured by Donna Seidenberg, who became Megha Devi Krishna when she joined the Hare Krishnas. She told The Washington Post that the family 240

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baby shower she was invited to was a ruse to kidnap her and force her into a hotel in Maryland, where she was held against her will (Hyer, 1977). After three days of deprogramming, she was forced into a rehab center, where she remained for the next four weeks. She rejoined the Krishnas after escaping. Similarly, the Los Angeles Times reported on a case involving a young woman who pressed charges against her own parents for assault and kidnapping (Gorman, 1990). Even though deprogrammers were offering their own form of incarceration and brainwashing, as in the tragic case of Stephanie Riethmiller, the media insisted on portraying these individuals and organizations as benevolent do-gooders. Essentially, their methods were only deemed acceptable because terrified families endorsed them and the media sanctioned their actions. To America at large, the ACM was considered relevant and needed anti-heroes to ease cultural anxieties surrounding non-traditional belief systems and their inherent dangers. By the time Can Ellen Be Saved? aired in 1974, the telefilm was already a well-worn platform for approaching more newsworthy issues. However, this was not always the way. The first telefilm, See How They Run (1964), was a mild actioner about children running from a hired killer after witnessing the death of their father. Throughout the rest of the 1960s, the telefilm dabbled in practically every genre, including comedies, dramas, and horror, though it remained hesitant (with a few exceptions) to dive too deeply into hot button subjects during this era. Television was facing criticism for its blissful ignorance of sociopolitical issues, perpetuating a wholesome image fronted by depictions of manicured lawns and white picket fences, and only presenting tribulations that could be solved quickly and without a lot of heartache. 241

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Shows like My Three Sons (1960-72) and The Brady Bunch (196974) remained willfully unaware of the turmoil surrounding them. As the 1970s rolled in and Americans grew more disillusioned with their country, the telefilm was reaching its height of popularity. The industrial nature of telefilm production (which spit out hundreds of telefilms a year) meant that the networks had to open up their bag of tricks, or rather their interests in the stories they wanted to tell. Telefilm producers began to target the domestic space and family unit by broaching issues that concerned the middle class. In The Movie of the Week: Private Stories, Public Events, Elayne Rapping (1992) argues why the domestic setting became the space for such discourse: [T]elevision is different from film in a lot of important ways. Its placement in the private home, where it speaks directly to a presumed family audience, its symbiotic economic and structural relationship to commercial advertising, and its immediacy—dealing with hot issues and breaking news in a dramatic fashion—dictates its particular generic rules […] Structurally, all feature-length […] TV movies follow a few given rules. They all begin—and end—with the family; all other matters are subsumed into that never-questioned ideal institution. (pp. 33-34) Rapping (1992) hits on one of the more fascinating aspects of the domestic-set telefilm output. This could be called the ‘Intimacy Aspect’ because it describes the ways in which telefilms are structured to mimic real-life homes and lived experiences. Taking on private tales as opposed to the public storytelling of the theatrical allows the telefilm to be shaved down to its very essence. Telefilms 242

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move from point A to B without much in the way of obstacles, or sometimes even subplots, as audiences observe families facing one relatable crisis after another. Consequently, the then-new goal of the 1970s telefilm was not just to bring relevant cultural issues to light but to also reinforce the traditional family unit in an effort to alleviate anxieties as they unfolded—both in the telefilm and in the very lives of audience members. For the most part, this trope remained a principal dynamic in the majority of network-produced telefilms throughout the 1980s and 1990s. Rapping (1992) describes the telefilm’s basic configuration as one that introduces a predicament into a nuclear family unit, before escalating and then resolving the problem with the family intact and (usually) stronger than ever. The bulk of these films were produced during a heightened concern over the changing face of the family, whether it was through rising divorce rates or budding subcultures etc. (Rapping, 1992). For example, a number of telefilms dealt with divorce and marriage woes, and the wide variety of output included everything from comedies such as Suddenly Single to dramas like The Neon Ceiling (both from 1971). Homes in telefilms were sometimes wrecked by children moving against the traditional grain, and titles such as Maybe I’ll Come Home in the Spring (1971) and Katherine (1975) surveyed a darker side of youth culture in an effort to open up discussion while assuaging suburban anxieties. Even if the films critiqued traditional norms, there was still a sense that family was of utmost importance, and to depart from this ideology meant confusion and feelings of isolation. Therefore, the telefilm is an artifact that exposes an underlying conservative ideology, making it an effective point of reference when historicizing the era. 243

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Can Ellen Be Saved? originally aired on the American Broadcasting Company (ABC) network on February 5th, 1974, as part of the network’s popular and well-received Tuesday Movie of the Week program. It ran against Hawaii Five-O (Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS)) and the classic 1954 theatrical film The Country Girl (National Broadcasting Company (NBC)). It earned strong Nielsen ratings, ranking at #32 out of 237 titles aired that year (Variety, 1974, pp. 38-50). Blinded by the Light premiered on CBS on December 16th, 1980. It ran against a Christmas episode of The Dean Martin Show (1965-74) on NBC and faced off with the juggernaut Three’s Company (1977-84) on ABC, as well as an airing of the sitcom Too Close for Comfort (1980-87) and the glitzy detective-adventure series Hart to Hart (1979-84). The ratings for Blinded by the Light were not quite as strong, landing at #110 out of 287 titles to air during the 1980-81 season (Variety, 1981, pp. 88-104). In Can Ellen Be Saved?, college student Ellen Lindsey (Kathy Cannon) is depressed, lost, and unhappy. She attempts suicide but is soon invited into the Children of Jesus commune run by the charismatic Joseph (Michael Parks), who is revealed to be a con artist in an early scene. Ellen’s distraught parents (Leslie Nielsen and Louise Fletcher) fail to remove her from the work farm and turn to the dour but tenacious James Hallbeck (John Saxon) to help them kidnap and deprogram Ellen. The intersection of the news media and the fictionalized recounting of cult hysteria is clear for Thomas (1974), who cites the telefilm as “illuminating”: “One of the most heartbreaking phenomena of contemporary life has been the growth of the so-called Jesus Freak communes that recruit confused young people and indoctrinate them to the degree that they actually renounce their own families in a perverse distortion of Christianity” (p. 62). 244

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In the work farm, revival meetings are depicted as sexually invigorating. Joseph crafts his sermons to drive his worshippers wild with blind devotion, so he can swoop in and have any weakwilled but sexually charged woman he chooses. Ellen falls under his spell quickly, disowning everything belonging to the outside world. The film evokes feelings of terror through the ease with which Ellen gives up her life to this distorted version of God, especially since the audience recognizes Joseph as a swindler. Ellen is seen begging on the street, refusing to see her parents, and writhing passionately on the ground during sermons; she is lost to the conservative world that frowns upon all of these acts. Once in Hallbeck’s clutches, Ellen’s deprogramming begins. His no-nonsense approach upsets Ellen’s parents, and they rush into the bedroom to help their only child. After Hallbeck calculatingly attacks Ellen’s father, she snaps out of her brainwashed trance in an effort to stand up for him and the family is reunited. Although Thomas (1974) is clearly on the side of Hallbeck and Ellen’s family in his review, he astutely points out the similarities between Parks and Hallbeck. While Hallbeck is obviously no con artist, he is pushy, unlikeable, and single-minded in his own way. He admits to the Lindseys that his motivations stem from his daughter’s poor treatment in a cult. She was denied the medication she needed and now cannot speak or recognize Hallbeck as her father. Driven by this personal loss, Hallbeck becomes a renegade attempting to reunite families before they are torn apart; his behavior is thus ultimately coded as heroic, as his deprogramming bravura is an extension of the reclamation of family. He is no match for the love of Ellen’s own parents, however, because she can only break free of the cult’s brainwashing when she feels the need to protect her father. In some ways, Hallbeck’s role is 245

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simply to enforce the tenacity and devotion of the parental figures in the story. Can Ellen Be Saved? is admirable in that it does its best to cast a shadow of questions about the future of a young woman who is obviously suffering from depression. Nevertheless, the crux of the telefilm lies in her return to the domestic fold. Consequently, while the reuniting of Ellen with her family does not necessarily equal domestic bliss, it does express the idea that Ellen can be saved—but only by reembracing traditional family values. (Even if her family chose to ignore her struggles with mental illness.) Instead of bringing audiences into an impressionable young adult’s life before they join a new religious movement, Blinded by the Light drops viewers into the story after David Bowers (Jimmy McNichol) becomes a member of what looks like a peace-loving commune. This telefilm actually begins with the kidnapping of another devout follower (whose deprogramming takes place mostly offscreen). Unlike Can Ellen Be Saved?, Blinded by the Light moves away from the parents and places emphasis on the relationship David shares with his sister Janet (played by Jimmy’s real-life sibling, Kristy McNichol). Because she is younger and more self-aware, she questions the practices of deprogramming and tries to infiltrate the cult on her own. Blinded by the Light follows Janet’s journey to recover her brother; David is more of a supporting character as the audience walks in Janet’s questioning shoes. It is an interesting twist and opens up the idea that while new religious movements are troubling, they are also fulfilling a need of the youth of America. Janet remarks that David was never particularly religious but seems at peace in the commune. He even writes to his sister, reinforcing that he is not completely cut off from society. 246

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The deprogrammer in Blinded by the Light is an organization made up of several members, run by Max (Sandy McPeak). To Janet, they look just as bad as any group David has fallen in with, but she soon learns that, like Hallbeck, Max has also lost a beloved family member to a cult: Max now deprograms because his niece died in a commune. Like Hallbeck, Max is a supporting character devoted simply to reuniting families. Blinded by the Light does its best to show that anyone’s child can fall into the arms of a cult. The Bowers appear to be happy. Janet’s boyfriend jokes easily with her parents and they are portrayed as kind. There is an eye-opening scene featuring another mother whose child was in the same cult but is now in the early stages of deprogramming. Decked in furs and jewelry, she tells the Bowers about the emptiness of her marriage once her husband took over the family business. He died and the loneliness continued; due to her situation, she understands how her child could be drawn to the security found in community, but she also wonders how the same situation could have happened to the Bowers. The moment brings a poignancy in its realism because it represents an ambiguity regarding lost youth. It also serves as an indictment meant to terrify viewers into believing that, despite how much they love their child, they are helpless against the devious tactics of a cult. Once David is finally taken to a safe house, he, like Ellen, vehemently refuses to return to the outside world. He chants “Father” over and over again, showing his strength against the deprogrammers and his devotion to the cult. Only when Janet bursts into the room is the spell broken. Once back in the ‘real’ world, Max refers to David as “son” and the audience is reassured that he will return to his family. 247

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Unfortunately, Janet does the film no favors by falling for the cult’s maneuvers in what feels like the blink of an eye. It is obvious that the producers of Blinded by the Light are less concerned with the mechanics than they are with the what-do-we-do-with-thebrainwashed conundrum. This aspect does complicate the story in a realistic way, in that the reason some individuals fall into the sometimes-warped ideologies of emerging religious movements is not always clear. However, Janet is so easily influenced that the film’s didactic nature becomes far more transparent. The result: Blinded by the Light is heavy-handed. Unlike Thomas’ (1974) sympathetic review of Can Ellen Be Saved?, critics seemed more aware of the issues surrounding the portrayal of deprogrammers as tough but heroic in Blinded by the Light. John J. O’Connor (1980) of The New York Times argues that Blinded by the Light is “fascinated with the more sensational aspects of its subject – the spiritual rallies, the ominous regimentation, the retrievals and the highly emotional deprogrammings. Most of these participants are sketched in minimal terms” (p. 24). O’Connor (1980) also notes that deprogrammer Max is still portrayed as a hero despite his illegal modus operandi. Unfortunately, Can Ellen Be Saved? has not been as well-documented as Blinded by the Light. Philip Mandelker, the producer of the latter telefilm, told The Washington Post that he purposely sought out controversy with his production. He had the cast sit in on roundtable discussions with ex-cult members and, though he conceded that he felt his film would be hated by cult leaders, he was careful to depict the deprogrammers as “violent and drastic, if necessary” (Mandelker cited in Shales, 1980, para. 8). The savvy Mandelker also stated that he based his cult on eight different new religious movements in order to avoid a lawsuit from the 248

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Hare Krishnas (Shales, 1980). Though he was purposely stirring the pot, Blinded by the Light remains a conservative tale of how family is the ultimate protector. While obvious differences exist between each telefilm, including their approaches to the topic, they have more shared qualities than variations. While Can Ellen Be Saved? features only one deprogrammer, in comparison to a small organization of ACM members involved in Blinded by the Light, each telefilm portrays the deprogrammers as no-nonsense anti-heroes, validated in their questionable activities because they too lost a family member to a new religious movement. This motivation to help other families avoid similar fates garners sympathy and makes their questionable acts seem necessary; their grief absolves them of their criminal behavior. The deprogrammers exist as a plot point that allows family members to enter into a closer physical proximity to the brainwashed; it is only when they are reunited with their close relatives that these ‘weak’ characters can find the strength to break free of the respective cults, both of which are revealed to be con jobs. Can Ellen Be Saved? made its debut four years before the Jonestown Massacre, and Blinded by the Light was released two years after the event. Both films analogously survey the issue of how new religious movements lured America’s youth into work farms or communes and feature similar characters and comparable endings. However, their most striking connection is that the ultimate goal of both is the importation of the idea that family is a religious experience. Therefore, while probably unintentional, these two telefilms ultimately depict deprogramming as its own form of brainwashing. The main problem with each telefilm is that the deprogrammers and the families are basically enforcing one ideology—the 249

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preferred traditional belief system—over another, while refusing to address the reasons why their children chose to enter into a new religious movement in the first place. In turn, the indoctrinated are simply exchanging one powerful institution (family) for one that is much the same (a new religious movement). This highlights the child’s inherent need for community and kinship. Both Ellen and David are shown as weak-willed and impressionable. Can Ellen Be Saved? explores but then discounts Ellen’s struggle with depression; she is even more vulnerable because she is suicidal, leaving her in a state ripe for the picking. Blinded by the Light handles David’s predicament in a third-person fashion; he is never truly given an opportunity to explain the allure in his own words. Despite the little background given to David, his bright-eyed innocence similarly makes him easy prey. Janet asks questions on his behalf only to fall into the same trappings, perhaps suggesting all young people are at risk. In short, although the family dynamics in both films show some sign of strain, the exploration of cults and their appeal falls squarely on the shoulders of the young ‘victims.’ They are portrayed as naïve and easily influenced, instead of damaged and perhaps confused about where they fit in a world that pressures society into constrained ideologies without giving them guidance on how to maintain these traditional but shaky institutions. It misses the larger, more important picture with an attempt to give one go-to answer: the kids are at fault. Conversely, the telefilms do have some admirable qualities. Reality can be murky and confusing, and the characters may not truly realize why they are where they are. Instead of interrogating the disillusionment of the youth of the era, both Can Ellen Be Saved? and Blinded by the Light only attempt to squelch 250

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a cultural anxiety by enforcing the sanctity of family. The brainwashed are awakened when face-to-face with a loved one, but are these characters really spared or are audiences simply being fed another form of brainwashing? For those who are true believers in the holiness of home, according to these telefilms, yes: all can be saved.

REFERENCES Alonzo, J.A. (Director). (1980). Blinded by the Light [Motion picture]. United States: CBS Television Distribution. Appel, W. (1983). Cults in America: Programmed for Paradise. New York, NY: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Arnold, D., & Flicker, T.J. (Creators). (1975-82). Barney Miller [Television series]. United States: American Broadcasting Company. Barker, E. (2009, May 29). One Person’s Cult Is Another’s True Religion. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/ belief/2009/may/29/cults-new-religious-movements Barker, E. (2014). The Not-So-New Religious Movements: Changes in ‘the Cult Scene’ Over the Past Forty Years. Temenos – Nordic Journal of Comparative Religion, 50(2). Retrieved from https://journal.fi/temenos/ article/view/48461 Barret, E., & Sultan, A. (Creators). (1980-87). Too Close for Comfort [Television series]. United States: American Broadcasting Company. Collins, R.L. (Creator). (1974-78). Police Woman [Television series]. United States: National Broadcasting Company. Diffrient, D.S. (2010). The Cult Imaginary: Fringe Religions and Fan Cultures on American Television. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, 30(4) Fedderson, D., Tewkesbury, H.P., & Tibbles, G. (Creators). (1960–72). My Three Sons [Television series]. United States: American Broadcasting Company & CBS Television Distribution.

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scared sacred Freeman, L. (Creator). (1968-80). Hawaii Five-O [Television series]. United States: CBS Television Distribution. Garrison, G. (Creator). (1965-74). The Dean Martin Show [Television series]. United States: National Broadcasting Company. Gorman, T. (1990, January 10). Sympathy for Parents May Derail Jury Verdict in Deprogramming Trial. Los Angeles Times. Retrieved from https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1990-01-10-me-30-story.html Hart, H. (Director). (1974). Can Ellen Be Saved? [Motion picture]. United States: ABC Circle Films. Hyer, M. (1977, April 20). Deprogramming Failure. The Washington Post. Retrieved from https://www. washingtonpost.com/archive/local/1977/04/20/ deprogramming-failure/374ddda0-1eef-448e-b989-210b59a32988 Kagan, J.P. (Director). (1975). Katherine [Motion picture]. United States: American Broadcasting Company. Kaplan, G., & Sacks, A. (Creators). (1975-79). Welcome Back, Kotter [Television series]. United States: Warner Bros. Television. Koff, S. (1982, July). The Ordeal of Stephanie Riethmiller. Cincinnati Magazine. Kotcheff, T. (Director). (1982). Split Image [Motion picture]. Canada & United States: Orion Pictures. McCloud, S. (2004). Making the American Religious Fringe: Exotics, Subversives, & Journalists, 1955-1993. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Mariani, J. (1982, November). Why Teens Join Cults. Seventeen, 41. Monte, E. (Creator). (1976-79). What’s Happening!! [Television series]. United States: American Broadcasting Company. Nicholl, D., Ross, M., & West, B. (Creators). (1977-84). Three’s Company [Television series]. United States: American Broadcasting Company. O’Connor, J.J. (1980, December 16). TV: ‘Blinded by light,’ Movie on Religious Cult. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes. com/1980/12/16/archives/tv-blinded-by-light-movie-on-religious-cult.html Pierson, F. (Director). (1971). The Neon Ceiling [Motion picture]. United States: National Broadcasting Company. Rapping, E. (1992). The Movie of the Week: Private Stories, Public Events. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.

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deprogr amming the progr am Rich, D.L. (Director). (1964). See How They Run [Motion picture]. United States: National Broadcasting Company. Sargent, J. (Director). (1971). Maybe I’ll Come Home in the Spring [Motion picture]. United States: American Broadcasting Company. Schwartz, S. (Creator). (1969-74). The Brady Bunch [Television series]. United States: American Broadcasting Company. Seaton, G. (Director). (1954). The Country Girl [Motion picture]. United States: Paramount Pictures. Shales, T. (1980, December 16). Cult Close-up: CBS’ Gripping ‘Blinded by the Light’. The Washington Post. Retrieved from https://www. washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1980/12/16/cult-close-up-cbsgripping-blinded-by-the-light/641e03f8-3e88-4e68-9ec8-07c1d31c1327 Sheldon, S. (Creator). (1979-84). Hart to Hart [Television series]. United States: Columbia Pictures Television. Taylor, J. (Director). (1971). Suddenly Single [Motion picture]. United States: American Broadcasting Company. Thomas, K. (1974, February 5). Focusing on Problem of Jesus Communes. Los Angeles Times. Variety. (1974, November 6). Radio-Television: Made-for-TV Movie Rankings for 1973-74. Variety. (1981, September 30). Radio-Television: Made-for-TV Movie Rankings for 1980-81. Young, C. (Creator). (1967-75). Ironside [Television series]. United States: National Broadcasting Company.

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I BELIEVE IN DEATH: WILLIAM PETER BLATTY AND THE HORROR OF FAITH IN THE NINTH CONFIGURATION (1980) AND THE EXORCIST III (1990) SAMM DEIGHAN

single most iconic American horror films of the Onelastof50theyears is undoubtedly director William Friedkin’s

The Exorcist (1973). The film follows a possessed young girl, Regan (Linda Blair), and the psychiatrist-priest (Jason Miller) who is forced to put aside his reliance on science and his own spiritual angst to save her. Even the late Roger Ebert, a mainstream critic who typically looked down his nose at horror cinema, declared it to be “one of the best movies of its type ever made; it not only transcends the genre of terror, horror, and the supernatural, but it transcends such serious, ambitious efforts in the same direction” (1973, para. 6). Based on the 1971 novel by William Peter Blatty, who also penned the film’s script, The Exorcist is a rare example of an American horror film with religious themes written by someone of devout faith.5 As a tale of 5 For example, Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and The Omen (1976), both part of the same occult-horror boom of the late 1960s and 1970s, had largely Jewish creative teams: Rosemary’s Baby, the original novel from 1967, was

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Christian occult terror, The Exorcist not only skyrocketed Blatty to fame but established him as a vocal Catholic and introduced the recurring religious themes central to most of his novels and the two films he helmed as a director: The Ninth Configuration (1980) and The Exorcist III (1990). Both films are adaptations of Blatty’s own novels: Twinkle, Twinkle, “Killer” Kane (1966)6 and its rewrite The Ninth Configuration (1978), and Legion (1983). This chapter explores how the film adaptations function as horror texts via Blatty’s themes of madness, violence, and sacrifice. Blatty’s protagonists are typically tormented men who confront violence and undergo spiritual transformations as the result of an ultimate sacrifice. In some sense, The Exorcist, The Ninth Configuration, and The Exorcist III represent the inevitable consequences when men of belief and faith confront evil within the nihilistic modern world—whether that manifests as satanic possession, serial murder, or insanity as the result of trauma. While The Exorcist is a relatively straightforward tale of a young girl’s possession, her mother’s desperate attempts to save her, and the intervention of two priests, The Ninth Configuration and The Exorcist III instead explore labyrinthine plots packed with eerie dream sequences, flashbacks, and fantasies, as well as roving monologues filled with references to everything from Shakespeare and the Bible to contemporary horror films. They both explore madness as a function of evil, the failure of science, written by Ira Levin, and the film adaptation was written and directed by Roman Polanski; The Omen was written by David Seltzer and directed by Richard Donner. 6 The first edition of the book from Doubleday featured an exclamation mark at the end of the title, but this was removed from subsequent editions.

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medicine, and logic, and the challenges of living with faith in a corrupt, demoralized modern world. Unlike The Exorcist, which focuses on the relationship between a mother and daughter, The Ninth Configuration and The Exorcist III are overwhelmingly masculine worlds. Though it includes numerous horror elements, The Ninth Configuration is not a straightforward horror tale. It follows the arrival of military psychiatrist Col. Kane (Stacy Keach) at an isolated castle in the Pacific Northwest. The forbidding location is a temporary mental hospital for disturbed soldiers who served in the Vietnam War (1955–75). Kane is there to help the traumatized men but becomes particularly determined to save disgraced astronaut Capt. Billy Cutshaw (Scott Wilson), who seemingly lost his mind just before a planned moon launch. Blatty’s disorienting plot eventually makes it clear that Kane is not really the psychiatrist but a patient; his brother, Col. Fell (Ed Flanders), is using experimental therapy in the hopes of saving Kane. Kane was responsible for a massacre in the jungle, and his broken mind has convinced him that his dead brother ‘Vincent’ was responsible for these acts. Fell believes that Kane can regain some of his sanity by helping other patients. Though The Ninth Configuration is not a direct sequel to The Exorcist, as The Exorcist III was, it exists within the same universe; Cutshaw appears in both films. During a holiday party thrown by Regan’s mother in The Exorcist, Cutshaw (Dick Callinan) is standing by a piano, where the partygoers are singing together. In a nightgown, a disturbed-looking Regan comes downstairs, looks directly at him and says, “You’re gonna die up there,” before urinating on the carpet. In The Ninth Configuration novel, Kane has a dream in which Cutshaw asks him to 257

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perform an exorcism. Mike White (2013) writes that The Ninth Configuration “serves as a true sequel to William Friedkin’s The Exorcist,” and the three films certainly exist within the same tormented, nihilistic universe (p. 115). Cutshaw is introduced in The Ninth Configuration as having experienced a mental breakdown before his next mission, likely a reference to an event that occurred between The Exorcist and The Ninth Configuration. Blatty’s fractured cinematic universe is full of such fits and starts; characters appear and disappear with different names, fames, or identities, all of whom are concerned with the problem of spiritual evil. Despite critic S.T. Joshi’s (2001) snide interpretation of Blatty as a horror author, he rightly notes that Blatty’s question, ‘“How can there be evil coexistent with a good God?”’ is the author and filmmaker’s central fixation, as “This single utterance could serve as the hallmark for Blatty’s entire work” (p. 52). Like the mythical Hydra, Blatty’s characters, both heroes and tormented antagonists, change names and faces throughout his loose exorcism trilogy. From a practical standpoint, characters in The Exorcist appear as different actors throughout, such as Dick Callinan and Scott Wilson as Cutshaw, or Lee J. Cobb as Lt. William F. Kinderman in The Exorcist—a role reprised by George C. Scott in The Exorcist III, where the character is refigured as the film’s protagonist. To complicate matters, Fr. Damien Karras, the protagonist of The Exorcist played by Jason Miller, also reappears in a central role in The Exorcist III as the patient in Cell 11. Miller also appears as an entirely different character in The Ninth Configuration. Effectively, like The Exorcist, the central problem of The Exorcist III is two bodies occupying the same space, which Blatty cinematically depicts in a literal sense; in some scenes, Miller 258

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is visible as Patient X and Damien Karras, and in others actor Brad Dourif appears as the Gemini Killer.7 Kinderman serves as the protagonist of The Exorcist III. Years after the events of The Exorcist, he has maintained a friendship with Fr. Joseph Dyer (played by Fr. William O’Malley in The Exorcist and Ed Flanders in The Exorcist III) which they celebrate annually by going to the cinema together. Kinderman vents to Dyer about a recent murder investigation, a gruesome, seemingly satanically-motivated crime that reminds him of the so-called Gemini Murders from years ago. Dyer is hospitalized for an illness and is soon also killed, joining a growing list of bodies that share multiple characteristics, though different fingerprints are discovered at each crime scene. Although the Gemini Killer was executed years before the new murder spree, the details of his crimes, information closely guarded by the police, are now being mimicked on the new bodies. For example, the right index finger is severed and the Gemini Zodiac symbol is cut into the left hand. Kinderman comes to realize that the man locked away in Cell 11 of the hospital’s psychiatric ward, Patient X, is likely possessed by the same force that tormented young Regan and motivated the original Gemini Killer. A key reference in The Exorcist III is the 1946 Frank Capra film It’s a Wonderful Life. Both Kinderman and Dyer cite the film as their favorite and attend a cinema showing together early in the first act. “It’s a wonderfull life” is written in blood on the wall of 7 This was not Blatty’s original intention. Jason Miller was not available for the filming of The Exorcist III and the scenes including Patient X were entirely shot with Brad Dourif. Later, when Miller was available and the studio requested a more literal link to The Exorcist, his scenes were added and Blatty chose to blend the two performances.

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Dyer’s hospital room after he is murdered, and a trademark of the Gemini Killer was adding an extra ‘l’ into words. It is easy to read this Capra reference as a wider connection to Blatty’s use of shifting identities and realities. In Capra’s film, George Bailey (James Stewart) is so depressed by the difficulties in his life that he considers suicide, but a helpful angel (Henry Travers) takes him to an alternate reality where he never existed to show him how much worse the town of Bedford Falls would be without him. Raymond Carney (1986) describes the events of It’s a Wonderful Life as a series of “wounds with no final prospect of healing” (p. 415). George is similar to Blatty’s protagonists in that his character is driven to despair and madness because his idealism, his optimistic vision of the world, is destroyed over and over again. This is a theme common to Capra, who “consistently acknowledges the encroachment of nothingness upon his characters” (Mortimer, 1995, p. 663). George’s dream, his journey into an alternate reality by the side of an angel, is also reminiscent of Kane’s experimental therapy. The patients of The Ninth Configuration are encouraged to temporarily live out their fantasies, however wild or violent. Such fantasies include adapting Hamlet with dogs and reenacting the escape sequence from The Great Escape (1963), another one of the film’s loaded cinematic references. This hint at alternate possible worlds is also reflected in Blatty’s wider universe, in which characters struggle with choice and sacrifice, and narratives are often concerned with the tension between what is real and what is illusory. Hospitals, psychiatry, mental illness, and madness are prominent themes in The Exorcist, The Ninth Configuration, and The Exorcist III, where horror tropes are often bound up in dilemmas of seeing and concerns of sanity. 260

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For example, though The Ninth Configuration is not directly a horror film, Blatty flirts with genre tropes throughout. The film is set in a Gothic castle (allegedly located in the Pacific Northwest but shot in Hungary) which is being used as an experimental psychiatric facility for men suffering what would come to be described as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD); it is more or less a madhouse. Gargoyles and eerie statues litter the castle, both inside and out, and one of the main rooms is home to an oversized poster of Tod Browning’s Dracula (1931). Dracula, as a character, is referenced in dialogue, though he is not the only Universal monster to make an appearance; at one point, Cutshaw wears a Frankenstein’s monster mask. Blatty’s films are packed with cultural references, particularly rapid-fire mentions of other films in The Ninth Configuration, though it is also worth noting that The Exorcist centers on a major character who is an actress and film star, Regan’s mother, Chris MacNeill (Ellen Burstyn). Similarly, in The Exorcist III, Kinderman and Dyer keep their long friendship alive through their previously mentioned shared love of film. Thus, Blatty’s references to Dracula and early cinematic horror in The Ninth Configuration seem intentional, particularly in terms of the connections between horror, madness, and war. Part of Dracula is also set in an asylum, and mad men, such as the inmate Renfield, are used to do his bidding. Valerie Pedlar (2006), in her treatise on representations of madness in Victorian culture, describes the era as a period of degeneracy, hysteria, and anxiety. This is reflected in the horror literature of the period, such as Dracula, Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde from 1886, and H.G. Wells’ The Island of Doctor Moreau from 1896. As Pedlar (2006) writes, “When Bram 261

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Stoker wrote Dracula in 1897 he added a number of new features to the established tradition of vampiric literature, including the lunatic asylum, the madman and the doctor” (p. 136). Like Dracula’s reliance on newspaper articles, letters, and journal entries, The Ninth Configuration and The Exorcist III are essentially organized around fact-gathering sessions: police reports, psychiatric evaluations, and interviews with suspects and patients. As with Dracula, though The Exorcist, The Ninth Configuration, and The Exorcist III are ostensibly tales of supernatural terror, they are all reliant on modern medicine, including psychiatry, as a fundamental foundation of the narrative. Pedlar (2006) writes that Dracula belongs to “a tradition of literature which sees facts and science as obscuring rather than revealing the truth about life” (p. 153). In The Exorcist, medical science has no explanation for what ails Regan, and the tests she is forced to undergo appear to be a form of torture. Similarly, conventional psychiatry fails to cure the patients of The Ninth Configuration, and the hospital staff are at a loss to explain the behavior of the patient in Cell 11 in The Exorcist III. All three stories essentially follow a male protagonist who is forced to abandon his reliance on science or rationality because it fails to help him find a resolution. This reliance on facts, logic, and science takes its form in Dracula in the character of Dr. Seward, head of the mental asylum, and his attempts to understand and even categorize Dracula’s servant Renfield. Like both Jonathan and Mina Harker, Seward keeps extensive diaries as a means of recording his experiences and experiments, and also as a way to understand the seemingly inexplicable. Madness and the supernatural are similarly regarded as sources of unpredictability or instability, which these male protagonists seek to control: 262

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Seward invents a new classification for the lunatic and calls him ‘a zoophagous (life-eating) maniac’ […] This term was not part of nineteenth-century nosology, but is borrowed from natural science, and the transference underlines the degree to which Renfield is seen as an animal, a specimen for the scientist to observe and catalogue, a not unusual attitude in Victorian medicine. (Pedlar, 2006, p. 138) Similarly, Blatty’s films are concerned with men exerting similar types of control over situations in which they feel powerless. Karras, Kane, and Kinderman—note that many of Blatty’s protagonists have alliterative surnames—all spend significant early sequences attempting to measure and classify the situations in which they have become embroiled. Karras tests whether Regan’s disturbances are psychiatric or spiritual, Kane attempts to understand the nature of Cutshaw’s insanity, and Kinderman warily begins to link recent murders with the Gemini Killer case. Though journal entries and letters are not used in quite the same way as Dracula, voiceover narration and musing monologues feature regularly in Blatty’s films. For example, though Regan and her possession are allegedly the focal points of The Exorcist, Karras is the film’s true protagonist. The real dilemma of the narrative is Karras’ crisis of faith, as he is torn between conflicting identities as a priest and psychiatrist. As with Kane and Kinderman, Karras’ voice, his memories, and his dreams all reflect his inner conflict and come to dominate the film. Like Dracula, the crisis of masculinity that plagues Blatty’s protagonists rests at the heart of each film and is essentially the crux of each supernatural or spiritual conflict. As with Stoker, Blatty’s texts explore deep-seated, if unfocused, 263

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anxieties about gender relations, where madness—and thus evil—exists because of uncertainty about one’s place in the world, either as a man or as a Christian. Dracula himself, as a figure of absolute evil, seems to cause instability and thus madness in Renfield and other characters. Jonathan and Mina Harker, as well as Abraham Van Helsing, think at some point that they are also mad, whether because of hypnotism, mental control, or exposure to horrifying and otherworldly events. Trauma causes a fundamental division within the self, which cannot be solved in these texts by reason and science alone: Dracula is a novel of ambiguities and contradictions, in which the generic mixture of realism and fantasy is mirrored in the two modes of understanding and interpretation: the folkloric or superstitious, and the scientific. It presents a vision of a society in which the attempt to live according to traditional Christian or chivalric moral codes is likely to be defeated by the inexorable workings of biological determinism. Madness is a focal point. Its representation in this novel incorporates the customary conception of insanity as the loss of self-control which can lead, if unrestrained, to violent behaviour, thus relating the human to the animal. (Pedlar, 2006, pp. 155-156) In the sense that madness can be seen in Dracula as a state of liminality between good and evil, civilization and chaos, and life and death, these themes are also central components to early film adaptations of the novel like F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens/Nosferatu, a Symphony of Horror, 1922), Browning’s Dracula, and Carl Dreyer’s Vampyr (Vampyr: Der Traum des Allan Gray/Vampyr: The Dream of Allan Gray, 264

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1932), another experimental vampire tale.8 Madness and physical illness as a central theme in horror effectively began with German expressionist cinema in the 1910s and 1920s, particularly with Nosferatu and Robert Wiene’s Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1920). In many of these films, madness and horror can be seen as direct responses to the savagery of World War I (1914-18) that left much of Europe decimated. The shadow of the Vietnam War similarly lingers over The Ninth Configuration. More generally, these themes are represented in Blatty’s personal life. The child of devout Lebanese immigrants, Blatty established his career in the film industry and as a novelist in the 1960s and 1970s, a period when conservative values such as his own Catholic beliefs were aggressively challenged and even upturned by American countercultural movements. After receiving undergraduate and master’s degrees in English literature from Georgetown University, Blatty enlisted in the Air Force and joined the Psychological Warfare Division.9 Nick Younker (2015) reported in the Latin Post that Blatty used these techniques in The Exorcist: “on top of creating effective propaganda in warfare situations, [Blatty] was also chief of a division that studied the effects that certain psychological tactics had on people, especially negative effects” (para. 3). A cinematic example of these transferable techniques is the use of subliminal messaging through flash frames of the eerie 8 Though Vampyr was based loosely on Sheridan Le Fanu’s story Carmilla (1872), it follows a similar framework and puts an equal emphasis on characters suffering from undisclosed illnesses of the blood and/or madness. 9 Created during World War II (1939-45), this Anglo-American division was temporarily home to a number of well-regarded filmmakers such as John Huston and Luchino Visconti.

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face of the demon Pazuzu. The terrorizing effect was certainly felt by unsuspecting audiences in the 1970s watching The Exorcist in theaters, and, in a sense, Blatty’s means of applying psychological warfare tactics into a horror film becomes a sort of spiritual assault on the viewer—drawing a parallel between cinemagoers and Blatty’s characters. This connection between physical, psychological, and spiritual violence is perhaps Blatty’s defining trait as a writer and director, and he transitions effortlessly between the three to show the similarly devastating effects of violence and trauma on the human psyche. These themes of psychological destabilization and war trauma are central components of The Ninth Configuration and The Exorcist III; both films are also intimately concerned with male violence. While The Ninth Configuration follows soldiers traumatized by war, the protagonist of The Exorcist III is a homicide detective. The men in the two films live in a world characterized by violence, and Blatty seems to posit that violence defines masculinity on some fundamental level. Kane and Kinderman are racked with guilt, presumably as they have not done enough to ebb or appease this flow of violence. As a result, both of the films involve conversations between two male characters attempting to work out how to live in such a violent world—just as The Exorcist is predominantly concerned with similar interviews between Regan, Karras, and the experienced exorcist Fr. Lankester Merrin (Max von Sydow). The Ninth Configuration is essentially part horror film, part social satire, and part talkie drama. The film’s tagline describes it being “somewhere between mystery and terror.” Kane and Cutshaw debate the possibilities of existing in a world that has known such violence and evil. It is a place where Kane, as a result 266

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of his war trauma, participated in a massacre that shattered his very psyche, and where Cutshaw also succumbed to madness after losing his faith in God. The two argue the origins of evil and Kane says, “I don’t think evil grows out of madness, I think madness grows out of evil.” The film depicts madness as a way of avoiding responsibility, avoiding the horrors that the soldiers’ eyes have been opened to through war—a necessary response to the nihilism of existence. Cutshaw declares, “All of creation is an open wound, a fucking slaughterhouse.” This echoes Kinderman’s assertion in The Exorcist III: “The whole world is a homicide victim, Father. Would a God who was good invent something like death?” This struggle to exist in a violent world is at the heart of The Ninth Configuration, which spends much of its narrative speculating on the role of madness both as a disease and a possible curative—a way to preserve a shred of humanity in the face of absolute evil. Blatty also grapples with notions of real versus performative madness, a theme he plays with by employing references to Hamlet and Hitchcock’s Spellbound (1945). Following his pivotal portrayal in The Exorcist, Jason Miller returned to work with Blatty in The Ninth Configuration via the role of Lt. Reno, an asylum patient who is attempting to stage Hamlet with dogs instead of people. One of his monologues, directed at Kane, touches on the heart of the film’s question of madness: Considering how Hamlet is acting, is he really and truly crazy? […] If Hamlet hadn’t pretended to be crazy, he really would have gone crazy. Hamlet isn’t psycho, he’s hanging on the brink […] Acting crazy is a way to let off steam, a way to get rid of your fucking aggressions, a way to get rid of 267

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your fears and your terrors […] The crazier Hamlet acts, the healthier he gets. Blatty mimics Shakespeare’s use of madness in Hamlet, particularly Shakespeare’s concerns about the function of madness itself as a response to death, grief, violence, and evil. With the possible exceptions of Kane and Cutshaw, the numerous characters in The Ninth Configuration are vague character sketches, tormented men playing out various tropes of madness. In his study, Hamlet and the Vision of Darkness, Rhodri Lewis (2017) writes: Shakespeare made the best of the dramaturgical situation by having Hamlet riff the stock theatrical roles of the Clown, madman, Vice, and devil—all of which figure his feelings of disenfranchisement. What might look like the revenger’s madness (qua insanity rather than rage) is, in fact, literally antic: ludic, grotesque, and self-consciously metadramatic. (p. 5) Despite its horror elements, eerie dream sequences, and violent conclusion, The Ninth Configuration is often described as a dark satire and Blatty certainly is self-conscious with his use of madness tropes, resulting in some unsettlingly humorous moments. Strangely, the film came out nearly a decade after a series of loosely similar films about madness, war trauma, and the aftermath of the Vietnam War, including titles like Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964), MASH (1970), and Taxi Driver (1976). Blatty himself wrote a treatment for the film adaptation of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) several years before the version directed by Miloš Forman was produced. Like many of these films, The Ninth Configuration 268

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presents trauma and war-related madness as a transformative force, one that must essentially be exorcised before the afflicted person can return to normality—though this positive resolution is proven impossible in the case of Hamlet or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which end in literal or psychological death (lobotomy). In Hamlet, much is made of the character’s transformation into something other than himself and the Prince’s seeming otherness to the characters in the play who knew him before his father’s death. Claudius states: Hamlet’s transformation—so I call it, Sith nor th’exterior nor the inward man Resembles what it was. What it should be, More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him So much from th’understanding of himself I cannot dream of. (Shakespeare, 1992, 2.1.5-10) This unfathomable transformation is present in The Exorcist, The Ninth Configuration, and The Exorcist III, where characters are confronted with supernatural evil, changed by it, and, to varying degrees, existentially tormented by the thought of a world without God. This sense of hellish torment is carried out—embodied—in the body itself. Unlike other horror film formulas, where characters are pursued by ghosts, monsters, demons, vampires, or even masked killers, which they must battle and vanquish, the central conflict in Blatty’s films takes place within the physical body, and mind, of a central person. The protagonist becomes monstrous. In Blatty’s narratives, a sense of horror emerges from the fragility of the body and soul in such a universe—particularly if 269

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there is no God to offer salvation. In a sense, The Ninth Configuration and The Exorcist III replicate the loose narrative structure of The Exorcist in that a central man fights a battle for the soul of another person invaded by evil. This battle is not in a literal warzone but takes place in dialogue and is often enacted in the very body of the afflicted. In his essay on exorcism in classic art and the horror film, “The Face of a Fiend: Convulsion, Inversion, and the Horror of the Disempowered,” James Clifton (2011) describes this threat to the body as central to the concept of horror itself: Much of the horror in fiction writing, film, painting, or any other medium is predicated on threats to the body: its destruction, dissolution, fragmentation, usurpation, and so on. Even the monstrous Other can be perceived as horrifying not simply as a direct threat, but also vicariously, as evidence of the potential deformation of one’s own body […] Horror lies in the threat to humanity and humanness, both individual and collective, whose destruction is emblematised, as we shall see, by a loss of both face and voice. (p. 377) As Regan’s body is invaded in The Exorcist, so is Karras’ in The Exorcist III, among other characters in that film. Similarly, while Cutshaw’s crisis of faith in The Ninth Configuration is less of a direct possession, it can be said to result from his brief encounter with the demon Pazuzu in The Exorcist. Clifton (2011) compares the victims in recent exorcism films to Medieval demoniacs and hysterics, such as at the infamous seventeenth-century possessions at the convent in Loudon, France—the subject of Ken Russell’s The Devils (1971). Though Russell was a Catholic like Blatty,

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in his film, possession serves as a symbol for political corruption and the abuse of power. Regardless of the reason behind it, demonic possession is what Clifton (2011) describes as “invasive” horror, in that the threat comes from within the body itself: “A quintessential feature of demon possession is the loss of bodily control, or, more specifically, an involuntary cession of control to a possessing demon – the invasive agent” (p. 379). This likewise applies to demonic possession, as found in The Exorcist and The Exorcist III, but also madness or hysteria, as in The Ninth Configuration or The Devils. It also extends to loss of bodily control via parasites, as in some of David Cronenberg’s films like Shivers (1975) or Rabid (1977). All such cases are marked by bodies out of control: they writhe on the floor, gnash teeth, foam at the mouth, cause bodily harm to themselves or others, and, as in The Ninth Configuration, exhibit behavior that is deliberately contrary to socially accepted norms. Clifton cites this behavior as present in the biblical tale of a young boy possessed by a spirit (Mark 9:14-27), which is notably depicted in Raphael’s Transfiguration (1516-20). This loss of control over the body turns it into a site of horror and monstrosity with the head or face as the focal point of terror. Regan’s dramatically transformed face and voice are crucial elements of horror in The Exorcist; she takes on an otherworldly visage that resembles an old hag or a demon more than a little girl. Regan’s body also seems unbound by the laws of physics. She vomits green fluid on command, words appear embedded in her flesh, and her body bends in strange shapes. The screaming face is a recognizable source of horror in modern culture—take, for example, Edvard Munch’s iconic painting The Scream (1893)— and expressions of terror and abjection litter The Exorcist, The 271

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Ninth Configuration, and The Exorcist III. As Clifton (2011) writes, citing Roland Barthes (1981), “The inverted screaming mouth recalls aspects of a Barthesian punctum – a point, an attracting or distressing detail, always uncoded; a prick, a sting, a wound, a ‘point of effect’, an ‘element which rises from the scene, shoots out of it like an arrow, and pierces me’” (p. 389). It is this “sting” or “wound” that serves as a reminder of the dehumanization of the body, where it is rendered “unfunctional, strange, confusing, and unrecognizable as such” (Clifton, 2011, p. 390). The head is a particular source of horror in The Exorcist III, such as in a key sequence where a nurse is decapitated with a pair of industrial medical shears. The use of violence and mutilation within the film—heads, blood, and limbs are displaced frequently—suggests that the wholeness of the body is only transitory and the dehumanized flesh is more easily disassembled than one would like to believe. The particular horror that emerges from this dehumanization in The Exorcist, The Ninth Configuration, and The Exorcist III is tied up with the loss of control of the body, and likewise the mind and the spirit. Regan is possessed by a demon, but the demon can travel, infecting other bodies like a plague. Legion, the title of Blatty’s novel and the intended title of The Exorcist III before studio interference, stresses the importance of this seemingly limitless manifestation of evil: your flesh is not your own, but your dreams and memories and even sense of identity may also not be yours. The Gemini Killer, inhabiting the body of Karras in The Exorcist III, remarks, “I have dreams of a rose…and of falling down a long flight of stairs.” These are not the dreams of the demon but of Karras, distorted and confused by the other entities possessing his consciousness. Similarly, in The Ninth 272

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Configuration, Kane has memories that do not seem to belong to him—of a brother named Vincent who died while he, a separate being, survived. Effectively, in Blatty’s films, exorcism is a struggle for the soul carried out on the battlefield of the body. Blatty’s films thus represent a spiritual contest, a war not just for the soul but for specifically masculine identity in a world threatened by chaos and darkness. The sense of nihilism and lingering terror that resonates from The Exorcist, The Ninth Configuration, and The Exorcist III stems from the fact that the antagonist in each narrative is external or non-human, so there is always a possibility the evil will return. Clifton (2011) writes of such exorcism narratives: [T]he staying power of such works resides in the convulsing and unformed details that threaten to break loose of such tidy meanings, in the perpetual presence of the horrific, in the anticipated return of the escaping demons, in the certain knowledge that though this battle may have been won, the body is always at risk of twisting from the human to the monstrous. (pp. 391-392) Faith, in this case, is not a balm against evil but an unstable force that provides both relief and torment. In The Exorcist III, the demon Pazuzu, speaking through Patient X, says, “If you looked with the eyes of faith, you’d see me,” indicating that religious belief allows for a more horrifying vision of the world. In other words, the belief in the Christian God, and in Heaven, also necessitates the belief in the Devil, in Hell, and in spiritual evil. Kinderman, who declares himself a non-believer early in The Exorcist III, seems to retract this statement as he comes to understand the 273

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true identity of the Gemini Killer. They face off in Patient X’s cell, where Kinderman yells, “My God, help. Help me […] I believe in death, I believe in disease, I believe in injustice and inhumanity and torture and anger and hate. I believe in murder, I believe in pain, I believe in cruelty and infidelity. I believe in slime and stink and in every crawling putrid thing, every possible ugliness and corruption, you son of a bitch! I believe in you.” While the 1970s and 1980s were awash with films about men affected by violence and masculinity as a threatened, enraged force—such as the Dirty Harry (1971-88) and Death Wish (197494) series—Blatty’s protagonists are not required to become more violent in order to regain control of a chaotic universe, but they are required to sacrifice themselves. The Exorcist and The Ninth Configuration have directly parallel endings, where Karras and Kane knowingly sacrifice themselves, via implied suicide, to save another person. When the exorcism drives Pazuzu out of Regan’s body, Karras takes the demon into himself and throws himself down a flight of stairs. Kane similarly sacrifices himself for Cutshaw. In a state of despair, the astronaut escapes the castle-asylum and goes to a local bar. He is harassed and beaten by bikers, with an implied attempted rape. Kane intervenes, allowing his violent, repressed self to emerge, and kills the bikers with his bare hands. He later dies of a stomach wound which is implied to be self-inflicted. Kane’s bargain with Cutshaw was that if a genuine act of selfless kindness could occur, then God must be real. He tells Cutshaw, “If we’re nothing but atoms, molecular structures, no different in kind from this desk or that pen, then we ought to always be rushing irresistibly, blindly, towards serving our own selfish ends. So how is it that there is love in this world? I mean love as a God might love, and a man will give his life for another.” When 274

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Cutshaw returns to the castle, years later and obviously returned to sanity, a fellow soldier says, “I heard they had a doctor there who was really a killer.” Cutshaw replies, “He was a lamb.” Kane’s Christ-like sacrifice is also echoed in The Exorcist III, in a combined effort from Kinderman and Karras. In one version of the film, the director’s cut, Kinderman shoots the Gemini Killer’s father, the reason the Gemini Killer remained on Earth, determined to kill, thus ending the cycle with an act of seemingly cynical violence. In the studio version, the film ends with an exorcism. Kinderman must save the priest, Fr. Paul Morning (Nicol Williamson), in a battle of wills with the Gemini Killer. Karras, whose spirit still lingers, buried within his body, is temporarily able to regain control and drive the demon away. He begs Kinderman to kill him, and Kinderman obliges. Essentially, the conclusions of The Exorcist, The Ninth Configuration, and The Exorcist III render each film as religious horror, as they all hinge on the notion of sacrifice. Violence is committed not as a selfish or self-preserving act—and not as an act of vengeance, as in vigilante films—but as an act of kindness and love. These acts of sacrifice are attempts, however futile or violent, to drive away some of the very horror of being in the modern world. As Kane says to Cutshaw, “You’re convinced that God is dead because there’s evil in the world […] Then why don’t you think He’s alive because of the goodness in the world?”

REFERENCES Altman, R. (Director). (1970). MASH [Motion picture]. United States: 20th Century Fox. Blatty, W.P. (1973). Twinkle, Twinkle, “Killer” Kane. New York, NY: Signet.

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scared sacred Blatty, W.P. (Director). (1980). The Ninth Configuration [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Blatty, W.P. (Director). (1990). The Exorcist III [Motion picture]. United States: 20th Century Fox. Blatty, W.P. (2011). Legion. New York, NY: Tor. Blatty, W.P. (2014). The Ninth Configuration. New York, NY: Tor. Blatty, W.P. (2017). The Exorcist. New York, NY: Harper. Browning, T. (Director). (1931). Dracula [Motion picture]. United States: Universal Pictures. Capra, F. (Director). (1946). It’s a Wonderful Life [Motion picture]. United States: RKO Radio Pictures.  Carney, R. (1986). American Vision: The Films of Frank Capra. Cambridge, England; New York, NY; & Melbourne, Australia: Cambridge University Press. Clifton, J. (2011). The Face of a Fiend: Convulsion, Inversion, and the Horror of the Disempowered Body. Oxford Art Journal, 34(3). Coppola, F.F. (Director). (1992). Bram Stoker’s Dracula [Motion picture]. United States: Columbia Pictures.  Cronenberg, D. (Director). (1975). Shivers [Motion picture]. Canada: Cinépix Film Properties Inc. Cronenberg, D. (Director). (1977). Rabid [Motion picture]. Canada & United States: Cinépix Film Properties Inc. & New World Pictures. Donner, R. (Director). (1976). The Omen [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Fox-Rank & 20th Century Fox. Dreyer, C.T. (Director). (1932). Vampyr: Der Traum des Allan Gray [Vampyr: The Dream of Allan Gray; motion picture]. France & Germany: Vereinigte Star-Film GmbH. Ebert, R. (1973, December 26). The Exorcist Movie Review. Rogerebert.com. Retrieved from https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/the-exorcist-1973 Forman, M. (Director). (1975). One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists. Friedkin, W. (Director). (1973). The Exorcist [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Hitchcock, A. (Director). (1945). Spellbound [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists. Joshi, S.T. (2001). The Weird Modern Tale. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co.

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i believe in death Kubrick, S. (Director). (1964). Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Columbia Pictures. Le Fanu, J.T.S. (2005). Carmilla. Rockville, MD: Wildside Press. Levin, I. (1997). Rosemary’s Baby. New York, NY: Penguin Books. Lewis, R. (2017). Hamlet and the Vision of Darkness. Princeton, NJ & Woodstock, England: Princeton University Press. Mortimer, L. (Winter, 1995). The Grim Enchantment of “It’s a Wonderful Life”. The Massachusetts Review, 36(4). Murnau, F.W. (Director). Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens [Nosferatu, a Symphony of Horror; motion picture]. Germany: Film Arts Guild. Pedlar, V. (2006). ‘The Most Dreadful Visitation’: Male Madness in Victorian Fiction. Liverpool, England: Liverpool University Press. Polanski, R. (Director). (1968). Rosemary’s Baby [Motion picture]. United States: Paramount Pictures.  Russell, K. (Director). (1971). The Devils [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Scorsese, M. (Director). (1976). Taxi Driver [Motion picture]. United States: Columbia Pictures. Shakespeare, W. (1992). Hamlet: Norton Critical Second Edition (C. Hoy, Ed.). New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company. Siegel, D. (Director). (1971). Dirty Harry [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Stevenson, R.L., & Luckhurst, R. (2006). Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, and Other Tales (Oxford World’s Classics). Oxford, England & New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Stoker, B. (2003). Dracula (Penguin Classics) (M. Hindle, Ed.). London, England: Penguin Books. Sturges, J. (Director). (1963). The Great Escape [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists. Wells, H. (2005). The Island of Doctor Moreau (Penguin Classics) (P. Parrinder, Ed.). London, England: Penguin Books. White, M. (2013). Cinema Detours. [n.p.]: Mike White. Wiene, R. (Director). (1920). Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari [The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari; motion picture]. Germany: Decla-Bioscop AG.

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scared sacred Winner, M. (Director). (1974). Death Wish [Motion picture]. United States: Paramount Pictures. Younker, N. (2015, May 30). “The Exorcist” Controversy: Film Used Tactics Previously Tested by US Government to Scare Audiences. Latin Post. Retrieved from https://www.latinpost.com/articles/56565/20150530/theexorcist-controversy-film-used-c-i-a-tested-tactics-to-scare-audiences. htm

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THE LAST TEMPTATION: DEMONIC WARFARE AND SUPERNATURAL SACRIFICE IN THE AMITYVILLE HORROR (1979) AND WHEN THE LIGHTS WENT OUT (2012) ERIN THOMPSON

of the demonic in the home remains one of the Themostpresence haunting fears in global horror cinema, stemming

from a historical and archetypal fear of the supernatural across world cultures. Accounts of alleged activity have been recorded in locations ranging from Europe to South America to Asia, across both ancient and modern societies. Demonic manifestations involve encounters with evil spirits focused on harmful intent and often culminate in the most insidious form of domestic invasion: possession. In Jewish culture, demonic possession is determined to be “a punishment for some crime either known or unrevealed” upon the afflicted (Calmet, 1850, p. 116). In Islamic scripture, humans are corrupted by and act upon persistent “satanic whisperings (wasāwis)” (Sells, 1996, p. 143). In Catholicism, the invading demonic entity seeks to destroy not only the physical and mental faculties of the possessed but the religious faith of those around them. Here, the invading entity takes “full 281

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possession of the body (not the soul); he speaks and acts without the knowledge or consent of the victim, who therefore is morally blameless” (Amorth, 1999, p. 33). Catholic possession occurs in a formulaic and corrosive manner: oppression (with symptoms similar to a mild illness); obsession (which includes suicidal ideation and compulsive thoughts); demonic infestation of inanimate objects and/or animals; and a voluntary submission to the demonic entity by means of inviting the entity to assume control of the body (Amorth, 1999, pp. 33-35). This final stage, subjugation, is a battle for the soul. Historically, Catholic possession was viewed as a punishment from God for misdeeds and lack of belief. As science evolved, this notion of possession as divine punishment dissipated but was later revived in the 1960s and 1970s, thanks in part to popularized movements such as the Church of Satan and the publication of William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist in 1971 (Kiely & McKenna, 2007). As an extension of this popular culture, horror cinema demonstrates the Catholic model of possession, in which the individual must choose to expel the spirit during an exorcism with the assistance of those of strong faith. This was propagated by influential creators and figures such as William Friedkin, director of The Exorcist (1973) and the documentary The Devil and Father Amorth (2018),10 and Ed and Lorraine Warren, the infamous and controversial demonologist and psychic pairing involved in several high-profile paranormal cases that have since received cinematic treatments, such as Stuart Rosenberg’s The Amityville Horror (1979). As with Pat Holden’s When the Lights Went Out (2012), these two films prominently display the 10 Rev. Fr. Gabriele Amorth was the appointed chief exorcist for the Vatican and founded the Association of International Exorcists in 1990.

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aforementioned pattern of demonic invasion and possession, with the additional component of consent and temptation in a Christian context. Both films seek to reconcile the struggle of the demonic with religious devotion and surrender, echoing sentiments of temptation and ritualistic sacrifice prevalent in the Bible. The act of possession is one that seeks to isolate the believer from their connection to others and a sense of open-mindedness. In the United States, for example, the evangelical Protestant third-wave movement in the 1980s sought to segregate its definition of spiritual salvation from the rich cornucopia of world religions (McCloud, 2015). This anti-globalist approach functioned as a type of spiritual warfare in its singular view that the believer of the evangelical God must shun the differing cultures and religions of others to drown out potentially demonic influences. Such influences were regarded as the work of Satan, spreading disease and mortal sins like adultery and murder through the influence of false gods (McCloud, 2015). Therefore, exposure and acceptance of diverse beliefs were probable cause for demonic possession, as agents of Satan could work their way into an unsuspecting believer’s life under the guise of open-minded spiritual tolerance. The path toward righteousness and salvation could leave no wiggle room for differing beliefs because it left the door wide open for demonic influence and, presumably, the loss of the body and soul to Satan. The term ‘demonic’ is frequently employed to describe instances of possession, as a result of cultural beliefs and artistic work furthering the impression that all supernatural encounters are of a demonic nature. A “demon” is defined as “an evil spirit,” “an evil passion or influence,” or “a person considered extremely 283

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wicked, evil, or cruel” (Dictionary.com, n.d.). The word appeared in Middle English around 1350 and refers to a fallen divine being, often described as a devil or Satan. As William Kent (1908) writes: In Scripture and in Catholic theology this word has come to mean much the same as devil and denotes one of the evil spirits or fallen angels. And in fact in some places in the New Testament where the Vulgate, in agreement with the Greek, has daemonium, our vernacular versions read devil. (para. 1) David M. Kiely and Christina McKenna (2007) state that lumping together every instance of the supernatural under the umbrella term ‘demonic’ is misleading, as individuals may encounter once-human beings known as restless dead—earthbound ghosts, or ‘“low spirits,”’ who either express anger at their inability to cross over to the other side or wish to disturb the physical environment (p. xxiii). The nature of the demonic is thus divided into two schools of thought: those who believe the demonic force originates from a strictly supernatural, never-human entity, and those who define demons as once-human spirits seeking to corrupt living beings. Either way, humans fall victim to a supernatural entity that seeks to rob them of their faculties and inflict harm. Jay Anson’s 1977 book The Amityville Horror establishes this cycle of possession and sacrifice. Anson describes the events of a fateful 28 days in the Lutz family home—the infamous 112 Ocean Avenue in Long Island, New York. The Lutz family purchased and moved into their dream house in 1975, one year after the previous occupants, the DeFeo family, were murdered in their beds by the only surviving member, eldest son Ronald Jr. His confession changed multiple times, including accusations that 284

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his sister Dawn committed the murders before he killed her in self-defense, an attempt to establish links between his family and organized crime, and a somewhat foreboding claim that he committed the murders under the influence of an evil entity. The Lutz family subsequently secured the home in Amityville for a welcome steep discount, unaware of the increasingly terrifying and violent supernatural phenomena they would soon experience. Anson’s book documents the continued impact upon Fr. Mancuso, a priest who experiences nausea, vomiting, and a bloody nose as a result of visiting the house, leading him to ponder whether he should continue his involvement in the investigation of the Lutz family disturbance. Despite describing instances of family unity, the family finds itself subjected to supernatural terrorism, including being watched by “a pair of unblinking red eyes,” tracks outside “like those of an enormous pig,” and an incident in which mother Kathy is levitated violently on her bed, after which red welts appear on her body (Anson, 2005, pp. 148149). Though many claim hoax involvement, both George and Kathy Lutz maintained until their deaths that the alleged experiences in the Amityville house were genuine. In various public appearances after the book’s release, the Lutzes admitted that the book had exploited details to promote sales but that there was something very wrong with the house. The authenticity of the experience remains a hotly contested subject. Worthy of note is the lasting impact upon the Lutz children. In Eric Walter’s documentary My Amityville Horror (2012), Daniel Lutz states, “This is not something I enjoy discussing. I don’t look forward to this shit because once I start talking about it, even just to bring you back to a moment for a moment, I

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become stuck with it.” Regardless of truth, at least one Lutz child endures a lasting trauma as a result of his time in the house. Scriptwriter Sandor Stern’s embellished changes in The Amityville Horror create a tale with marked yet pertinent differences from its source material. George (James Brolin) and Kathy (Margot Kidder) purchase the home on Ocean Avenue for a toogood-to-be-true reduction roughly one year after the slaying of the former occupants. Like the book, the family almost immediately begins to experience supernatural phenomena after moving in, including unexplained noises around the house and the arrival of a disruptive imaginary friend named Jody for young daughter Amy (Natasha Ryan). Amy notes, “Jody doesn’t like George,” marking George as the focal point of demonic activity. Unlike the book, George’s demeanor deteriorates to the point of anti-social behavior and violence against the family, ranging from snappish verbal comments to hitting Kathy during an argument. Kathy, in a departure from the book, does not beat her children (the book suggests this anger was a residual response to the initial stages of possession), and instead functions as the suffering wife/mother figure who watches her new husband descend into a cycle of depression and darkness. Additionally, Fr. Mancuso has become Fr. Delaney (Rod Steiger) in the film. His role has been considerably expanded to psychotherapist-priest, adding weight to his religious position. Delaney experiences illness, blindness, and a car accident once he begins to associate with the house on Ocean Avenue. He undergoes a battle of his own, encountering static when he attempts to call the house and a voice that tells him “Get out!” when he visits. Delaney expresses frustration that the Church refuses to help the Lutz family further. Another priest, Fr. Bolen 286

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(Don Stroud) expressly states, “I believe we create our own demons in our own minds,” suggesting that the experience is not entirely supernatural in nature. The Lutz family, for their part, is largely non-religious, relying upon a quasi-medium experience from New Age family friend Carolyn (Helen Shaver) to inform them that their home historically functioned as a type of asylum for Shinnecock Native Americans. In an altered voice, Carolyn declares the hidden room George discovers in the basement to be “the passage to Hell” before urging the family to leave. The most noteworthy difference between the source material and the film comes in the form of the climax. In Anson’s book, the incident that drives the Lutz family from their home involves a cacophony of noise, an animal-like figure chasing the family, and a deeply sleeping Kathy. In Rosenberg’s film, the climax presents a dissociated George attempting to murder his family with an axe; he snaps out of the murderous state when Kathy begs him, “Don’t hurt my babies!” United in their determination to escape, the family flees, leaving all possessions behind in the home. Similarly, When the Lights Went Out adapts a famous haunting in England. The incidents dramatized are based upon the infamous Black Monk of Pontefract haunting in Yorkshire, United Kingdom. From August 1966 to May 1969, the Pritchard family— Joe, Jean, son Phillip, and daughter Diane—experienced lights being turned on and off, puddles of water appearing with no apparent source, and furniture and household items moving of their own accord, with the most violent incident involving Diane being dragged up the stairs by the throat (Wilson, 2009). While most of the incidents described by the family lacked violence, the physical attack on Diane is utilized as the basis for the climax of Holden’s film. 287

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In the film, set in Pontefract during the blackout winter of 1973–74 when electricity was rationed in England as a result of inflation, the Maynard family—mother Jenny (Kate Ashfield), father Len (Steven Waddington), and daughter Sally (Tasha Connor)—move into a new home made available through government support. The family settles in quickly, only to experience a series of strange occurrences that are initially blamed on Sally. Sally tries to convince her parents that the house is haunted, having been contacted by the spirit of a murdered young girl who warns her about a second presence in the house, the nefarious monk who killed her. Tensions mount in the home amid the intensifying activity. Jenny does not want to lose the obvious upgrade from previous and alternative living arrangements, and Sally experiences social isolation in a family unit and school that do not believe her claims. Eventually, as the monk’s assaults become increasingly violent and are witnessed by the Maynards and acquaintances, local priest Fr. Clifton (Gary Lewis) is called in to perform an unsanctioned exorcism on the house. The ritual does not work and Sally is violently attacked and nearly killed by the monk. It soon becomes apparent that only sacrifice can save Sally and her family. The young girl’s ghost is tied to this plane via a material possession, a locket. Sally burns it, allowing the released spirit to confront and exorcise the demonic force, and both entities vanish. This double sacrifice, as Sally has lost her only friend, becomes a triple one in that the family choose to relinquish their prime worldly possession—their home. In each film, both families struggle financially and are finally able to afford a house they believe out of reach. The Maynard family relies on government assistance to attain their new home. In the United Kingdom, local council housing is granted to 288

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individuals and families experiencing hardship, such as cramped living conditions, homelessness, and medical conditions (GOV. UK, n.d.). Housing issues in England reached crisis levels between the 1960s and mid-1970s, the timeframe of the real-life haunting. This period was characterized by rapid inflation, a high debtto-credit ratio, unemployment, and low homeownership rates, though a major bank bailout in 1976 and mortgage requirement deregulation helped boost homeownership from 50% in 1970 to 56% by 1981 (Rubenstein, 1993, pp. 41-42). In transposing the action of the film to the 1970s rather than the 1960s, the economic hardship and thus necessity of council housing indicates the Maynards’ plight in the face of a domestic demonic threat. The supernatural phenomena associated with both The Amityville Horror and When the Lights Went Out has been the subject of scientific grappling for some time, as both real-life cases were attributed to a poltergeist. A phenomenon notoriously difficult to define, the poltergeist is generally described as “an unusual form of energy produced most often by a young person,” though “ghosts or demon possession” may function as the root cause (Clarkson, 2011, p. 11). While documented poltergeist attacks have a relatively short duration of approximately one week to three months, instances of poltergeist activity may stem from extreme stress and include but are not limited to unexplained knocking, electrical outages, pockets of cold temperatures, and unfamiliar voices (Clarkson, 2011). Typically, the perception of the poltergeist is of a playful trickster, with the entity or energy seeking attention in an almost childlike fashion. As the manifestation of energy is thought to stem from the presence of a distressed adolescent, this perception of a loud but harmless entity persists in dramatic interpretations of alleged cases within popular culture. 289

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Recent depictions have given way to the sensational, sinister, and physically harmful poltergeist, as evidenced by such films as Poltergeist (1982) and The Conjuring 2 (2016), as well as purported paranormal encounters in books such as Unleashed: Of Poltergeists and Murder: The Curious Story of Tina Resch (Roll & Storey, 2004). Commonly, poltergeist manifestations are attributed to a hoax instance or the possibility of psychokinetic abilities, also known as PK, which is thought to be a component of zero-point energy, a theory that states gravity and inertia may be manipulated to propel objects (Clarkson, 2011). An individual capable of causing the poltergeist phenomenon is known as an agent and is typically “an adolescent of above-average intelligence with a low tolerance for frustration, repressing feelings of aggression and hostility […] In many, if not most cases there seems to be a buildup of stress, fear, frustration, or anger in a household and/or in the poltergeist agent” (Clarkson, 2011, pp. 82-83). Author Michael Clarkson (2011) refers to PK as a type of fight-or-flight response called the “emergency fear system,” which displays physical manifestations such as pupil dilation, increased air supply, and heightened concentration—all of which has the potential to provoke a psychokinetic response (p. 86). Clarkson (2011) offers that poltergeist activity may be relieved via the passage of time, psychotherapy, or the addressing of any stressors that could aggravate the potential agent of the disturbance. Stressors exist in the form of a new household and the pressure to succeed financially in both films. In The Amityville Horror, newlyweds George and Kathy purchase a home that would have been otherwise unavailable to them to provide a fresh start with their new, blended family. Both situations, the uprooting of one familiar environment to another and the integration of young 290

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children into a new marriage, are more than enough cause for a substantial amount of stress. In the case of the Maynard family in When the Lights Went Out, Jenny is determined to retain the house that government support has provided—to her, it is a beautiful home she is lucky to have, and she refuses to surrender it without a fight. Furthermore, Jenny and Len have one of the most formidable manifestations of stress known to humankind: a sullen teenager. Sally expresses her displeasure at the move through body language and verbal communication; she clashes with her mother in a fashion many today would consider borderline abusive, from hurtful accusations to physical attacks. Both films have ample sources of familial conflict, including children who act out against the latest forms of change over which they have no control and thus possess the most potential to physically manifest a psychic temper-tantrum. One tendency of poltergeist phenomena is to center around female children of a certain age range. Documenting the Black Monk of Pontefract haunting, Colin Wilson (2009) notes that, at different times, both Phillip and Diane became targets of the entity the family came to dub ‘Fred.’ Wilson (2009) suggests that this dual focus was due to turmoil experienced in the form of a personality clash between father and teenage son; avid sportsman Joe was often at odds with the more arts-minded Phillip, who, as a pubescent boy experiencing many life changes at once, fit the profile of traits typically associated with poltergeist activity. Curiously, the cinematic adaptation negates the presence of Phillip, a significant participant in the family’s ordeal. The film elects to convert the father/son dynamic into a more stereotypical, in both social convention and in poltergeist documentation, mother/teenaged daughter clash of personalities and struggle for dominance. 291

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Another commonality between the films lies within the respective families’ lack of religious practice. The gaping religious hole for both the Maynard and Lutz clans is an Achilles heel for each family—a weak spot vulnerable to supernatural attack on a spiritual level. George admits within the first few minutes of The Amityville Horror that he is not religious, and Kathy is only slightly better in this respect as the party who offers to hang the silver crucifix on the wall of their home, though even she admits that this is more for decoration than a sense of devotion. Likewise, Jenny in When the Lights Went Out openly admits her reluctance to contact any of the spiritual advisers at her local church as the family has not attended service in quite some time—as such, she does not feel that they would be considered candidates for assistance. Both families have turned away from the path of belief, which has removed them from the protection of the holy. Arguably, this removal allows the demonic entity greater access to George and Sally as the desired targets. George quickly becomes a vessel for the entity in his home; he focuses on himself and his need to stay warm, continually chopping wood to feed the fire and becoming angry at every disruption of that activity. Eventually, he loses control and nearly kills his family. Sally, similarly, is left in a vulnerable position by both her poor social attitude toward making friends and external influences such as her friend Lucy’s (Hannah Clifford) overprotective mother refusing to let her child enter Sally’s home. Once she is socially isolated, the spirit of the murdered girl blows smoke into Sally’s face. Sally is later found retracing the last steps of the dead girl into the woods, and the girl’s face is reflected in the window of the car in which Sally rides. Sally’s social isolation 292

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and lack of religious protection lead the dead girl to essentially overtake Sally by manipulating her basic human need of longing for emotional comfort. Sally thus becomes a vessel for the original target of the Black Monk’s murderous intent, with the action of possession on the dead girl’s part condemning Sally to participate in a cycle of murder against Sally’s will in the absence of God. Unguarded by God, George and Sally leave themselves exposed to a hostile spiritual takeover. Both The Amityville Horror and When the Lights Went Out bear a strikingly similar formula in their supernatural experiences. The families experience increasingly hostile physical supernatural activity that causes them to invite a religious figure to rid the home of the presence. In both instances, the ritual fails, leaving each target with an ultimate choice: to embrace the entity or fight against it with the support of the family. Unsurprisingly, the solution to their crises comes in the form of ultimate surrender to the spiritual guidance and grace of God in the face and clutches of demonic temptation. The topic of temptation emerges at several points in the Bible, with varying results. In the Book of Genesis, Eve eats the apple from the Tree of Knowledge at the behest of the serpent (Genesis 3). Though she expresses that God has forbidden knowledge to both Eve and Adam, the serpent tells her: “Ye shall not surely die […] For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:4-5). The serpent promises equality and knowledge; despite God’s warning, this attractive temptation proves too much and Eve eats the fruit. Less successful in temptation is Satan when he tempts Christ in the Book of Matthew:

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Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; And saith unto him, All these things I will give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me. Then saith Jesus unto him, Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve. (Matthew 4:8-10) The theme remains the same in the example of Christ’s temptation, when Christ is offered power in return for allegiance to Satan. However, Christ chooses to exercise free will to worship God instead of Satan, which prevents Christ’s damnation in a similar fashion to Eve and Adam. Such loyalty is revisited in the story of Abraham, who is summoned by God to sacrifice his only son, Isaac. Abraham prepares to complete the task without question until God stops him: “And he said, Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me” (Genesis 22:12). The choice Abraham faces is one of personal want and happiness versus trust in his God; despite his love for his son, he places his faith in God’s plan and obeys His orders. Abraham’s unblinking devotion is not lost upon the thematic issues of obedience and protection. The test put forth by God focuses squarely on Abraham, who conceals the fact that Isaac will become the burnt offering God demands, effectively lying to the child by omission via semantics (Hendel, 2013). Abraham’s willingness to comply with orders grants him revered status in Christianity, Islam, and Judaism—he does as he is told and thus becomes a 294

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symbol of great faith and unquestioning obedience (van Schaik & Michel, 2016). Abraham’s test of faith echoes the loyalty required to be saved by God in situations of great psychic and physical peril while attempting to reconcile why God would demand such a price in the first place. The rationale behind proof of faith is one that requires a bit of mental gymnastics. Traditionally, the will of the Christian God (and many other deities across belief systems throughout history) is not questioned because it is the will of the divine ruling class. Inherently, the divine being “may legitimately harm humans to test them, or just because it pleases them to do so, without any humanly comprehensible reason” (Fiske & Rai, 2015, p. 51). God gets away with asking for the violent sacrifice of Isaac because God is infallible. In this respect, to refuse the sacrifice and embrace temptation and desire is to refuse the supreme authority of God. The answer to unifying this loyalty comes in the form of acknowledging the infirmity of the body while affirming the fortitude of the mind. The body is often regarded as a boon of the Christian experience; it is historically weak, requiring such sustenance as food and water while declining the spiritual perils of sexual activity (Clapp, 2004). The body’s inherent weakness leads to the possibility of mental and therefore spiritual corruption. Interestingly, the Genesis Apocryphon, one of the original Dead Sea Scrolls discovered in Qumran in 1946, expands Abraham’s role via an act highly reminiscent of modern-day exorcism practices, in which he expels an illness from the Pharaoh “by the laying of his hands” on his head (Fitzmyer, 1971, p. 141). Although this power is never mentioned again, Abraham is presented as a figure defined by temptation, sacrifice, and possession. A 295

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reading framed by these themes suggests that, despite his fears and the personal cost of his faith, Abraham’s unquestioning trust in the divine renders his decidedly human form an instrument of demonic expulsion. Logistically, consciously turning over dominion of the human body and mind to God places trust in a party that cannot fail. As God is infallible, acceptance rather than rebellion marks the true believer, especially when the believer lacks the physical strength to conquer evil. Circling back to The Amityville Horror and When the Lights Went Out, the minds and bodies of the characters impacted by the demonic entities support this theory of required governance due to their extreme weakness. George Lutz desires financial comfort and elects to place his family in an environment where others were murdered; he later experiences a demonic takeover that turns him into an axe-wielding puppet. Fr. Delaney, a man who struggles to reconcile his psychological training with his role as a spiritual leader, is left physically ill and unable to see. The lonely Sally Maynard is befriended by a spirit, who she in turn houses as she becomes more withdrawn from social activity, and is later physically dragged and nearly murdered by hanging. Each of these characters undergoes a temptation of sorts, the source of which is a promise of something that these individuals are currently in need of. When these costs become too great, the characters find that they lack the ability to physically challenge their otherworldly aggressors. They cannot conquer this alone— as such, they must engage in a sacrifice to protect themselves and those they love. Traditionally, religious sacrifice holds three distinct connotations: “(1) as a gift to the divinity, or (2) as a means of or expression of communion with God, or (3) as a means of propitiation 296

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or expiation,” with the understanding that these reasons may be combined at any time (Daly, 1978, p. 41). At its core, sacrifice is a communication tool. The act opens a dialogue with God wherein one may affirm devotion, apologize for poor behavior, or convey a nature of pure trust via the allegiance of free will. Sacrifice changes an act of physical harm to one of transmission and transcendence, but the human in question must be willing to surrender completely to receive God’s blessing and assistance. The individual must place full consent with God to defeat the demonic entity that plagues them. The stand that the Lutz and Maynard families must respectively take is a rejection of overwhelming demonic domination in the name of owning a home. George Lutz falls into a murderous rage due to the influence of the supernatural entity, and not even Karen’s crucifix (the only religious icon in the home and thus the last symbolic stand) can help because George has allowed the entity to possess him. Karen’s pleading assists in his battle to reject the entity and regain control, and George ultimately makes the conscious decision to sacrifice his home and financial security to save his family. The Maynard family faces a similar conundrum: while Jenny instigates a steadfast refusal to leave their new home, Sally is the one who invites the company of the dead girl, which attracts the attention of the Black Monk. It is Sally’s need for socialization and belonging that allows the entity to terrorize the family. In turn, the family must swallow their pride and consent to an exorcism, which fails because they are not giving anything up in the name of being saved. Jenny must witness her daughter’s physical attack before making the conscious decision to prioritize her child’s safety over her long-sought social standing. Sally, for her part, must burn the 297

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necklace of her dead friend to defeat the menacing entity, surrendering her only friend in the hope of ending her family’s torment. Both Maynard women must sacrifice a cherished goal to ensure the well-being of their family, at a psychological and possibly physical expense. The combination of the experiences depicted in the films, each based on real-life claims, and their biblical themes demonstrates a trial by fire that beholds relevance to the greater population. Both families exist in circumstances that the audience can relate to—the desire for a spacious home, the wish to get ahead financially, the stress of blending families and parenting adolescents etc.—and therefore make their plight even more terrifying. After all, if this pattern can happen to the Maynard family down the street or the Lutz family next door, it can happen, theoretically, to anyone. The true tale of terror is the realization that an ordinary person can experience the supernatural and potentially lose control over their mind, body, and environment. The story of Abraham provides some hope: in surrender, the divine can intervene just as quickly to protect. If one consents to allow the demonic access—no matter how misguided—they must revoke that consent and turn toward God to expel it, even if the action requires the sacrifice of something precious. These examples demonstrate the power of agency and surrender in the face of temptation and evil. The medium of the horror film therefore functions as a visual reinforcement of the necessity of religious belief and its connotations of personal sacrifice to obtain divine protection. The audience becomes the de facto believers, as plots featuring familiar themes lead to great danger and finally triumph once opened to the presence of a protective god against invading forces of ruin. 298

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Furthermore, the films manage to translate the microcosm of the story into the macrocosm of the greater battle for humanity. The concept and execution of paranormal activity and sacrifice in The Amityville Horror and When the Lights Went Out is reflective of the principles of an ongoing spiritual war. The key players, however, are not merely the demonic and the heavenly—rather, the battle occurs between the demonic entity and free will. The individual must decide whether they are going to surrender to God’s will and protection or embrace the darkness for material possession. The war is not fought for the physical body but the possession of the soul and the decision-making process. Whether the individual in question decides to give in to darkness or sacrifice on the blind faith that everything will work out—much like Abraham did—depends entirely upon the free thinker in the equation, marking the human as an attractive target with the supreme power of destination.

REFERENCES Amorth, G. (1999). An Exorcist Tells His Story (N.V. MacKenzie, Trans.). San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press. Anson, J. (2005). The Amityville Horror. New York, NY: Pocket Star Books. Blatty, W.P. (1971). The Exorcist. New York, NY: Harper. Calmet, A. (1850). The Phantom World: The History and Philosophy of Spirits, Apparitions, &c., &c. Philadelphia, PA: A. Hart. Clapp, R. (2004). Tortured Wonders: Christian Spirituality for People, Not Angels. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press. Clarkson, M. (2011). The Poltergeist Phenomenon: An In-Depth Investigation Into Floating Beds, Smashing Glass, and Other Unexplained Disturbances. Pompton Plains, NJ: The Career Press Inc.

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scared sacred Daly, R.J. (1978). Christian Sacrifice. Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press. Demon [Def. 1, 2 & 3]. (n.d.). Dictionary.com. Retrieved from http://www. dictionary.com/browse/demon Fiske, A.P., & Rai, T.S. (2015). Virtuous Violence. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Fitzmyer, J.A. (1971). The Genesis Apocryphon of Qumran Cave 1: A Commentary. Rome, Italy: Biblical Institute Press. Friedkin, W. (Director). (1973). The Exorcist [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Friedkin, W. (Director). (2018). The Devil and Father Amorth [Motion picture]. Italy & United States: The Orchard. GOV.UK. (n.d.). Council Housing. Retrieved from https://www.gov.uk/ council-housing Hendel, R. (2013). The Book of Genesis: A Biography. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Holden, P. (Director). (2012). When the Lights Went Out [Motion picture]. United Kingdom: Kintop Pictures. Hooper, T. (Director). (1982). Poltergeist [Motion picture]. United States: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Kent, W. (1908). Demons. The Catholic Encyclopedia. New York, NY: Robert Appleton Company. Retrieved from http://www.newadvent.org/ cathen/04710a.htm Kiely, D.M., & McKenna, C. (2007). The Dark Sacrament: True Stories of Modern-Day Demon Possession and Exorcism. New York, NY: HarperOne. McCloud, S. (2015). American Possessions: Fighting Demons in the Contemporary United States. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Roll, W., & Storey, V. (2004). Unleashed: Of Poltergeists and Murder: The Curious Story of Tina Resch. New York, NY: Paraview. Rosenberg, S. (Director). (1979). The Amityville Horror [Motion picture]. United States: American International Pictures. Rubenstein, W.D. (1993). Capitalism, Culture and Decline in Britain 17501990. London, England: Routledge. Sells, M.A. (1996). Early Islamic Mysticism: Sufi, Qur’an, Mi’raj, Poetic and Theological Writings. Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press.

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the last temptation Van Schaik, C., & Michel, K. (2016). The Good Book of Human Nature: An Evolutionary Reading of the Bible. New York, NY: Basic Books. Walter, E. (Director). (2012). My Amityville Horror [Motion picture]. United States: Film Regions International (FRI). Wan, J. (Director). (2016). The Conjuring 2 [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Wilson, C. (2009). Poltergeist! A Classic Study in Destructive Haunting. Woodbury, MN: Llewellyn Publications.

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A TASTE FOR BLOOD AND TRUTH: BILL GUNN’S GANJA & HESS (1973) dr JOHN CUSSANS

NIGHT OF THE BLACK SOUL Black—we cannot forget—aspires also to be a color. The color of obscurity. In this view Black is what lives the night, what lives in the night, whose life is turned into night. Night is its original envelope, the tissue out of which its flesh is made. It is its coat of arms, its uniform. The journey through night and this life as night renders Black invisible. (Mbembe, 2017, p. 152) a rare recorded 1987 interview with journalist Tim Ferrante, Inactor Duane L. Jones explained that he created a mysterious and

enigmatic persona for himself in order to lead a private life after the success of Night of the Living Dead (1968). This was not due to a lack of gratitude on his part for the praise given to him and the film; it was, rather, an absolute insistence that he be seen as a “total human being” (cited in Ferrante, 2015). Commentaries on George A. Romero’s genre-defining zombie film have tended to focus on two main aspects of Jones’ role: that he was a black lead character in an otherwise all-white cast and that his performance was exceptional. That an African American lead actor had been 303

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directed, scripted, or chose not to play ‘Black’ was unusual for the time. That he played Ben, the unassuming hero of the story and the last survivor of a besieged company of messed-up white folks, made this exception even more notable. And, although Romero himself claimed that his casting was entirely color blind, Ben’s murder by local vigilantes at the end of the film has been read by many as an explicit reference to the racist violence of the civil rights era.11 Later in the interview, Jones spoke about the remarkable and disturbing predictability of the questions he would be asked about the film (the composition of the flesh the ghouls feasted on being the most common), likening them to a locked groove on a record that would drive you insane if you thought about it too much. Reading between the lines, one senses that Jones may have been mildly embarrassed by the kind of audiences the film had attracted over the 20 years since its release. Jones was no teenage gore-hound; on a professional level, he complained that the independent aura of the film, combined with the fact that some of the cast were not trained actors, led many journalists to assume the entire cast and crew were amateurs. However, the film’s production company Image Ten, which had grown out of an earlier company created by Romero and his colleagues, Latent Image, had been making television commercials in Pittsburgh since 1962. This included a campaign piece for Senator George McGovern, focusing on infant mortality within the black community, for which Jones may have provided the voiceover. Jones himself was a multilingual, professional actor who had trained at the Actors Studio in New York (Russo, 1985). Although Ben’s character was 11 The first of such readings was Serge Daney’s article for the French magazine Cahiers Du Cinéma in 1970.

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not scripted as black, he was, according to Karl Hardman, the film’s producer, meant to be a lower-class, uneducated individual. Jones, who had studied in Norway and Paris, and at the time of filming was working as a teacher in New York and completing a master’s degree in Communications, took it upon himself to upgrade Ben’s dialogue according to his own experience and personality (Kane, 2010). Even if Ben had no biography, the actor playing him did. For Jones, it was as important not to play dumb as it was not to play Black. Yet, despite his resistance to playing either class-based or racial stereotypes, Jones was not oblivious to the likely impact his role would have for black audiences in the United States, at a time when the civil rights movement had brought the issue of systemic racial discrimination, widespread institutional inequality, and sedimented racist ideologies to the foreground of popular political consciousness. When the crew were discussing whether to have Ben killed at the end of the film, it was Jones who insisted that he should be shot, convincing Romero that the black community would rather see him dead than saved. Jones’ next major film role would be Dr. Hess Green in Bill Gunn’s ‘black vampire’ film, Ganja & Hess (1973). Hess was a cosmopolitan intellectual, an author and doctor of both anthropology and geology, living a private and solitary life. He was, as such, a character much closer to the enigmatic persona Jones had created for himself after Night of the Living Dead, and to the actual Jones, whose scholarly and educational work was as important to him as his acting career. How Jones came to meet Bill Gunn is not, to my knowledge, on record. In all likelihood, they knew each other from the off-Broadway theater circuit on which they were both active in the early 1970s. Whether Gunn 305

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chose Jones because of his association with Night of the Living Dead is also a matter of conjecture, as is Jones’ decision to play the lead in another ‘horror film.’ What does seem to be clear, given the social milieu in which Gunn and Jones are likely to have met, is that the politics of race and the Black experience of class, violence, and trauma were issues that could no longer be left to the goodwill of white production companies, no matter how hip or color blind they might be. Toward the end of the interview with Ferrante (2015), Jones recollects with fondness the atmosphere of the shoot. One event, however, disturbingly out of character in the general ambience of goodwill and camaraderie among the cast and crew, lodged itself indelibly in Jones’ memory: There was a point where they, the crew and George, were planning a shot and setting up, and it was getting to be late afternoon-evening, and this magnificent butterfly wandered into the house and I remember clearly that it landed on the far wall and [...] every single one of us stopped what we were doing and we were just standing around admiring this beautiful, beautiful creature that had just come in among us as a spirit and sort of attached itself on the wall. And soon it was time to get started and someone thought that his idea of a joke would be to come and smash the butterfly. And I remember […] the silence of the group, and this visceral reaction of wanting to regurgitate was just so real, that that moment sticks out in my mind […] It was a bizarre moment. But it was out of sync with everything. Nobody could believe that he had done that...to us, and to this butterfly.

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When Romero and his team were delivering the final cut of Night of the Living Dead to its distributors in New York, they heard on the car radio that Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. Retrospectively, this coincidence has contributed to a certain prescient mystique around the film, situating it within a pivotal moment in the racial politics of the United States when the hope for a peaceful transition to a society in which blacks and whites experienced equal justice seemed to have been extinguished, confirming its makers’ sense that American society was “going to hell in a handcart” (Cussans, 2017, p. 228). Although King’s assassination was a tragedy of unforeseeable social consequences, it was, within the faith he followed, an event of profound religious significance, fulfilling his vision of a promised land from what would be his Calvary.

A FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD By converting the negative into being, Christ undoes death itself. The question that traverses African-American Christianity is whether Christ truly died for the Black Man. Does Christ really deliver him from death and save him from facing it? Or, rather, does Christ give his journey a deep significance that breaks radically from the prosaic character of a nameless life under the cross of racism? (Mbembe, 2017, pp. 175-176) The redeeming power of Christian baptism has been an abiding theme in African American life since the plantation era. But, that Christianity is a religion within which many former slaves found faith, solace, and the strength to persist within unendurable 307

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circumstances is, on a certain level, somewhat paradoxical. It was, after all, the religion of the slave-masters in the British colonies, as it is in all the other colonies in the New World that European nations have taken as a gift from God, using its scripture to justify the systemic subjugation of its heathen peoples. As many historians have noted, Christianity is not a neutral ideology in this process.12 Christianity was often used to justify, through circuitous theological and juridical reasoning, the divine right of Europeans to do whatever they wanted with the indigenous people, known to them as ‘savages,’ and the slaves they brought from Africa. It also created a very specific idea of the ideal person in the eyes of God and his representatives: an autonomous individual, who, in emulating Jesus Christ, who died for their sins, and freely choosing to follow him on the paths of righteousness, would, through his mercy, be granted eternal life in the great hereafter. That the methods used by European nations to colonize the Americas contravened the most basic tenets of the Christian gospel was not lost on all those tasked with saving souls in America, nor those preaching the Universal Brotherhood of Man to congregations in Europe. Abolitionism was a predominantly Christian movement which found inspiration in the sentimentalism, emotional fervor, and supernatural spiritualism of Romanticism. John Wesley, founder of the Methodist movement that would lay the foundations for the Southern Baptist Church, would famously describe the slave-trade as “that execrable sum 12 See Mbembe (2017), Pandian (1985), Wilden (1972), and Wynter (2003) for various perspectives on the psychological meaning of Christianity within colonialism and global modernity, and its role in creating the ideal of an autonomous individual.

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of all villainies” (Carey, 2003, p. 273). In this context, the salvation offered by Christ was associated directly with emancipation from slavery and the promise of a New Jerusalem in the Worldto-Come. Inspired by a Protestant revival at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and organizations like the Free African Society (a mutual aid organization for Free Africans and their descendants), the African Methodist Episcopal Church, founded in Philadelphia in 1816, was the first predominantly Black Church in the country. It would herald the beginning of a national Black Christian movement that affirmed the African heritage of black people, committing itself to the struggle for racial equality and emancipation, and taking Christ’s example as a praxis of liberation (Mbembe, 2017, p. 174). Baptist and Methodist ministers in the Southern states preached to slaves and slave-owners alike, sometimes ordaining slaves as ministers. Perhaps the most famous of these was Nat Turner, the leader of a Christian-inspired slave rebellion in Virginia in 1831. Turner was a Baptist minister who received prophetic visions that the day of judgement was at hand and that he should take up arms against the Serpent. Turner’s revelation of a revolutionary message encoded in scripture marked a historical turning point in the struggles of African American people against the white, slave-holding adherents of the faith. Witnessing a solar eclipse on February 12th, 1831, Turner took it as a sign to “slay [his] enemies with their own weapons” (Gray, Turner & Royster, 1831, p. 11).13 For the closing credits of Ganja & Hess, a choir of children sing a hymn written 200 years earlier by the Romantic poet 13 A solar eclipse occurred during the filming of an important scene in Ganja & Hess, when Hess, having realized that he has been cursed to eternal life, prays to Christ to redeem him.

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William Cowper, “Praise for the Fountain Opened” (also known by its first line: “There is a Fountain Filled with Blood”) (Cowper, 2009). It is an appropriate epitaph for a story about human blood and its redemptive powers, one that speaks directly to the profound and complex history of African American Christianity that underscores Ganja & Hess. Cowper was a close friend of John Newton, a Church of England curate and the author of “Amazing Grace,” a hymn written while he was working on a slave ship that would become a standard within the Negro Spiritualist tradition by the mid-nineteenth century (Newton, 2011). Later an ardent abolitionist, Newton asked Cowper to write a piece in support of that cause. In response, Cowper penned “The Negro’s Complaint” in 1788, a poem that Martin Luther King, Jr. would regularly quote in his civil rights speeches.14 Cowper, like George Meda, Hess’ homicidal assistant, played by Gunn in his own film, suffered from severe bouts of depression, delirium, and suicidal tendencies. Cowper wrote “Praise for the Fountain Opened” after a stay in a sanitarium, following a psychotic episode in which he believed God had cursed him into eternal damnation. Unlike Cowper, however, Meda does not live long enough to be redeemed by the blood from Immanuel’s ample veins. Although often described as a vampire film, a label from which Gunn distanced himself, Ganja & Hess is much more of an African American love story, an exploration of the many modes of addiction in American life, and a complex meditation on the redemptive powers of Christianity and its mysticism of Holy Blood. It is also a very personal expression of Gunn’s own struggle with the contradictions of being a black artist and 14 See for example his Methodist Student Leadership Conference Address, delivered in Lincoln, Nebraska in 1964 (American Rhetoric).

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intellectual in a superficially post-racial society, his desire, like Jones, to be recognized as a total human being, and the terror of living and dying unseen in a universe of limitless need. At the time of the making of Ganja & Hess, Black America was still coming to terms with King’s assassination five years earlier and the symbolic death of the civil rights movement it had signaled for many. At the height of the movement, the most high-profile representatives of the struggle for social justice were divided over crucial and, at times, seemingly intractable differences, the most significant being the necessity, or not, of violent struggle against the white establishment, and whether African Americans should integrate with mainstream society or fight for a segregated, independent Black State. One such voice was Nina Simone, whose influence on Ganja & Hess can be felt through her brother, Sam Waymon—an actor in the film, the composer of its memorable soundtrack, and Gunn’s creative partner. Although the political issues that drove Simone into exile are not addressed directly in Ganja & Hess, the legacy of the civil rights and Black Power movements, and the fantasy of an African ancestral homeland in a “time-before-subjection” (Mbembe, 2017, p. 26) find their way into the film in nuanced and complex ways. Simone’s presence is registered in the first shot inside Hess’ isolated mansion where, beneath a coffee table upon which an African sculpture and a pair of porcelain vases rest, her album Gifted and Black (1970) is placed. Superficially, this juxtaposition of elements simply gives a sense of Hess’ sophisticated, international, and cosmopolitan tastes. The sculpture on the table is an Akuaba fertility doll, an iconic artifact of African art traditionally carried on the backs of women hoping to conceive a child or 311

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to ensure its well-being. The name literally means ‘the child of Akua,’ after the beautiful Akan woman who first wore a doll to help her conceive a female child.15 On another level, the juxtaposition points to a deeper set of political and existential questions that Black America had been struggling with since emancipation: its relation to an ancestral African homeland, the possibility of Black sovereignty in America, and the sexual politics associated with these. The title of Simone’s album is a shortening of the song she wrote in memory of her good friend and fellow civil rights activist Lorraine Hansberry, after whose autobiographical play the song was named.16 The juxtaposition of Simone’s album with an iconic symbol of ancestral African womanhood introduces a sexual-political current that, within the frame of the overarching Black Christian redemption narrative, is central to the romance that unfolds between Ganja (Marlene Clark) and Hess. The power of African womanhood and the fantasy of ancestral Black sovereignty is embodied in the two central female characters: the Myrthian Queen, Helgda (Mabel King), and Ganja, the living 15 Associated with the Ashanti, Akan, and Fante people of Ghana, by the 1970s Akuaba dolls had become a fashionable signifier of attachment to the homeland among African Americans. First mass-produced in metal to be sold at the Gold Coast pavilion at the British Empire Exhibition in London in 1924, by the late 1960s they were being produced in large numbers. According to Malcolm McLeod, author of The Asante (1981), one British dealer bought 7,000 wooden dolls from a trader in Kumasi, Ghana in 1968 for the international market in African artifacts (Ross, 1996). Since then, the iconic image has been produced for tourist markets throughout West Africa, and by the 1990s they had become a familiar decoration in African American wedding ceremonies (Ross, 1996). 16 Hansberry was active in African Liberation struggles, working with W.E.B. Du Bois as an editor of the Pan-Africanist newspaper Freedom. Her uncle, William Hansberry, founded the African Civilization section of the history department at Howard University, Washington D.C.

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embodiment of a cruel, African American aristocratic beauty.17 Their power is represented as a mystical force of erotic intoxication for men like Hess that, when coupled with an insatiable addiction, compels them to infect the ones they love, and those upon whom they feed, with the same ‘disease.’

SPIRIT IN THE DARK/SPIRIT IN THE BLOOD Knowledge is all, I thought. To know what it is to be free. To say I am not what you say or think I am. I am what I am meant to be. I am a mobile made not of two things alike, usual or unusual. I am not black or brown or yellow or white. I am a unique colour of almond mixed from a secret formula known only to myself and God, with greens derived from the black of my mother’s hair, orange from the brown of my father’s skin, and white, which is all the colours together, gathered from my enemies and my friends. That is only the exterior. The interior is apparent and indescribable. (Gunn, 1964, p. 64) Gunn’s experience as a black actor, writer, and theater and film director in a white-dominated culture industry taught him the depressing lesson that the fantasies of others could determine 17 In his essay ‘“Let it Go Black”: Desire and the Erotic Subject in the films of Bill Gunn,’ Marlo D. David (2011) identifies Ganja’s character as that of the traditional ‘Blues Woman’ archetype whose fierce sexuality combines with a resolute affirmation of her independence. Mabel King sings a blues number on the Ganja & Hess soundtrack, “March Blues,” recorded in the style of Bessie Smith, legendary ‘Empress of the Blues.’

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one’s artistic destiny far more than one’s talent or personal values. Under such circumstances, a black artist, faced with the question of whether to affirm or deny their Blackness, was led into an intractable double-bind with potentially debilitating psychological consequences. The allure of a mythical Africa pursued by Hess, and embodied phantasmatically in Ganja, is one that offered as little hope for Meda as did the Blood of Christ. In the opening sequence, Meda appears from the shadows of a neoclassical painting that the camera has settled upon. The painting depicts a pale young woman, alone in a forest at night, sheltering under a tree. Draped in a flimsy negligée and torn by a powerful tempest, she looks fearfully up to the heavens.18 That Meda should emerge from the shadows of this painting suggests that, even before he murdered Hess, his tormented soul had slipped into a profound moral darkness.19 18 The painting is Young Woman Overtaken by a Storm (1799) by the French painter, Chevalier Féréol de Bonnemaison. The metaphorical storm in question from which de Bonnemaison had himself fled to England was the French Revolution, the scourge of nobles and Christians alike, whose leaders during the Reign of Terror attempted to replace the cult of Christ with that of the Supreme Being. 19 On the soundtrack Hess reads from John 6:54: ‘And Jesus said unto them “Who so eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood hath eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. He that eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood dwelleth in me and I in him.”’ The inferred triangulation of Hess, Meda, and Christ through the Eucharist is recalled again during Meda’s suicide scene, in which a hand-painted crucifix with a yellow flower attached to it appears in the background. That Meda’s death occurs precisely as Hess realizes he has been resurrected, and that the first blood he drinks is Meda’s, suggests that Gunn saw Meda as a kind of Antichrist figure. In a scene omitted from the director’s cut, but included in Blood Couple, Fima Noveck’s 1973 edit of the

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Though Meda was a vehicle for Gunn’s own experiences of psychological fragmentation and loss of self, its implications for the moral and religious meanings of the film are more ambiguous. The theme of a malign spirit inhabiting the darkness of forests seems to have been a very personal one for Gunn. It is a recurring motif in his semi-autobiographical 1964 novel All the Rest Have Died, which tells the story of Barney Gifford, a young actor trying to make his career in New York. Throughout the novel, Barney associates trees and night with a power that threatens to engulf and kill him.20 In one of the most important scenes in the film, Meda disappears into the grounds of Hess’ villa. Hess finds him sitting in a tree, obscured from view, from which a noose hangs; Meda plans to kill himself. The noose is a powerful symbol of film, their conversation continues as Meda works on a watercolor painting. After accidentally pricking his finger with the dagger, Hess excuses himself. As he retires, Meda has made a picture of a pale figure with red lips and deep pink shadows over their eyes, looking up to the heavens before a red crucifix. In the right-hand corner of the picture the name ‘Meda’ has been crudely crossed out, presaging his suicidal intentions. 20 Several important scenes in All the Rest Have Died seem to prefigure the suicide sequence in Ganja & Hess. Much of the drama in the novel takes place in the home of Barney’s good friend Bernard, a poet and socialite who lives in a large house in the country in its own grounds and who, like Hess, is an addict. In the grounds, where Barney is taken one night by his future lover Maggie, Barney has a foreboding premonition of something beyond his control, “an overwhelming hunger–a vacuum” (Gunn, 1964, p. 84). It was, he wrote, his “first symptom” (Gunn, 1964, p. 84). Later, like Hess, Barney will go looking for Bernard, who has asked him to kill him, in the grounds of his house. The scene is uncannily prescient of the scene where Hess seeks out Meda, but this time Barney has reversed roles with Hess, and Meda with Bernard. This reversing of roles seems to have been intentional on Gunn’s part, as if he wanted to express something of the interpersonal hall of mirrors that, as an artist, actor, writer and director, he was continuously navigating.

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racist violence in America, and its meaning in this context seems deliberate. The noose had other meanings for Gunn, however. Barney associates the noose with the artist compelled to suicide by a cruel, vampiric mother in All the Rest Have Died (1964): When I think back to it [New York] reminds me of the mother in a Baudelaire story who, after hearing of her son’s suicide by hanging, begged for the rope as a keepsake. Surely New York could be the rope that hangs us all; I thought of it then as a thing that one could use to bring on a kind of bleeding, to feel all the sensations of life and then, finally, to die dramatically in a cold garret, alone, hungry, clutching some unrecognised work of art against his or her tubercular chest. (p. 40) That Meda planned to use a suicide method symbolic of racist white violence is a stark expression of the psychotic tendencies he articulates to his host, once he has been talked down from the tree. Back in the house, a shirtless Meda communicates to an increasingly apprehensive Hess the depth of his psychological turmoil, recounting an earlier psychotic episode in which he was possessed by the delusion that he was both the murderer and the victim. The victim did not want to die, he explained, but the murderer grabbed him (he grabs his own head by the hair and gestures putting a knife to his neck). But, he could not do it: “It was like the murderer let the victim go, it was like a cat and mouse game.” Meda’s schizophrenia is an expression of a torturous double-bind in which the will to personal sovereignty demands that he take the position of the master/murderer of himself. As Gunn states in All the Rest Have Died (1964): “I am the rapist and the raped. I am victimised and I am responsible. 316

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I bear it all and will have nothing to do with any of it. It is you, remember. It is all yours, the guilt and the pity. I am only the excuse” (p. 47). In another important scene, shortly after he has murdered Hess with the infected Myrthian dagger, Meda reads a poem that he has just completed. It is a beautifully framed, bitterly pessimistic response to Nina Simone’s Black Pride rallying call “To be Young, Gifted and Black” (1970) and captures something of Gunn’s own traumatic experiences as a black male artist trying to succeed in a white culture industry.21 It is simultaneously a queer affront to the kind of ‘Superbad’ Black machismo typified by the Blaxploitation genre and, to some extent, by Hess himself. To the Black Male Children Philosophy is a Prison It disregards the uncustomary things about you The result of individual thought is applicable only to itself There is a dreadful need in man to teach It destroys the pure instinct to learn The navigator learns from the stars The stars teach nothing 21 Despite his success as a scriptwriter, having written the 1970 film adaptation of Kristin Hunter’s novel The Landlord (1966) and the 1970 film adaptation of Bernard Malamud’s short story The Angel Levine (1958), Gunn’s first commissioned film as a director, Stop (1970), was recut and then shelved by Warner Bros. after its sexual content earned it an X-rating. Gunn would address directly the bitter experiences of being a black artist in the Hollywood film industry in his play The Black Picture Show (1975) and his novel Rhinestone Sharecropping (1981).

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The sun opens the mind And sheds light on the flowers The eyes shame the pages of any book Gesture destroys concept Involvement mortifies vanity You are the despised of the earth That is as if you were water in the desert To be adored on this planet is to be a symbol of success And you must not succeed On any terms Because life Is endless You are as nameless as a flower You are the child of Venus And her natural affection Is lust She will touch your belly with her tongue But you must not suffer in it For love is all there is And you are cannon-fodder in its defense22 22 In a commentary on the 2015 Blu-ray/DVD release of Ganja & Hess, its producer Chiz Schulz asks why Meda had wanted to kill Hess in the first place. If Meda is recognized as a vehicle for Gunn’s own psychological complexes and neuroses, the answer seems clear: Meda is the unredeemable soul whose desire for success has driven him insane. The only way he

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The drama of Ganja & Hess begins and ends in a Pentecostal church in Nyack, a village in New York on the banks of the Hudson River, close to where Gunn had lived with Waymon since 1969. Waymon’s casting plays a crucial role when unpacking the religious meanings encoded within Ganja & Hess. Born into a poor family of Methodist ministers in Tryon, North Carolina in the 1930s, Waymon was one of eight children raised within the Baptist tradition (Batson, 2013; 2018). It was quite natural for him, then, to play Pentecostal minister Rev. Luther Williams. In the heavily encoded opening title sequence, Waymon sings a spiritual that introduces the central theme of redemption through the Blood of Christ.23 Behind the credits, a sequence of shots of a classical marble sculpture shows a woman’s head, shaded by an angel’s wing, over which the film’s title appears, the first stem of the ‘H’ in “Hess” ascending to form a broken cross. It is followed by a reverse shot of the same sculpture, revealing an anguished fallen angel overlooking a coiled serpent sitting upon another fallen figure.24 The symbolic montage introduces the story as an can see to escape the hell of self-loathing is either to murder the person he envies (in this case the far more successful and wealthier Hess) or kill himself. Ultimately, he does both, damning himself to a hell in which he will burn “forever, and forever and forever…and forever,” as Meda puts it in the original script (Klotman, 1991, p. 32). 23 As David Kalat, who was responsible for restoring the film for its 2015 Bluray/DVD release has noted, the opening sequence compresses around 25 minutes of screenplay into five minutes of screen time. Within the narrative logic of this edit, Hess is already preoccupied with the idea of drinking blood before he is stabbed by Meda, the intimation being that, if he is not already addicted to blood, studying Myrthian culture has awakened in him a powerful fantasy to be so (Kalat, 2015). 24 The sculpture is The Fallen Angels or The Rebel Angels (1893) by the Italian artist Salvatore Albano, owned by the Brooklyn Museum (where the opening shots were filmed).

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explicitly Christian fable of temptation, primal rivalry, the fall into moral darkness and damnation, and, ultimately, redemption for those who choose it. The film then cuts to a member of the Pentecostal church speaking in tongues to other members of the congregation and finally to Luther, preaching. The moral drama that unfolds within Ganja & Hess hinges on the actions one is compelled to out of lust, desire, hunger, need, or ambition, and the power of the cross to relieve sinners of the burden of their actions. The blood of human life, on which the addict/vampire is condemned to feed, must be substituted by the Holy Blood of Christ if they are to be saved. Only by passing through the shadow of the cross, and dying a second death, can the living dead be reborn in the Lord. The theme of ecstasy, intoxication, and addiction that runs throughout the film is underlined when Luther tells the congregation that he wants to get higher. Unlike all the other temporarily elevating substances that one can become dependent on, it is only the Holy Spirit that can lead to redemption from the hell of insatiable need. As Luther tells it in a later sequence: “You know I’m high right now. But I’m high on the Lord. When you got a high on Jesus, you high! And ain’t but one thing can bring you down. And that’s yourself, and that’s the Devil. But the Devil ain’t gonna come in here. I ain’t gonna let evil in here. Evil is not coming between those doors back there.”25 25 Waymon’s familiarity with the ways of the Black Church ran deep, so much so that after his performance in the church its actual minister asked if he would like to work there (Waymon, 2015). Speaking about the film on the 2015 Blu-ray/DVD release, Waymon explained that during the scenes in the church he was not acting: “I was my mother. I was my father. I was 300 years old there. It was a real service.”

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As Luther introduces himself on the voiceover during the opening credits, the film cuts to a shot of the Spirit of Ecstasy on the front of an antique Rolls-Royce. It is a fitting emblem for the uplifting power of status goods, one of the parallel addictions that runs throughout the film—especially through Ganja whose erotic powers are ultimately used to acquire material wealth and personal independence.26 The icon is inflected with an overt class meaning when Luther tells the audience that, as well as being a minister, he also works part-time as chauffeur and stableman for Hess “to support his family.” Cut to a strung-out Hess dozing in the back of the car, as the title “PART I: Victim” appears onscreen. “And he’s an addict,” Luther explains. “He’s not a criminal. He’s a victim.” Cut to Hess observing the victim of a car accident being carried into an ambulance: “He’s addicted to blood.”

UNIVERSAL ADDICTION I wrote symbolically about blood only because everyone else writes about money. Ganja & Hess is really about the many addictions I’ve had in my life. There’s something about my Blackness I don’t understand […] but that takes a major part of my time. (Gunn cited in Monaco, 1984, p. 206) The theme of the difference, or not, between criminal and victim in the realms of addiction, dependency, and desire is central to 26 The iconic figurine was modeled by its designer, Charles Robinson Sykes, on Eleanor Velasco Thornton, the private secretary and secret muse of John Montagu, 2nd Baron Montagu of Beaulieu, who commissioned it for his own Rolls-Royce in 1909.

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Ganja & Hess. The main characters of the film are not obvious victims in either a class, gender, or racial sense. Hess is independently wealthy. Meda, though struggling with mental health issues, is a creative professional and academic. Ganja is a formidable, independent woman, driven by an indomitable desire for material wealth. And Archie (Leonard Jackson), Hess’ servant who “came with the house,” seems content in his role. Only Luther seems to know what it is like to be poor, but he too is very happy in his church. Hess may indeed be innocent of the addiction he has contracted, but his fascination with the Myrthian blood cult suggests that he was already drawn toward that particular perversion. What makes any individual more, or less, susceptible to addiction? Are people more genetically predisposed to some, rather than other, addictions? If so, how is this propensity inherited? When cast in the light of colonialism and bio-political constructions of racial difference, genetic models of addiction have historically shaped policies for the division and control of ethnicities deemed biologically prone to them. At the time of Ganja & Hess, addiction was a social problem widely perceived to be afflicting black ghettos in particular, and the consequence of the war on drugs first declared by President Nixon in 1971 has been the disproportionate targeting and incarceration of black males for drug-related crime.27 Everyone may be an addict of something, but the social stigma and punitive consequences of the what and how are not distributed equally in American society. As the camera follows Hess’ Rolls-Royce out of the parking lot of the Brooklyn Museum, it pauses upon the bronze sculpture Dying Indian (ca. 1904) by Charles Cary 27 On addiction in black ghettos see “The Pathology of the Ghetto” in Clark (1965). On Nixon and the “war on drugs” see Baum (2016).

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Rumsey, a fitting counterpoint to the Spirit of Ecstasy and one that speaks to another history in which the notion of a genetically inherited propensity to addiction has been used to justify the fate of a racially subjugated people. As David Kalat (2015) has noted, what most distinguishes Ganja & Hess from the Blaxploitation genre, which it is often framed as an artistic subversion of, is its setting (an isolated mansion in its own grounds, rather than an inner-city ghetto) and its indifference to the clichéd racial tensions that typically underpin Blaxploitation narratives.28 Although these components were clearly a deliberate decision on Gunn’s part, paying homage to the vampire film genre, class issues are pointed to throughout the film. Gunn was aware of the relative freedom that wealth afforded middle- and upper-class blacks and whites in America. By not framing the racial dimension of his film in stereotypical black/white antagonism terms, Gunn exposes a class dimension to the issues of desire, need, addiction, and victimhood that, despite his rejection of the term, is a dominant 28 Gunn’s film has often been discussed as an avant-garde subversion of the Blaxploitation genre, with Gunn playing the Black “auteur” who audaciously hoodwinked an exploitation company looking to cash-in on the recent success of William Crain’s Blacula (1972) into giving him the money for a black art film. The story of how Ganja & Hess came to be made does not support this narrative. The company who commissioned the film, Kelly/Jordan Enterprises, was interested in cultivating serious Black cinema, having released only one previous film, Georgia, Georgia (1972), an interracial love story scripted by Maya Angelou. They had also signed contracts with James Baldwin, one of Gunn’s closest friends, to adapt his novels for the screen (Lucas & Walker, 1991). That Gunn chose to pepper his script and shoot with familiar tropes from the vampire and Blaxploitation genres does not seem to have been something he was compelled to do by the production company.

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one in traditional vampire narratives (Frayling, 1991).29 The class dimension of the film is expressed most overtly through Hess, whose wealth affords him the luxury to live away from the inner city or the suburbs and their day-to-day politics. Later, however, when Hess seeks out victims to feed his addiction, he goes to the impoverished city centers, finding people whose livings are made by serving the illicit needs of those wealthier than themselves. In this sense, Hess’ character is very close to the classical vampire figure: a blue-blooded, landed aristocrat who feeds off the poor, his isolation keeping him safe from the prying eyes of the law.30 If Hess is a victim, as Luther asserts at the beginning of the film, then of what is he a victim? Given the lifestyle he has achieved, and his relationships with his guests and associates, Hess is not, evidently, a victim of white society. Perhaps he is the victim of Meda’s murderous jealousy and the unforeseen consequences of being contaminated by 29 Gunn’s framing of the need for blood as an addiction echoes Romantic eighteenth- and nineteenth-century constructions of the Byronic vampire figure as a wan, consumptive opium-user whose indulgences and increased sensitivities have reduced them to a state of extreme fragility. Although the theme of blood addiction had been intimated at much earlier, it only became an overt motif in vampire films in the 1970s (Rodríguez-Sánchez, 2011) and Gunn was perhaps the first to do so explicitly. Other examples include Paul Morrisey’s Blood for Dracula (1974), Abel Ferrara’s The Addiction (1995), and, more recently, Jim Jarmusch’s Only Lovers Left Alive (2013). 30 One of the historical models for Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897) was Vlad Tepes (or Vlad-the-Impaler), the fifteenth-century Prince of Wallachia and defender of the Christian Occident against the Muslim Orient at its outermost limit. Vlad Tepes was the “Wallachian Boyard” referred to by Karl Marx in Das Kapital (1867) as the personification of “dead labour that, vampire-like, lives only by sucking living labour, and lives more, the more it sucks,” a reference to the forced labor and strangle-hold taxation system imposed on the local peasants (cited in Frayling, 1991).

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the Myrthian dagger. In that case, given the world’s nature of mimetic rivalry, conflict, and disease—with physical needs that compel humanity to excess, indulgence, and transgression—no one is guiltier than anyone else for the crimes their biology drives them to commit. All of humanity, in this sense, are the victims of needs, whatever their nature. The crucial philosophical and religious question posed by Ganja & Hess, though never overtly stated, is how acceptance of Christ as Savior compromises a person’s will to individual sovereignty and their right to freely choose their addictions and perversions beyond the moralistic censure of others. As Hess states during the second wedding ceremony to Ganja, “The only perversions that can be comfortably condemned are the perversions of others. I will persist and survive without God’s or society’s sanction. I will not be tortured. I will not be punished. I will not be guilty.” In Gunn’s original script for the film, Hess is addressed by a group of guests during the garden party in the grounds of his mansion. The scene frames the association of victimhood and innocence in terms of criminality, rather than race, while making subtle references to assumptions about cultural inheritance, race, and class: Mrs. Tyson: Hess, help us settle an argument…Mr. Blair here says that change is impossible because we are addicted to our society. Especially the middle class because they’ve taken it in such large doses. That we are all junkies of one sort or another… Mr. Blair: What decides if you are a criminal or not is which side of the law your fix is on… The small group laughs. Mrs. Tyson: Really Mr. Blair…that makes us all guilty. 325

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Mr. Blair: On the contrary…it leaves us all innocent. Mrs. Tyson: What do you say, Mr. Greene? Hess: If my social sins were ever to bring me before a judge, I would rather it be Mr. Blair. Mrs. Tyson: Where’s the progress in discovering a fault and then excusing it. We might as well go back to swinging in the trees. Hess: We might as well. Man: You have a lovely home, Dr. Greene. Your tastes are very European. How did that come about? Hess: We had a white maid. Excuse me. (he moves off) (Gunn cited in Klotman, 1991, p. 39)31 During the first scene in Hess’ mansion, in which he and Meda get to know each other over dinner, drinks, and cigarettes, they discuss the difference between hunger, need, and desire. The conversation begins with Meda explaining that it is the first good meal he has had in days. After telling a rather uncomfortable story about a director friend of his, who used the word “cunt” instead of “cut” during a film shoot in Holland, their conversation turns to the Myrthian’s need for blood. “If I really believed in a desire, I don’t think it would frighten me so much,” Meda explains. Hess replies, “The idea of desire is very much a part of our culture. After all, the Myrthinians thought they had a desire for blood but not a need for it. But it was a need.” Meda laughs as he repeats the word “blood” and begins to flick the glass of red wine he is holding with his finger. “I think what we are talking 31 As Klotman (1991) clarifies in an editor’s note: ‘Hess’s last name is spelled with an “e” [Greene] throughout the screenplay, but without an ‘e’ [Green] in the credits and stills [on-screen titles and credits use the latter spelling]’ (p. 89).

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about is hunger. Do you know what hunger is? I don’t know what hunger is. I mean I sit here, I eat, I don’t know what hunger is.” He laughs again, but he could almost be crying.32 Through Meda, Gunn poses the question of what makes the imaginary blood of Jesus, transubstantiated through wine, more redemptive than the material substances in which society finds solace or ecstasy. Why should the drinking of actual human blood, rather than its transmuted Holy essence, be so morally repugnant to Christians? That some African cultures choose or chose to drink human blood, whether in fact or fantasy, forms the basis of the double meaning of Blackness in the film: the moral darkness of an imaginary pre-Christian, blood-drinking Africa and the cultural and political Blackness of contemporary African Americans. Neither, Gunn seems to say, has any more basis in fact than the other. Both stories are mythical. So why does one have more claim to Truth than others?

WELL OF FANTASIES In the Christian orientation, human experiences of “weakness,” “sexuality,” “greed,” etc. are viewed as alien to those who are linked with the Christian deity. The Christian conception of the self is created with a contrast between the true 32 As Meda puts his head into his hands, the first refrain of a Bongili work song is heard. The song will recur when Hess’ need for blood overwhelms him. The inference is that Africa is a land where real hunger exists, and African Americans like Meda will never know what it is like to truly experience it. The track was recorded by André Didier from the Musée de l’Homme in Paris in 1946 during the Ogooué-Congo Mission, and first released on the 1950s Folkways compilation, Music from Equatorial Africa.

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self, conceptualized with reference to the Christian deity, and the untrue self, conceptualized with reference to Satan or the alien, evil characteristics of non-Christian peoples. The true self has the positive attributes of being truly human in the eyes of God, and the untrue self has the negative attributes of being a fallen person or sinner, a person without grace, a pagan. (Pandian, 1985, p. 6) Within the racist colonial discourses that emerged with global modernity, the concepts of ‘Africa’ and ‘Blackness’ were mutually reinforcing terms used to construct a category of ‘The Black’ as the negative counterpart to the Christian European notion of the truly human. In this process, the mythical and religious values associated with darkness and the nocturnal became morally transposed onto ‘Blacks’ and the ‘Dark Continent’ where they dwelled, unenlightened and unredeemed, in a realm of eternal shadows. This founding narrative of Blackness was challenged by the abolitionist, Black Nationalist, and anti-colonial movements that merged with Pan-Africanism in the early twentieth century, developing a second narrative of Blackness as an affirmative declaration of identity by those who had, until then, been subject to the degradation that the term had imposed. By claiming kinship with their African ancestors, African-Americans could shake off the shroud they had carried “from the depths of the tomb of slavery” (Mbembe, 2017, p. 26). In this process of radical reversal, “Africa” became what Mbembe calls a “well of fantasies” for avant-garde artists, writers, and intellectuals in Europe and the United States, a “reservoir of mysteries, and the ultimate kingdom of catharsis and the magico-religious” (Mbembe, 2017, p. 40). The imaginary encounter with Africa by 328

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African Americans had a transformative and mythico-poetic effect that summoned a time-before-subjection, one that promised to heal the wounds and repair the losses endured during the plantation era. Although Ganja & Hess presents a noble vision of African sovereignty through the figure of Helgda, the Queen of Myrthia, it has more in common with the first, colonial, Christian narrative of Blackness than its reversal and recuperation by the progressive politics of Black identity. The lyrics of Waymon’s spiritual “The Blood of the Thing” (1973), sung in the opening sequence, outline the basic myth: By the Christians it is written that in the black Myrthian age There existed an addiction to blood among its people Thousands of slaves were bled to death But murdered in such a way the slaves could not die. There was visited upon them a curse that they should live forever Unless the shadow of the cross, an implement of torture, touched their darkened hearts But oh, since Christ had not come yet, and the cross did not exist Don’t you know, they were caused to walk the earth ‘til the Christians came Oh, my Lord, the blood of the thing is the truth of the thing Oh the blood of the thing is the truth of the thing. They had come to be addicted to Truth, ‘til the Christians came.

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That Myrthia is a fantasy for Hess is signaled in the original shot of the opening museum scene (omitted from Ganja & Hess in Gunn’s edit but included in Fima Noveck’s 1973 Blood Couple), where museum curator Jack Sargent (John Hoffmeister) meets Hess for the first time and asks him about his interest in Myrthia: Sargent: I must tell you, you have us all fascinated by your marvelous book on Nigeria. May I ask why you are so deeply interested in the Myrthinian culture? Hess: It was a fascinating culture. Sargent: Oh, really? How interesting. Why do you think it was so terribly neglected? Hess: No idea. But I’m unable to neglect it. I guess this culture suits my fantasy. Sargent’s sarcastic tone betrays his disdain for a culture that has been neglected. Hess’ response is appropriately disingenuous. One might even call it a counter ‘shade,’ to use the language of a different, but not unrelated, context. As a black scholar working on an African culture in the context of an established American museum of art, Hess no doubt has a very good idea about why an ancient African culture had been neglected by other scholars. Referring to Myrthinian culture as suiting his ‘fantasy’ is an astute piece of script that points to Gunn’s grasp of the psychological complexities, and psychoanalytical nuance, of being interested in anything in particular, rather than anything else. What is the relationship between fantasy, desire, and addiction when it comes to the subjects chosen for study? Is it more or less fantastical for a person regarded by others as black to study an ancient African culture rather than someone of another race? 330

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It seems that both Gunn and Waymon had some familiarity with African religions.33 Waymon’s relationship to Christianity was clearly a deeply felt and personal one, but Gunn’s own religious views are more difficult to ascertain. According to Waymon (2015), two days before the start of filming at the vacant mansion in Croton-on-Hudson, he and Gunn held a séance to rid the house of unwanted spirits. The following day, a Yoruba cleaning ceremony was conducted, with singing and dancing lasting the whole day. That a Spiritualist séance and an African religious service should be held to cleanse the house points to a more complex set of religious currents and questions beneath the otherwise overtly Christian salvation narrative in the film.

COMING DOWN WITH GANJA It [Black art] is a form of art that has constantly reinvented myths and redirected tradition in order to undermine them through the very act that pretended to anchor and ratify 33 Jean Suret-Canale’s 1961 book Afrique Noire: Géographie, Civilisation, Histoire appears on a tableau shot beside the food and drink that Ganja and Hess share on their first evening together. Suret-Canale was a Marxist theoretician, anti-colonial activist, and former member of the French Resistance who organized trade unions in French West Africa after World War II (1939-45). In a commentary on the film’s 2015 Blu-ray/DVD release, during the scene where Ganja discovers Meda’s body in cold storage, Waymon explains how the Kikuyu people, like Gunn, would not understand the moral abreaction to the drinking of blood. Although it is unclear what blood-drinking practices Waymon has in mind, the Mau Mau resistance against the British in Kenya, which was a predominantly Kikuyu-led movement, reputedly took an initiatory blood-drinking oath committing them to the overthrow of colonial rule (Lonsdale, 1990).

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them. It has always been an art of sacrilege, sacrifice, and expenditure, multiplying new fetishes in pursuit of a generalised deconstruction of existence precisely through its use of play, leisure, spectacle, and the principle of metamorphosis. (Mbembe, 2017, p. 174) Hess’ first vision of Helgda, the Myrthian Queen, happens after he has retired to his room following the awkward dinner conversation with Meda.34 The discussion scene dissolves into a close-up shot of Hess, lying on his back, only his mouth, nose, and beard in shot, stroking the Myrthian dagger with his thumb. As the shot of Meda, who has just confessed that he does not know what hunger is, fades, the music that will become associated with Hess’ need for human blood is heard for the first time: the sound of multiple, young female voices chanting melodically to the beat of a mortar and pestle. This association of hunger and sovereignty, carried “in the blood,” is central to Hess’ fantasy of Africa. A schematic image of a body carved on the side of the dagger merges into that of the Myrthian Queen, who wears an extravagant crown of striped feathers and a skirt of geometric patterns. She walks in slow motion with two consorts through a meadow of long grass. Though the dream is ostensibly of Africa, Hess’ dreamscape manipulates time and place so that the queen appears to be in the grounds of the house at the same time. The dream dissolves into an image of Jack Sargent, the museum curator, as he had been when he first met Hess but this time wearing a silver carnival mask. He introduces himself to Hess again, but in place of Hess, 34 In the original script for the film, before Meda kills him with the Myrthian dagger, Hess has already pricked his finger and drawn blood with it. This vision is the first ‘symptom’ of his infection.

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the audience sees Meda in a reflection, also wearing a mask. Meda blows out a number of candles before posing with a silver revolver against his chest. The shot cuts to Sargent again, this time posed James Bond-like in a dinner jacket and bow tie and lit by a single spotlight before a simple, circular abstract composition. He holds his hand out confidently toward the camera: “I’m Jack Sargent! Good to see you.” In place of Hess, the scene cuts to the Myrthian Queen in the grounds of Hess’ mansion, beckoning Hess, now in the same location, toward her. Cut to Sargent, laughing. The sound track has become more distorted and time-stretched, the chants echoing and feeding back upon themselves frenetically. The queen walks on, away from the camera. Hess, his hand covering his eyes, wakes up with a start, the abrasive sound of the African chants replaced by reassuringly gentle, classical music. The visitation from the Queen of Myrthia presages the arrival of Ganja, who, throughout the narrative, will be associated with Helgda in Hess’ mind. Hess describes Ganja’s beauty in Gunn’s original script: It’s a shock to any system to see perfection. To have perfection hurled at you in the split second of seeing that woman sitting in my car…The result of centuries of war and pain. No casual pleasure brought about those features…Some great horde of peoples have suffered to bring about that nose, arched in such a way as to exert power over my every hidden appetite. And she is black as all things secret. The dark corners of nature lurking in the shadows, shielded from the enemy. Black today is nature’s hiding place. Where she stores her loot. This is what she enjoys in her hours away from labor. When she partakes of black…nature believes she is sinning. She falls 333

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peacefully into sleep among her dark hours…and wakes suspicious to the sun’s white rays. At night she dares to lie naked among the dark folds of her very own desires. She speaks to no one of night, but gives it generously to anyone that has the profoundness to hunger for it. (Gunn cited in Klotman, 1991, p. 51) The psychedelic quality of the sequences where those afflicted experience the delirious effects of the blood curse suggest a powerful psychoactive substance, distorting their perception of time, vision, and sound. As Waymon notes in a commentary on the 2015 Blu-ray/DVD release of the film, the naming of the film’s central characters is a not-so-veiled reference to ‘ganja’ and ‘hash,’ two forms of the cannabis that Ganja smokes in the film. That the central characters are named after a sacred herb suggests that Gunn associated them with a Black Atlantic tradition of divinatory cannabis intoxication and spirit mediumship.35 In an important later scene, Ganja tells Hess about how, as a young girl, after returning home from a snowball fight, her mother accused her of 35 Gañjā, the Sanskrit word for cannabis, entered the English language through the presence of Hindus in Jamaica from the late nineteenth century and was subsequently adopted as the preferred term of use by followers of Rastafarianism there. Introduced to Africa by Arab traders in the eighth century, and brought to Jamaica by the Kumina peoples, Rastas consider ganja to be part of their African ancestral heritage. Within the Rastafari religion, ganja’s use is recommended in biblical scripture as a holy herb with healing and peace-bringing powers that enable a person to encounter the inner divinity of ‘I and I’ consciousness, connecting black Americans spiritually to their African ancestors. In the Kumina religious tradition, taken to Jamaica by BaKongo slaves in the nineteenth century, cannabis is used to communicate with ancestral spirits and the supreme creator deity, Nzambi a Mpungo (Oto King Zombi) (Murrell, 2009).

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being a liar and a slut: “It was as though I was a disease.” Being ten years younger than her elder siblings, she assumed she was not a planned child: “It was as if I came down with Ganja.” The day she decided she was a disease was also the day that she would take full possession of herself. Ganja, then, is a person born of ganja, a product of the aphrodisiac powers of a sacred African herb, who has fully embraced the angelic curse of her destiny. Ultimately, Hess must sacrifice Ganja-the-person to be redeemed of his cursed affliction and reborn in the bosom of the Lord. He has “got to learn to let it go,” as the anthemic song from the film puts it. Ganja does not follow Hess into the shadow of the cross. Instead she chooses an eternal-life-with-addiction on Earth over eternal life in the bosom of the Lord. In the stunning final sequence of the film, Richard (uncredited), the young man Ganja seduced and murdered earlier, emerges naked from the pool in the grounds of the house that now belongs to her. Baptized and reborn in the blood of Myrthia, he bounds back to his lover with an impressive, slow-motion vitality. His final image is captured in a mid-air freeze-frame as he leaps over the bloody body of Archie. From now on, both men will have a new mistress to serve. Ganja turns to the camera and smiles.

REFERENCES American Rhetoric. (n.d.). Martin Luther King, Jr. Methodist Student Leadership Conference Address, delivered 1964, Lincoln, Nebraska. Retrieved from http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/ mlkmethodistyouthconference.htm Ashby, H. (Director). (1970). The Landlord [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists.

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scared sacred Batson, B. (2013, February 12). Nyack Sketch Log: Sam Waymon Lived Here. Nyack News and Views. Retrieved from http://nyacknewsandviews. com/2013/02/bb_samwaymon/ Batson, B. (2018, April 17). Nyack Sketch Log: Sam Waymon Is on a Rock & Roll. Nyack News and Views. Retrieved from http://nyacknewsandviews. com/2018/04/waymon-on-a-rock-n-roll/ Baum, D. (2016, April). Legalize It All: How to Win the War on Drugs. Harper’s Magazine. Retrieved from https://harpers.org/archive/2016/04/ legalize-it-all/ Björkman, S. (Director). (1972). Georgia, Georgia [Motion picture]. Sweden & United States: Cinerama Releasing Corporation. Carey, B. (2003). John Wesley’s Thoughts Upon Slavery and the Language of the Heart. The Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester, 85(2-3). Clark, K.B. (1965). Dark Ghetto: Dilemmas of Social Power. New York, NY: Harper & Row. Cowper, W. (1826). The Negro’s Complaint: A Poem: To Which Is Added, Pity for Poor Africans [A Children’s Book. With Coloured Woodcuts]. London, England: Harvey and Darton. Cowper, W. (2009). Praise the Fountain Opened. In C.J. Doe (Ed.), William Cowper’s Olney Hymns and Other Sacred Works. Minneapolis, MN: Curiosmith. Crain, W. (Director). (1972). Blacula [Motion picture]. United States: American International Pictures. Cussans, J. (2017). Undead Uprising: Haiti, Horror and the Zombie Complex. London, England: Strange Attractor. Daney, S. (1970). Nigth [sic.] of Living Dead. Cahiers Du Cinéma, No. 219, 65. David, M.D. (2011). “Let It Go Black”: Desire and the Erotic Subject in the Films of Bill Gunn. Black Camera, 2(2). Didier, A. (1950). Music of Equatorial Africa [Vinyl]. New York, NY: Folkways Records. Ferrante, T. (2015, March 5). Night of the Living Dead – Duane Jones Interview. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=dLOlAPVpqYI Ferrara, A. (Director). (1995). The Addiction [Motion picture]. United States: October Films. 

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a taste for blood and truth Frayling, C. (1991). Vampyres: Lord Byron to Count Dracula. Boston, MA & London, England: Faber and Faber. Girard, R. (1987). Things Hidden Since the Beginning of the World (S. Bann & M. Metteer, Trans.). Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Gray, T.R., Turner, N., & Royster, P. (Depositor). (1831). The Confessions of Nat Turner (1831). Electronic Texts in American Studies, 15. Gunn, B. (1964). All the Rest Have Died. London, England: Mayflower Dell. Gunn, B. (Director). (1970). Stop [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Gunn, B. (Director). (1973). Ganja & Hess [Motion picture]. United States: Kelly-Jordan Enterprises. [Alternative edit: Noveck, F.W. (1973). Blood Couple.] Gunn, B. (1975). The Black Picture Show. Berkeley, CA: Reed Cannon & Johnson Communications Co. Gunn, B. (1981). Rhinestone Sharecropping. New York, NY: Ishmael Reed Publishing Company. Hansberry, L. (1995). To Be Young, Gifted, and Black: Lorraine Hansberry in Her Own Words (R. Nemiroff, Ed.). New York, NY: Vintage Books. Hunter, K. (1966). The Landlord. New York, NY: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Irvine, W., & Simone, N. (1970). To Be Young, Gifted and Black [Recorded by Nina Simone]. On Black Gold [Vinyl]. New York, NY: RCA. Jarmusch, J. (Director). (2013). Only Lovers Left Alive [Motion picture]. Germany & United Kingdom: Pandora Film Verleih & Thunderbird Releasing. Kadár, J. (Director). (1970). The Angel Levine [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists. Kalat, D. (2015). Select Scene Commentary with David Kalat. Ganja & Hess [Blu-ray & DVD]. London, England: Eureka Entertainment. Kane, J. (2010, August 31). How Casting a Black Actor Changed ‘Night of the Living Dead’. The Wrap. Retrieved from https://www.thewrap.com/ night-living-dead-casting-cult-classic-20545/ Klotman, P.R. (Ed.). (1991). Screenplays of the African American Experience. Bloomington & Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press. Lonsdale, J. (1990). Mau Maus of the Mind: Making Mau Mau and Remaking Kenya. The Journal of African History, 31(3). Lucas, T., & Walker, D. (1991, Jan - Feb). Ganja & Hess: The Savaging and Salvaging of an American Classic. Video Watchdog, 3.

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scared sacred McLeod, M.D. (1981). The Asante. London, England: British Museum Publications Ltd. Malamud, B. (1958). Angel Levine. In The Magic Barrel. New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Marx, K. (1959). Das Kapital: A Critique of Political Economy. Chicago, IL: Henry Regnery. Mbembe, A. (2017). Critique of Black Reason (L. Dubois, Trans.). Durham, NC & London, England: Duke University Press. Monaco, J. (1984). American Film Now: The People, the Power, the Money, the Movies. New York, NY: Zoetrope. Morrison, T. (1993). Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination. Harvard, MA: Harvard University Press. Morrissey, P. (Director). (1974). Blood for Dracula [Motion picture]. Italy & France: Euro International Film. Murrell, N.S. (2009). Afro-Caribbean Religions: An Introduction to Their Historical, Cultural, and Sacred Traditions. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Newton, J. (2011). Amazing Grace. In C.J. Doe (Ed.), John Newton’s Olney Hymns. Minneapolis, MN: Curiosmith. Pandian, J. (1985). Anthropology and the Western Tradition: Toward an Authentic Anthropology. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press Inc. Rodríguez-Sánchez, J.A. (2011). Vampirism as a Metaphor for Addiction in the Cinema of the Eighties (1987-1995). Revista de Medecina y Cine, 17(2). Romero, G.A. (Director). (1968). Night of the Living Dead [Motion picture]. United States: Continental Distributing. Ross, D.H. (1996). Akua’s Child and Other Relatives: New Mythologies for Old Dolls. In E.L. Cameron & D.H. Ross, Isn’t S/He a Doll: Play and Ritual in African Sculpture. Los Angeles, CA: UCLA Fowler Museum of Cultural History. Russo, J. (1985). The Complete Night of the Living Dead Filmbook. Pittsburgh, PA: Imagine Inc. Simone, N. (1970). Gifted and Black [Vinyl]. Phoenix, AZ: Canyon Records. Stoker, B. (2003). Dracula (Penguin Classics) (M. Hindle, Ed.). London, England: Penguin Books. Suret-Canale, J. (1961). Afrique Noire: Géographie, Civilisation, Histoire. Paris: Éditions Sociales.

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a taste for blood and truth Waymon, S. (1973). The Blood of the Thing (part 1). On Ganga and Hess (Original 1973 Motion Picture Soundtrack) [Vinyl]. New York, NY: Strange Disc Records. Waymon, S. (2015). Feature-Length Commentary with Producer Chiz Schultz, Lead Actress Marlene Clark, Cinematographer James Hinton and Composer Sam Waymon. Ganja & Hess [Blu-ray & DVD]. London, England: Eureka Entertainment. Wilden, A. (1972). System and Structure: Essays in Communication and Exchange. London, England: Tavistock Publications. Wynter, S. (2003). Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/Power/Truth/ Freedom: Towards the Human, After Man, Its Overrepresentation – An Argument. The New Centennial Review, 3(3).

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ZOOLATRY AND THE FELINE FATALE: OBSESSION, FEMININITY AND REVENGE IN CAT PEOPLE (1942) AND KURONEKO (1968) JOSEPH DWYER

few species generate the levels of adoration, reverence, Very and mystique historically enjoyed by the domestic cat. The

idolatrous fondness for felines transcends both space—spanning Europe, Asia, Africa, and beyond—and time, as evidenced by records and artifacts dating back to Antiquity and even prehistory. The origin of Felis Catus can be traced to Mesopotamia, where farmers domesticated cats to protect food storage (Nature, 2017). The Pictish people of Northern Scotland were influenced by large cats in the area: the county of Caithness translates to “place of the great cat” (Peoples of Scotland, n.d.). The prophet Muhammad is said to have been a lover of cats, granting them the ability to always land on their feet (Islamic Information Portal, 2013). Idolatry is defined as “the worship of idols” or “extreme admiration, love or reverence for something or someone” while zoolatry refers to “the worship of or excessive attention to animals” (Dictionary.com, n.d.). This certainly implies reverence, though not always religiosity. Zoolatry that more closely resembles 341

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religious idolatry involves treating animals as objects of supernatural power, rather than just appreciating their natural charms. Perhaps the most well-known example of cat idolatry is the goddess Bastet (or Bast). Revered in ancient Egypt as far back as 2800 BCE, she was initially depicted as a lioness or lioness-woman hybrid but took on a form more closely resembling the domestic cat around 1000 BCE (Malek, 1997). The ancient city of Bubastis was dedicated to Bastet and an annual harvest festival celebrated in her name (Vocelle, 2016). In the introduction to Revered and Reviled: A Complete History of the Domestic Cat, L.A. Vocelle (2016) writes: From the very beginning of history the cat has been associated with women. The ancient female cat goddess Bast represented fertility, motherhood, and the home. The Greeks and Romans established a firm foundation for this bond between women and cats in Western Civilization by associating the Egyptian goddesses Bast and Isis with their own goddesses Artemis/ Diana and Hecate. (p. 2) The association between women and cats eventually took a darker turn as it became linked to witchcraft. Cats were believed to be common ‘familiars’ of witches in Europe and North America during the Early Modern period (Parish, 2019), and people began to fear the cat and associate it with evil. Though the term ‘femme fatale,’ referring to an attractive woman who leads men to their doom, can be ascribed to female characters across mythology, literature, and cinema, it is believed to have developed first in France around 1860 (Menon, 2006). The term recalls the biblical concept of original sin, specifically Eve and her role in the fall 342

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from grace in the Book of Genesis (Menon, 2006). The femme fatale sparks awe, desire, and reverence in men, using this power against them when at their most vulnerable. This double-faceted relationship runs parallel to how humans perceive cats. Historian Zack Davisson (2017) cites an important Japanese proverb: “Feed a dog for three days, and he will remember your kindness for three years. Feed a cat for three years, and she will forget your kindness in three days” (p. 25). Note the pronouns: the male dog is loyal and trustworthy, while the female cat is ungrateful and devious. The term ‘feline fatale’ is used to describe this anthropomorphic mix of feline and feminine, which further enforces ideas of negative feline aspects attributed to women; used as a tongue-in-cheek phrase relating to the anti-heroine Catwoman, the feline fatale deserves further consideration as a theoretical cinematic concept (Colon, 2003). The feline fatale is fetishized throughout cinematic history. In Louis Feuillade’s French serial Les Vampires (1915), Jeanne Roques (better known by the stage name Musidora) portrayed Irma Vep, an evil, alluring villain in a catsuit. Although early scenes associate her with bats more than cats, her coolness and demeanor, as she fluidly crawls up the sides of buildings, associates her with the term ‘cat burglar’ in a literal sense. Island of Lost Souls (1932) introduced audiences to Lota (Kathleen Burke), the panther woman. Lota is vivisected and experimented upon by Dr. Moreau (Charles Laughton); the story suggests she was once animal, only to become a mixture of cat and woman. Irma Vep and Lota are two examples of female and feline characters who rouse desire and fear in male characters, and thus early incarnations of the feline fatale. The concept is explored at length in the Val Lewton/Jacques 343

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Tourneur production Cat People (1942) and Kaneto Shindô’s Yabu no Naka no Kuroneko (A Black Cat in a Bamboo Grove, 1968). Cat People reflects a historical conflict between European and American culture and discourses, while Kuroneko examines decidedly Japanese mores. The former is a tale of modernity clashing with old world beliefs and the latter a period piece that comments on the irrationality of ancient belief, featuring animistic demons that take revenge on exploitative members of the samurai class. The films thus showcase the struggle between belief and disbelief, whether due to faith in religion, science, or other concepts that incite fervor. The awe, reverence, and fear the characters have toward cats borders on idol worship, or zoolatry. Notions of fetishism aside, the cat anthropomorphized into a female human can be argued to be emancipating for women, with culturally specific commentary on gender politics surrounding the specific role of the feline fatale in both films. Cat People tells the story of Irena, an introverted Serbian immigrant in the United States who meets and marries Oliver Reed (Kent Smith), a self-described “good, plain American-o.” French-American film director Tourneur relates the film’s leading lady to a caged black panther from the very first scene. Her mental state and their marriage fall apart due to her belief that she descends from shapeshifting cats, an affliction that flares up whenever she encounters an intimate situation. Cat People is preoccupied with the repression of female desire and the ensuing negativity this fosters. Early in the film, Irena recounts how her ancestors were accosted and driven away by King John of Serbia, essentially describing the king in a missionary-like role related to Christianity and the supposedly shapeshifting, witch-like natives as uncivilized pagans. She keeps a prominently displayed 344

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statue of King John impaling a cat on his sword, which seems out of character, as most subjugated people do not willingly keep symbols of oppressors in their home. This confliction demonstrates the confusion or displacement many foreigners struggle with when trying to assimilate into a new culture. Irena wants to be like everyone else but seems cursed by her otherness. It can also be argued that there is an inherent queerness that sets her apart, as scholars Alexander Doty and Patricia Clare Ingham (2003) note: The film also invites attention to a competing version of medieval history, an alternative story that foregrounds the oppression of the Cat People, a queer culture driven into the hills […] From the view of that cultural history, King John is no hero, but a victimizer, and the once-oppressed Cat People survive into the twentieth century as a queer force to be reckoned with. (pp. 226-227) Irena speaks highly of King John as a liberator, but this is at odds with her description of the troubled lineage from which she descends. When Oliver asks about the statue, she replies, “It’s meant to represent the evil ways into which my village had once fallen.” She recounts that people in her village were accused of practicing witchcraft and purged or driven into the mountains by King John, where the “wisest and most wicked” endured and became the cat people. Whether Irena is disassociating herself from uncomfortable truths about her cultural and colonized history or fighting her nature is not confirmed; the religious-crusader-forces-out-(female)-felines premise that acts as the cornerstone for the entirety of Cat People is a murky mix of truth and fiction. 345

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Doty and Ingham (2003) note that the “official history” Irena references dips into metaphor and speculation (p. 230). As Chris Fujiwara (1998) writes in his book on Tourneur, The Cinema of Nightfall, “rather than designating a precise cultural-geographical identity, the name [Serbia] functions as a sign of foreignness in the film” (p. 6). The Serbian folktales that Irena’s neuroses hinge upon are challenged by a relatively new belief system that was becoming in vogue in 1940s America: psychoanalysis. During this decade, psychoanalysis garnered legitimacy that reached religious or cult-like proportions, quickly progressing from a new medical movement to an entity that commanded worship in its own right. Developed around the start of the twentieth century through the work of Sigmund Freud and a number of other doctors, including Carl Jung, Jacques Lacan, and Melanie Klein, many have pointed out the limits of Freudian psychoanalytic thought as a biased set of theories and techniques unsuited for treating people on a universal scale (Lewin, 1984; Safran, 2018). Regardless of its weight in contemporary medical culture, psychoanalysis found a firm foothold in cinema studies. The concentration important film theorists placed on this approach during the twentieth century— notably Christian Metz (1986), Laura Mulvey (1975), and Teresa de Lauretis’ (1984) respective psychoanalytic approaches to fetishism, the Oedipus complex, and dream theory—has shaped not only film study but also film content. When Irena resists the modern talking cure in Cat People, the almost-too-normal Oliver constantly encourages her to meet with a psychoanalyst to overcome her feline fixation. Psychoanalysis is used as a plot point in a number of films from this period, such as Alfred Hitchcock’s classic Spellbound (1945) and 346

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Otto Preminger’s Whirlpool (1949). Released in 1942, Cat People is a wartime film with a decidedly foreign protagonist that cannot decide how, exactly, to portray Irena’s religion or culture. Whether or not this can be chalked up to merely shoddy character development, this vagueness works quite well in accentuating her mysterious and intuitive nature. It is therefore not surprising when a controlled, rational science such as psychoanalysis cannot help her. This is assuming that Irena’s analyst Dr. Louis Judd (Tom Conway) is genuinely trying to help her; often, it seems he instead uses psychology to manipulate her. The men in the film desire ownership of Irena, which does not turn out well. Like domesticated cats that never feel fully within their owners’ grasps, Irena is a lone creature: she cannot be tamed. Although the transformation happens offscreen, a subtle and commendable touch by Tourneur, the editing indicates that Irena and the cat are one and the same. In one of the film’s most famous scenes, Irena’s romantic rival Alice (Jane Randolph) approaches a pool and apprehensively paddles around in the water. The audience is aware that Irena has been following her from a previous scene. From the murky shadows, snarling and growling sounds echo off the tiles before Irena appears, only to leave coolly after observing that she has struck fear into her opponent. The terrified Alice exits the pool to find her robe slashed to ribbons. The most marked indicator of the unseen metamorphosis comes near the end of the film when Judd stabs the panther with his cane-sword, part of which is found lodged in Irena’s body in the following scene. Accepting that a human can become an animal brings many rational belief systems into question and ties into the film’s presentation of psychoanalysis as a rational set of

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theories, despite the criticisms associated with this method of treatment both scientifically and culturally. Cat People opens with a fictional quote from Judd, Irena’s smarmy psychoanalyst: “Even as fog continues to lie in the valleys, so does ancient sin cling to the low places, the depressions in the world of consciousness.” The quote is attributed to Judd’s book The Anatomy of Atavism, which incorporates another counterpoint to organized religion and a concentration on nature. Johannes Weissenborn speculated in 1906 that zoolatry may have developed from the wonder and admiration that early humans felt toward animals possessing specific traits or abilities. For example, the lengthy average lifespan of snakes led many historic African populations to consider the animals to be divine (Weissenborn, 1906). The idolatry often expressed toward cats is related to their undomesticated nature. Colonizers like King John and psychoanalysts like Judd try to manipulate the mind in order to control and domesticate the wild parts of humanity, with fatal results in Irena’s case. Doctors may abuse their positions by taking advantage of confusion and insecurity in their patients; in this case, in an attempt to ease Irena into the acceptance and comfort of normative standards, Judd encourages her to positively accept negative historic upheavals such as displacement and colonization. Quite often, mental health is perceived as a by-product of achieving the stereotypical goals of adult life: the stable home, career, and perfect spouse—in other words, taming one’s wildness. Cat People portrays psychoanalysis as an ideology used by patriarchal society to control (or domesticate) women. When his techniques do not seem to work, Judd threatens Irena with a diagnosis of insanity, flaunting his ability to legally lock her away. Judd genuinely 348

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believes he is more powerful than Irena, a perspective that leads to his demise. Despite everything he observes as a doctor, and even after being warned by Alice, Judd still attempts to seduce his patient. After he kisses Irena, the light fades on her motionless face. Judd reaches for his cane sword—a phallic prop popular in these psychoanalytic films of the 1940s, such as Gilda (1946)— but he is too late. The audience sees the shadow of the panther attacking him, the ever-subtle Tourneur leaving the violence up to the audience’s imagination. The film can be thought of as a fantasy of women’s reactions to unwanted advances made by men or as a signal of a completely different kind of desire. A great amount of the tension in Cat People can be attributed to Irena’s anxiety regarding intimacy, but much of it also has to do with existing in a world that forces patriarchal desires upon women, delegating what they want into the background. As scriptwriter DeWitt Bodeen stated, “Val [Lewton] got several letters after Cat People was released, congratulating him for his boldness in introducing lesbiana to films in Hollywood” (cited in Fujiwara, 1998, pp. 81-82). Lesbianism is only one possibility for what the film represents, opening the story to many varied analyses. One of the most striking and enigmatic scenes occurs when Irena and Oliver are having a post-wedding party with friends in a Serbian restaurant. A chic and haunting woman is noticed by the men at the table, with one remarking she “looks like a cat.” The woman approaches the table and greets Irena with the term “Moia sestra” (‘my sister’). Irena is visibly shaken and makes the sign of the cross, literally marking her allegiance with her colonizer, and the woman walks resignedly away. This intimate and powerful moment between the two women replaces queer desire with a heteronormative fetishization of the feline fatale. 349

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Irena’s internal conflict is ultimately a religious battle. Confronted by Irena in her animal form, Oliver and Alice are beyond the realms of psychoanalysis and resort to religious icons, wielding a large Christian cross, its shadow magnified on the wall behind them and duplicated in the t-squares that adorn the room. These Christian leanings, along with Judd’s desire to restore patriarchal order via psychological manipulation, expel Irena and the cat from any kind of safe existence. Irena rejects the conformation and imprisonment Christianity represents to die on the altar of cat worship. She embraces her fate and nature via the symbolic liberation of a panther from the zoo, which attacks and kills Irena before perishing under the wheels of a taxi. Like the cat women ousted by King John who fled to the mountains, Irena and her feline familiar are unable to survive assaults on their autonomy. Irrational, animalistic tendencies beat out psychoanalysis in the end, but patriarchal order reigns. A remake of Cat People, directed by Paul Schrader, was released in 1982, but that iteration was essentially defanged. The subtle power of the Tourneur original, which does not rely on shock and has something productive to say about gender representation in the United States, is missing from the later film. While much has been speculated about the anti-auteur nature of Tourneur’s career, it is worth noting that two of his later productions featured dangerous, big cats. Terror returns in feline form a year after Cat People, with The Leopard Man (1943), one of Tourneur’s other collaborations with Lewton, as well as in 1957’s Curse of the Demon. Tourneur’s filmography is varied in tone and subject matter, but he continued to come back to this photogenic and provocative feline imagery: he was fixated on the power of the cat. 350

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Stories about monstrous and ghostly cats, and superstitions linking them to women, pervade Japanese lore. Kuroneko draws from this rich history in its condemnation of men who seek supremacy and control. In Japan, the preoccupation with cats fits into a larger cultural scope that focuses on the divine nature of kami, holy powers or spirits within Japan’s indigenous Shinto religion. From the sixth to the ninth century, Buddhist teachings imported from China were infused with Shinto, in a bid to make the two practices work in conjunction with each other (Masaharu, 1970). A quiet observation of nature, Shinto is both animistic and pantheistic. Historian William K. Bunce (1955) writes of this early polytheistic nature worship: “all natural phenomena were of animistic character and […] each person or thing was in itself a manifestation of the divine” (p. 1). This animistic belief system reserves a special place for cats in Japan, which are often revered and the subject of prayer: To this day, Gōtoku-ji retains its reputation as a Cat Temple. It is quite a sight to see; the thousands and thousands of maneki neko of every conceivable variety decorate the temple and the surrounding area. People come to the temple to pray not only for fortune for themselves, but also the health and happiness of these beloved pets. (Davisson, 2017, p. 120) The maneki neko, the iconic luck-bringing, waving statue, is only one kind of supernatural cat. Others include the bakeneko, which possesses the ability to shapeshift into human form at will, the nekomata, which plays the shamisen, a traditional musical instrument, and the kasha, which rides a flaming chariot through the air, seeking corpses to eat (Davisson, 2017). Such creatures 351

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are central in hyperbolic stories equating women, from the upper class to sex workers, with cats: While bakeneko and other kaibyō are traditionally objects of fear, there is at least one instance where folklore transformed from horrific to seductive. The walled pleasure districts of Edo-period [1603-1868] Japan housed the yūjo, the various classes of prostitutes who sold services from dancing to sex. Some of these women were incredibly famous, with several high-ranking prostitutes worshipped as national idols, celebrated across the country. Others were more infamous, with rumors spreading that they were not exactly human. (Davisson, 2017, p. 71)  Some clients, seeing the abstracted shadows through shoji screens, thought that these sex workers had the ability to shape-shift into cats and paid for the experience of intimacy with a supernatural creature. Of course, this is a completely self-perpetuating illusion but also a worthy folkloric catalyst (Davisson, 2017, p. 75). This fascination was reflected theatrically in Noh and Kabuki stage productions, which were in turn adapted in such popular films as Kazuo Mori’s Kaibyô akakabe daimyojin (Ghost Cat and the Red Wall, 1938) and Kiyohiko Ushihara’s Kaibyô nazo no shamisen (The Ghost Cat and the Mysterious Shamisen, 1938). By the 1950s, the subgenre was still going strong, with titles like Kaibyô ômagatsuji (The Ghost Cat of Ouma Crossing, 1954), Kaibyô Yonaki numa (Ghost Cat of Yonaki Swamp, 1957), and Kaibyô noroi no kabe (The Ghost-Cat Cursed Wall, 1958). The feline fatale is thus expected to live by unrealistic standards imagined by men: they must be exciting, dangerous, rapturous, while at the 352

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same time controllable and subservient. They are expected to be virtually supernatural, yet time and again men are surprised and disoriented when femme/feline fatales wreak havoc. Kuroneko explores this fetishization of the supernatural woman-cat hybrid and the responsive sexual power of the feline fatale. In the opening scene, a brigade of hungry, horny samurai pillage a small abode, raping Yone (Nobuko Otowa) and her daughter-in-law Shige (Kiwako Taichi) before leaving them for dead as a fire grows out of control. Among the remains, a black cat stands atop the presumably dead bodies, licking at their faces. Those familiar with Japanese ghosts and demons will recognize this being as kasha, a corpse-eating demon in the guise of a cat (Davisson, 2017). The demon makes a pact with the spirits of the departed women, who return as kaibyô, lifelike yet ethereal apparitions with the sole, vengeful purpose of seducing and murdering samurai. Eventually the son/spouse (Nakamura Kichiemon II) of the two women arrives home from war to find his mother and wife missing. His heroic acts have resulted in a promotion from peasant to samurai, a dramatic transition that includes a name change from Hachi to Gintoki. In a cruel twist of fate, Raiko (Kei Sato), the governor presiding over Hachi/Gintoki, orders him to destroy the ghosts responsible for the deaths of the samurai. Hachi/Gintoki is shocked to find that the ghosts resemble his missing family. Shindô often depicts samurai as cruel and bumbling fools, as seen with the men dispatched by the kaibyō before Hachi/Gintoki’s return. Though portrayed with more consideration and sympathy than his comrades, Hachi/Gintoki has aligned himself with the patriarchal supremacy and control the women condemn; each party is obligated to destroy the other. 353

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This narrative mirroring, along with the dual identities in the film, calls to mind the Freudian (1919) concept of the uncanny, the psychological experience of strange familiarity within the ordinary. In addition to Hachi/Gintoki’s divided allegiance, overtly signified by his new name, the two kaibyô look exactly like Hachi/Gintoki’s wife and mother, but they are no longer human: they are feline fatales. This doubling is duplicated further when Hachi/Gintoki and Shige break their respective pacts in order to spend seven nights together and are divided eternally as a result. Shige is condemned to the spirit world and Hachi/ Gintoki commits a dishonorable act in disobeying direct orders and subsequently lying about this defiance to the governor. Their tender romance, an oasis of desire among the film’s landscape of violence, emphasizes Yone’s supernatural transition. While Shige is willing to renege her demonic pact and vengeance, sacrificing her spirit for love, Yone’s monstrosity is duplicitous. Hachi/ Gintoki only attacks his mother when he encounters her feeding on samurai and sees her true reflection in a pool of water. She escapes after he cuts off her leg, which transforms into a cat’s leg. Hachi/Gintoki produces this as proof that he has killed her, pardoning her a second time. Despite this, Yone actively hunts her samurai son in order to fulfill her regulatory duty. Whether this is due to the trauma of her death or fear of being condemned is not explored. The ambiguous ending instead sees Yone interrupting Hachi/Gintoki’s seven-day purification process, after his ordeal with the women, to retrieve her leg. With her supernatural power restored, she flies away. Hachi/Gintoki, seemingly supernaturally affected by the encounter, wanders until he reaches the family home and collapses in the snow as a cat can be heard approaching. Where Cat People demonstrates a 354

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doomed relationship based around repressed feelings of sexual desire, Kuroneko harnesses the sexual and supernatural power of the feline fatale to lure men to their doom. As with most horror films, Cat People and Kuroneko are about the fear of difference. However, both signal the liberating possibilities of this subject: the feline fatale allows female characters to go beyond the outmoded mystique surrounding femininity and into more active stances, whether those are expressions of forbidden desire or the reaping of revenge. Perhaps the most important thing when considering the cinematic feline fatales in these films is to acknowledge the immense power they wield and act upon, whether it comes from a religious, folkloric, or psychological background. From Irena in Cat People to the two women in Kuroneko, atavism may be the most important motivating factor in these films. Tourneur and Shindô meld historical superstition with creativity and imagination to contribute crucial additions to world cinema. In conflating femininity with animalistic associations, these filmmakers release women from the bonds expected by civilized humanity. The feline fatale has a negative history involving fetishization and superficial gender biases, which makes the cat women in Kuroneko and Cat People surprisingly progressive in their nuances and agency. In these films, the feline fatale becomes a source of power and independence.

REFERENCES Bunce, W.K. (1955). Religions in Japan: Buddhism, Shinto, Christianity. Rutland, VT: Charles E. Tuttle Co. Colon, S. (2003). Catwoman: The Life and Times of a Feline Fatale. San Francisco, CA: Chronicle Books.

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scared sacred Davisson, Z. (2017). Kaibyō: The Supernatural Cats of Japan. Seattle, WA: Chin Music Press. De Lauretis, T. (1984). Alice Doesn’t: Film, Semiotics, Cinema. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Doty, A., & Ingham, P.C. (2003). The “Evil Medieval”: Gender, Sexuality, Miscegenation, and Assimilation in Cat People. In M. Pomerance (Ed.), Bad: Infamy, Darkness, Evil, and Slime on Screen. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Feuillade, L. (Director). (1915). Les Vampires [Motion picture]. France: Société des Etablissements L. Gaumont. Filep, B. (2017). The Politics of Good Neighborhood: State, Civil Society and the Enhancement of Cultural Capital in East Central Europe. London, England: Routledge. Freud, S. (2003). The Uncanny (Penguin Modern Classics) (D. McLintock, Trans.). London, England: Penguin Books. Fujiwara, C. (1998). Jacques Tourneur: The Cinema of Nightfall. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co. Hitchcock, A. (Director). (1945). Spellbound [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists. Idolatry [Def. 1 & 2]. (n.d.). Dictionary.com. Retrieved from https://www. dictionary.com/browse/idolatry?s=t Islamic Information Portal. (2013, February 15). The Love and Importance of Cats in Islam. Retrieved from http://islam.ru/en/content/story/ love-and-importance-cats-islam Kado, B. (Director). (1954). Kaibyô ômagatsuji [The Ghost Cat of Ouma Crossing; motion picture]. Japan: Daiei Studios. Kenton E.C. (Director). (1932). Island of Lost Souls [Motion picture]. United States: Paramount Pictures. Lewin, M. (1984, March 11). Freud Showed Bias. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/1984/03/11/books/l-freudshowed-bias-041936.html Malek, J. (1997). The Cat in Ancient Egypt. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Masaharu, A. (1970). Religious Life of the Japanese People. Tokyo, Japan: Japanese Cultural Society.

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zoolatry and the feline fatale Menon, E.K. (2006). Evil by Design: The Creation and Marketing of the Femme Fatale. Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press. Metz, C. (1986). The Imaginary Signifier: Psychoanalysis and the Cinema. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Misumi, K. (Director). (1958). Kaibyô noroi no kabe [The Ghost-Cat Cursed Wall; motion picture]. Japan: Daiei Studios. Mori, K. (Director). (1938). Kaibyô akakabe daimyojin [Ghost Cat and the Red Wall; motion picture]. Japan: Shinkô Kinema. Mulvey, L. (1975). Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema. Screen, Volume 16(3). Nature. (2017). Cat Domestication: From Farms to Sofas. Nature Ecology & Evolution, 1(0202). Parish, H. (2019). “Paltrie Vermin, Cats, Mise, Toads, and Weasils”: Witches, Familiars, and Human-Animal Interactions in the English Witch Trials. Religions, 10(2). Peoples of Scotland. (n.d.). Neolithics, Orcadians, Picts, Gaels, AngloSaxons, and Vikings. Retrieved from http://hal_macgregor.tripod.com/ gregor/peoples.html Preminger, O. (Director). (1950). Whirlpool [Motion picture]. United States: 20th Century Fox. Safran, J.D. (2018, April 2). Psychoanalysis Today. Psychology Today. Retrieved from https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/ straight-talk/201804/psychoanalysis-today Shindô, K. (Director). (1968). Yabu no naka no kuroneko [A Black Cat in a Bamboo Grove; motion picture]. Japan: Toho Company. Tasaka, K. (Director). (1957). Kaibyô Yonaki numa [Ghost Cat of Yonaki Swamp; motion picture]. Japan: Daiei Studios. Tourneur, J. (Director). (1942). Cat People [Motion picture]. United States: RKO Radio Pictures. Tourneur, J. (Director). (1943). The Leopard Man [Motion picture]. United States: RKO Radio Pictures. Tourneur, J. (Director). (1957). Curse of the Demon [Motion picture]. United Kingdom: Columbia Pictures. Ushihara, K. (Director). (1938). Kaibyô nazo no shamisen [The Ghost Cat and the Mysterious Shamisen; motion picture]. Japan: Shinkô Kinema.

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scared sacred Vidor, C. (Director). (1946). Gilda [Motion picture]. United States: Columbia Pictures. Vocelle, L.A. (2016). Revered and Reviled: A Complete History of the Domestic Cat. [n.p.]: Great Cat Publications. Weissenborn, J. (1906). Animal-Worship in Africa. Journal of the Royal African Society, 5(19). Zoolatry [Def. 1]. (n.d.). Dictionary.com. Retrieved from https://www. dictionary.com/browse/zoolatry

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FAITH AND IDOLATRY IN THE ABRAHAMIC RELIGIONS: SECURITY THROUGH SYMBOLS IN ŞEYTAN (1974) AND JINN (2014) NEIL GRAVINO

f the Abrahamic religions, which originated in the Middle OEast and claim descent from the patriarch Abraham, the

three largest are Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (Issitt & Main, 2014). Each promote the monotheistic belief that reliance upon symbols for protection and comfort is sinful in its own right, deterring followers from their belief in a single higher power, and thus reject symbols in their practices as objects of ruin. Judaism is the oldest surviving religion of these faiths, believed to have been derived by the pact made between Abraham, the first Jew, and God, who claimed the Jews as His chosen people. As a monotheistic faith, Judaism discourages the recognition of any other being as equal to God, and the Star of David identifies followers of Judaism and symbolizes God’s protection over the Davidic line, which is prophesized to one day produce the Messiah (Issitt & Main, 2014). Christianity is an offshoot of Judaism that includes the Old Testament and the teachings of Jesus Christ, believed by Christians to be the Messiah; the Christian cross recalls the 361

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crucifixion of Christ and remains the most enduring symbol of the faith (Issitt & Main, 2014). Finally, Islam, the second largest religion in the world, is formed from a mix of Judeo-Christian tradition and the spiritual and traditional practices of Middle Eastern tribes, who view the prophet Muhammad as the final person to have spoken to God, or Allah (Issitt & Main, 2014). The star and crescent symbol is modeled on symbols used by people of the Middle East long before the advent of Islam. In the films Şeytan (1974) and Jinn (2014), characters with no or little faith find themselves targeted by demonic forces derived from the Abrahamic religions. Faced with this threat, they are forced to confront their faith and the conflict between good and evil as they try to find their place in a world full of supernatural wonder and danger. Drawing on Middle Eastern folklore, both films present religious icons and remedies to combat the evil only to have them prove ineffectual. Each explores the idolatry of rationality, material possession/commodity, and the influence of the occult within a wider sociocultural context, commenting on the tensions of maintaining tradition in a modern world and calling for a return to spirituality and faith in oneself and religion in real-life. In this chapter, Şeytan and Jinn will be discussed in terms of their approach to the Islamic belief system and its place within the Abrahamic religions. The use of symbols as a means of defense from evil in each film, and the idolatrous sin associated with putting faith in such objects, will be examined in terms of the overall moral implications and effectiveness of those objects in a monotheistic universe and within a modern, secularized society where materialism and the pursuit of objects of status have largely displaced devout adherence to traditional religious beliefs and practices. 362

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Unlike the majority of Western religious horror films, which rely heavily upon and exhaustively explore Christian themes, Şeytan and Jinn primarily reference Islamic beliefs and folklore. Culturally complex, the films comment upon and thus invite comparison between the two belief systems via the fundamental idea of belief versus non-belief at the core of each. This opposition is echoed in the clear division between good and evil in the Abrahamic religions: if one is not following God, then the obverse must be the Devil and his followers. Şeytan and Jinn use this polarity to map their cosmology, presenting evil in the form of demonic invaders that threaten humanity. Through religious horror, viewers receive a symbolic representation of various religious concepts, somehow making them less than the sum of their parts. Bryan Stone (2001) writes that the use of religious themes in horror became a trend with the advent of films like The Exorcist (1973) and The Omen (1976), creating an “openness to the supernatural” as portrayed through religion (p. 20). He acknowledges that the constant portrayal of religious ideas like possession and exorcism, as well as figures such as Satan, ran the risk of trivializing the symbols and their meaning. This culminated in defiantly irreverent portrayals of such topics by the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, as seen in the television show South Park (1997-) (Stone, 2001). However, the opposite is also true: “Evil is far more frightening and threatening, however, when it moves away from its thematization in the person of the devil or demons. The more ambiguous is evil in relation to good and the more evil falls outside of comfortable dualities and binary oppositions, the more uncomfortable we are” (Stone, 2001, pp. 20-21). Western religious horror often historically manipulated this 363

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fear to promote a conservative agenda. In a 2016 article written for Vice titled “Why Are So Many Horror Films Christian Propaganda?”, Josiah M. Hesse points to recent films such as The Conjuring (2013), The Conjuring 2 (2016), and Ouija (2014) as being politically loaded with Christian symbols and messages. He concludes that there is little difference between the messages taught from the pulpits of churches and those of many horror films: “Satan is everywhere, and you need the Bible to protect you” (Hesse, 2016, para. 4). Hesse goes on to quote religious art and history professor David Morgan, who argues that the filmmakers are not necessarily using propaganda but rather relying on “cultural currency” as shorthand to easily communicate concepts to the audience for entertainment purposes (2016, para. 10). Before proceeding further, a little more must be said on symbols and idols. Micah Issitt and Carlyn Main write in their 2014 book Hidden Religion: The Greatest Mysteries and Symbols of the World’s Religious Beliefs that symbols are an integral part of religious belief. To outsiders, and those who have lost or neglected their faith, the symbols may have little meaning, but, as the films attest, they can mean everything to those who believe. Symbols provide an understanding of and insight into what religion is trying to communicate (Issitt & Main, 2014). Before the implementation of an alphabetical system, symbols and pictograms were an easy way to converse and exchange ideas. By design, symbols tend to be simple and easy to replicate, building on each other over the course of human history, gaining significance and sometimes changing in meaning. Though many became symbols of faith against evil, symbols can be controversial due to political implications and subsequent perceived negative effects on followers. In the Western world, one of the most recognized symbols 364

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of faith is the Christian crucifix. With the rise of Puritanism in sixteenth-century England, for example, evangelicals believed that the crucifix, or any image relating to a saint or martyr, could cause an individual to succumb to the sin of idolatry (Aston, 2002). The sin of idolatry is common in all three Abrahamic religions and refers to the veneration of an idol. An idol is defined as “a representation or symbol of an object of worship” or, alternatively, “a false god” (Merriam-Webster, n.d.). Jamal J. Elias (2007) writes that the Abrahamic religions have a “two-faceted distrust of visual and physical representation,” preferring the non-physical over the physical, and a “scriptural prohibition against figural imagery” (p. 14). The Ten Commandments of Judaism and Christianity state: “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth” (Exodus 20:4). In Islam, the Qur’an states: “[I]nstead of Allah you worship idols, and you invent a lie. Indeed those whom you worship besides Allah have no control over your provision. So seek all [your] provision from Allah, and worship Him and thank Him, and to Him you shall be brought back” (Al-ʿAnkabūt 29:17). To understand the spiritual dimension of symbols and idols in both films covered in this chapter, one must first explore the figure of the jinn, known more commonly in the Western world as ‘genies.’ Those more familiar with the popular-culture-spewing character from Disney’s Aladdin (1992) may be surprised to find the jinn of Middle Eastern folklore presented in a more sinister light. Jinn are described in traditional Arabic folklore as “spirit creatures” with connections to nature, wielding “great powers” and “miraculous abilities” beyond the limits of humanity (Lebling, 2011, p. 7). In Islam, jinn are believed to have been 365

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created by Allah out of smokeless fire, similar to descriptions in the scripture of all three Abrahamic religions asserting that humans were formed out of clay (Lebling, 2011). Islamic folklore portrays the jinn as enemies of Allah, as in the collection The Book of One Thousand and One Nights (Burton, 1885a; 1885b). With the spread of Islam, ancient pagan gods and beliefs were integrated into Islamic lore, and the jinn are believed to be representative of this idolatrous past (Lebling, 2011). There are several terms used to describe different types of jinn: jinn simply refers to specific individuals or tribes; jann is a broad term for all jinn, good or evil; shaitans or satans are demons who are tied to or serve Iblis, the Islamic counterpart to Satan; ifrits are generally evil and more powerful than the shaitans; and marids are the most powerful and evil jinn (Lebling, 2011, pp. 7-8). The Qur’an also speaks of jinn who converted to Islam, while the shaitans are those who rebelled, serving Iblis and standing in for Christian demons as non-human entities capable of spreading chaos and possessing humans (Lebling, 2011). Shaitans in particular play a major role in both films, serving as antagonistic spirits hellbent on tormenting the families at the heart of each story. In the first, a shaitan is inadvertently summoned; in the second, the shaitans are engaged in an ancestral feud with the protagonist’s bloodline. The jinns’ turbulent relationship with Allah is present in stories from Islamic folklore such as “The Fisherman and the Jinni” (Burton, 1885a), where the titular fisherman encounters an ifrit claiming to have been in conflict with Sulayman/Solomon, the King of Jerusalem, thus leading to the jinn being imprisoned until the fisherman releases him. In this tale, the jinn is punished for refusing to acknowledge Allah. Older references to jinn 366

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render them as antagonists of angels and Allah, as in one such story recounted by Amira El-Zein (2009): the jinn used to go up to Heaven to listen to the angels, until they entered into a war with Allah and lost their status. While the jinn had once enjoyed unfettered access to the celestial realm, they lost this privilege and were expelled from Earth after they “rebelled, spread corruption on Earth, and rejected the laws of the prophets who came to them” (El-Zein, 2009, p. 39). The Qur’an similarly describes Iblis as defying Allah when told to honor Adam after his creation: “[the angels] prostrated, but not Iblis: he refused and acted arrogantly, and he was one of the faithless” (Al-Baqarah 2:34). Such accounts parallel stories of demons and fallen angels in Western mythology. In ancient Greece, Prometheus was punished by Zeus for defying the gods by giving fire to early man. In Christianity, Lucifer was cast out of Heaven for defying God, stating, “I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation” (Isaiah 14:13). Comparisons can also be drawn between the depiction of demonic possession as a popular Christian theme in contemporary Western horror cinema and traditional Islamic folk stories. In “Harun Al-Rashid and Abu Hasan, The Merchant of Oman,” a young girl’s possession is described as a sickness in-text (Burton, 1885b), echoing the initial attempts to explain the possession in Şeytan. Like Judeo-Christian demons, Islamic ones were also believed to be capable of possessing people, and this explanation was the given reason for many accounts of mental illness in the ancient Middle East. However, the fact that the possessed girl in “The Merchant of Oman” can be cured by a magical amulet reflects a cultural shift in contemporary Turkish cinema, as 367

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Şeytan demonstrates the futility and sin of placing faith in symbols and idolatry rather than oneself and the one true God. Şeytan, directed by Metin Erksan and released in 1974, is a Turkish remake of The Exorcist, adding further cultural nuances to its themes. The narrative closely mirrors the earlier film: Tugrul Bilge (Cihan Unal) is a skeptical writer who encounters Gul (Canan Perver), a young girl possessed by a demonic entity after playing with a spirit board in her home. Tugrul is forced to confront not only his own beliefs but the reality in which he finds himself, one that defies logic and science. Ultimately, Tugrul is forced to sacrifice his own life to save Gul’s soul when the traditional means of exorcism do not work in his favor. Though both Şeytan and The Exorcist begin with an archaeological dig, unearthing idols, the cultural differences between the films add another layer of subtext. In The Exorcist, though the initial dig occurs in Iraq, the main plot takes place in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. Due to its American setting, the film must work harder to justify the demonic power in its story. Overtly, the threat is foreign, a relic from a time of idols encroaching on Christian America. However, one could argue that the narrative comments on the relationship between America’s history of colonization and immigration, and the religious roots of Christianity, which originated in the Middle East. Şeytan, meanwhile, remains localized in Istanbul. The threat in this film takes the form of a throwback to a pagan past to emphasize the need for faith, tradition, and religious responsibility in a modern world. This conflict is played out via Tugrul’s internal struggle as a man of science and warns against placing faith in the material, or idolatry, as opposed to the spiritual. In The Exorcist and Şeytan, ignorance causes the characters 368

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to put their faith in symbols that lead to their ruin. They remain unaware of the supernatural around them, a consequence of neglecting religion and worship, instead focusing exclusively on human and material matters. A higher power is implicitly present in the existence of the supernatural, but the characters do not fully comprehend its existence until their reality is insidiously invaded by forces that “haunt the edges of [their] culture, as an indeterminate menace and potential violation of the established norms” (Santilli, 2007, pp. 175-176). An active interest in symbols as a result of this awareness, either of religious or occult origin, is not enough to ensure one’s safety: evil cannot be banished by simple symbols divorced from true faith. Early in Şeytan, Gul plays with a spirit board, thinking it nothing more than a game and thus not at all concerned about the intention of the spiritual entity with which she has made contact. Similarly, Gul’s mother Ayten (Meral Taygun) does not seem to put much stock in the spirit board until she witnesses signs of Gul’s possession. A transplant from The Exorcist, these attitudes echo the development and popularity of Western Spiritualism in the nineteenth century. On both sides of the Atlantic, “old-fashioned” (Goodman, 1988, p. 27) fears of the Devil and faith in traditional religion were often ignored or neglected due to a need for grieving families to make contact with loved ones lost during devastating wars, particularly the Crimean War (1853-56) and American Civil War (1861-65). The influence of the occult as a form of idolatry is demonized in the presence of a monstrous statue that appears at various points in Şeytan—particularly when the possessed Gul is shown prostrating herself before it when it mysteriously appears in her room. The statue serves as a representation of the extreme danger 369

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inherent within her earlier interest in the occult, of which science and rationale is shown to be a gestating force. Tugrul’s desire to identify and cling to a scientific rather than supernatural explanation for Gul’s possession is reiterated in the film through Gul’s medical examinations, although a board of doctors cannot provide any comforting answers despite their medical knowledge. The film thus comments on how this secularization has shifted humanity’s philosophical focus from cosmic horrors to more psychological and scientific ones. This internalization, as evidenced in modern horror films where the monster represents the darkness of the human psyche, reflects the historical tension between science and the sacred (Stone, 2001). This scene encapsulates the core theme of Şeytan, transplanted from The Exorcist: scientific rationale cannot explain or heal what is happening to the victim, forcing the characters to accept that the supernatural is real and, by extension, return to religious belief and tradition (Smith, 2017). Tugrul’s narrative, a critique of secular ideas in the face of religious ones, is similar to religion’s place in psychological horror: “One of religion’s primary functions in establishing meaning and assigning value had been its ability to stake out the boundaries of good and evil, sacred or profane, saint and sinner” (Stone, 2001, p. 15). The psychological realization that there are supernatural forces at work begins the process of peeling away the metaphorical armor of Tugrul’s secular worldview. This introspective, insidious horror, which removes any divine involvement, sums up Tugrul’s outlook on life in Şeytan and becomes a type of shattered idolatry when Tugrul is alone with the possessed Gul. Similarly, the infamous scene where Regan (Linda Blair) stabs herself with a crucifix is replaced with Gul performing the same action with a paper knife. 370

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The knife’s scabbard possesses the scowling head of a jinn, likely changed for censorship reasons and also coding the demonic force invading the young girl’s body as a specific supernatural being rooted in Islamic mythology. The scene is thus a literal example of how putting faith in the wrong things leaves Gul vulnerable to demonic forces (Smith, 2017). In these moments, the tensions between modern rationality and traditional spirituality are distilled into a confrontation of faith. The ultimate horror in Şeytan is that the power of religion may not be enough, leaving humanity in a nihilistic crisis and vulnerable to evil forces. Additionally, during Şeytan’s climax, the use of Islamic symbols does not rid Gul of the spirit inside her. The exorcism, with its scripture, prayers, and use of zamzam water (holy water), ultimately amounts to nothing: the imam (Islamic leader) is killed and the spirit more enraged than injured. Tugrul must face the demonic entity without the security of rationalization or symbolic traditions and rituals, instead simply armed with affirmed belief in the supernatural and genuine faith in the spiritual. In the final confrontation, Tugrul literally beats the evil spirit out of Gul, which then moves into him, causing him to purge his physical body by committing suicide. Şeytan thus advocates an active attitude toward belief and a more vigilant attitude toward the threat of evil. In the final scene of the film, Gul and her mother attend a service at a mosque, reaffirming the triumph of faith over evil. The film ends with a reaffirmation of Islam in the world, and of religion over secularism. Tugrul sacrificing his life to stop the evil spirit sends a message of the necessity to recognize, accept, and combat spiritual/supernatural temptation and evil in the world, even if death is required. In his final moments, Tugrul forsakes his education 371

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in logic and reason, declaring that he will not stand by and let Gul’s soul be lost. The differences between the climax of Şeytan and The Exorcist also highlight the cultural significance of Islam and Christianity in the respective regions. In many ways, these changes are merely cosmetic, in an effort to reflect the cultural climate of the countries to which they are adapted. Both films are dogmatic in their depiction of religion but Şeytan’s mosque scene contains an overt reverence, impressing upon the viewer elaborate shots of the interior, as opposed to The Exorcist’s quieter, and thus more insidious, ending. Each film can be read as religious propaganda, but only Şeytan’s plot ultimately critiques the security of symbols that pervade society. Jinn, directed by Ajmal Zaheer Ahmad, uses Islamic folklore to tell a universal story about humanity’s fall from spiritual life. It follows Shawn (Dominic Rains) as he discovers his destiny: to battle the jinn, continuing a centuries-long feud between his family and the evil creatures. Jinn specifically refers to the antagonistic entities as shaitans and portrays them as fiery humanoids. As in Şeytan, Jinn features characters that rely on the familiarity and normality of modern life: material comforts, a mundane routine, and societal expectations such as raising a family. This comfort and complacency promotes the concept that the supernatural resides somewhere far away (if at all)—a far cry from the prologue showing Shawn’s ancestor engaging in a deadly fight with the shaitans. As the opening narration states, “Man has all but forgotten that the jinn have ever existed. It is time for him to remember.” Shawn is initially unaware of his heritage and thus serves as an example of humanity’s ignorance of the (religious) past and present, relying on what he can see and feel in the world around him and unmindful of the dangers lurking just beyond 372

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the edges of that familiarity. The source of the film’s supernatural and spiritual conflict is instigated by the fact that his wife is pregnant with a male heir. Shawn is descended from a long bloodline of jinn-hunters, imbued with supernatural powers as a result of their divine responsibilities and faith. The unborn child attracts the attention of the shaitans, and Shawn’s wife Jasmine (Serinda Swan) is abducted. Shawn must undergo a series of trials before he is able to combat the ancient foe, which prove to be a test of his faith. This mission brings him into contact with Fr. Westhoff (William Atherton), a Catholic priest, and Gabriel (Ray Park), the archangel who appears throughout the Abrahamic religions. Despite the film’s strong structural reliance on Islamic lore, written and directed by an American filmmaker with Pakistani heritage, the unification of Gabriel, Westhoff, and Shawn personifies the link between Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Respectively, they represent the combined symbol of the Jewish Star of David, Christian cross, and Islamic star and crescent rolled into one, and thus the universal importance of faith and tradition. In addition to his knowledge of Islamic practices and magic, Westhoff operates from a grand church, implicitly Catholic in design and prominently displaying images of saints and crosses. The setting of the church in Ann Arbor, Michigan provides Western/ Christian audiences with a familiar framework through which to understand the shaitans as demonic entities. Stone (2001) notes the similarities between jinn and vampires in Western popular culture, and acknowledges that the practice of belief in the crucifix as a fail-safe symbol to thwart the evil has begun to lessen. Jinn is an indirect product of this change in mentality, as Shawn dispatches the jinn without having to 373

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hide behind any idolatrous symbols. A notable scene, as Westhoff prepares to confront the shaitans, sees him taking down a large crucifix on his office wall. One may be inclined to think that the crucifix itself would be used to ward off the evil, but Westhoff instead reveals it conceals a sword, reestablishing Jinn’s message that symbols are not a substitute for true faith. The jinn can appear anywhere at any time, a metaphorical allusion to the idolatrous dangers and problems of modern life, and how ever-present and enduring faith is a necessary weapon in this constant struggle. J.P. Telotte (2004) writes that the horror film seeks to “strengthen our resolve” and “foster a longing for some renewal of human participation by revealing the dangers of its opposite, this idolatry” (p. 23). This ties into an antipathy toward life, taking for granted the world around the characters and the audience (Telotte, 2004). The renewed interest in—and appreciation of— life that comes from constantly combatting dangerous threats “affirms” faith within the films (Telotte, 2004, p. 32). Telotte (2004) thus further posits an additional cinematic consequence of idolatry, arguing that the horror film dehumanizes its characters, distancing the audience from onscreen horror as they observe from the comfort of their home/theater. This critique echoes religious indictments of modern society’s secular focus on materialism as alienating people from not only traditional spirituality and values but their own humanity and the humanity of others. Though Gabriel is revealed to be a jinn, he is an agent of God. Gabriel sits contemplatively in the church at one point, further disassociating him with the God-fearing jinn—the shaitans are unable to enter the holy sanctuary. Artistically, in addition to differentiating him from the physically monstrous jinn, his 374

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human-like appearance establishes his affinity with the Judaic incarnation of Gabriel, the guardian of Israel who takes the form of man. The unique design of Gabriel’s character in the film, woven into Islamic lore, is significant. The figure appears prominently in Judaism, Islam, and Christianity, and is thus the connective thread between the three denominations and viewers who subscribe to any of these beliefs. He is thus a similar guiding force in the film, restoring Shawn’s religious agency by revealing his heritage and the importance of traditional values in the face of the perpetual threat of idolatry in a modern world—in terms of secular ignorance or spiritual neglect, particularly in favor of material comforts, and the insidious invasion of evil, as symbolized by the ancient shaitans. In the film’s climax, Shawn’s choice is revealed to be a final test of his faith. Conventional ways of warding off evil, such as crucifixes and zamzam water, prove ineffectual, and Shawn and his companions must use their mental resolve and weapons as tools to battle the jinn, such as a blade forged in “jinn fire.” While one may argue the weapons used have the same purpose as the holy icons, using them requires physical work; the wielders must have absolute faith in themselves and the belief system behind the weapons or symbols. In the final stand-off against the shaitans, Shawn refuses to back down when they attempt to corrode his faith—in both his God and himself as an agent of the religion he serves—and kills one of the creatures, prompting the rest to retreat. The battle is an ultimate test that affirms his growth from skeptic to believer. Jinn ends with Shawn and his family safe at home after surviving their ordeal, armed with resilient religious faith and consequently well-prepared for further battles. Jinn and Şeytan both stress the need for belief—belief in 375

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heritage, tradition, and a higher power. Room for secularism does not exist in either film, as evidenced by Tugrul’s sacrifice and Shawn’s fated adaptation to the supernatural world in order to survive. To defeat evil, the protagonists must acknowledge the existence of spiritual forces and reify their faith. Simply possessing the proper symbols and objects is not enough: in addition to these symbols, upon which idolatrous stock is placed, the protagonists must possess the motivation and spiritual stamina to face the darkness. The increasing secularization of the world, with modern rationalism and materialism overtaking and rendering antiquated the ancient teachings of the Abrahamic religions, makes this task difficult. The films are not shy in their messages, encouraging people to act on their faith while also warning them of the dangers that will befall those who choose to undertake both action and inaction. Both films demand diligence of the faithful and issue a warning: do not let the idolatrous comfort of emblems take the place of true faith.

REFERENCES Ahmad, A.Z. (Director). (2014). Jinn [Motion picture]. United States: Freestyle Releasing. Aston, M. (2002). Cross and Crucifix in the English Reformation. Historische Zeitschrift. Beihefte, 33. Burton, R.F. (Trans.). (1885a). Harun Al-Rashid and Abu Hasan, The Merchant of Oman. In The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night (Vol. IX). [n.p.]: Public Library of India. Burton, R.F. (Trans.). (1885b). The Fisherman and the Jinni. In The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night (Vol. I). [n.p.]: Public Library of India. Clements, R., & Musker, J. (Directors). (1992). Aladdin [Motion picture]. United States: Walt Disney Pictures.

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faith and idolatry in the abr ahamic religions Donner, R. (Director). (1976). The Omen [Motion picture]. United Kingdom & United States: Fox-Rank & 20th Century Fox. Elias, J.J. (2007). (Un)making Idolatry: From Mecca to Bamiyan. Future Anterior: Journal of Historic Preservation, History, Theory, and Criticism, 4(2). El-Zein, A. (2009). Islam, Arabs, and the Intelligent World of the Jinn. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press. Erksan, M. (Director). (1974). Şeytan [Motion picture]. Turkey: Sprocket Flicks. Friedkin, W. (Director). (1973). The Exorcist [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. Goodman, F.D. (1988). How About Demons: Possession and Exorcism in the Modern World. Bloomington & Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press. Hesse, J.M. (2016, October 19). Why Are So Many Horror Films Christian Propaganda? Vice. Retrieved from https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/ gqkj84/why-are-so-many-horror-films-christian-propaganda Idol [Def. 2]. (n.d.). Merriam-Webster. Retrieved from https://www. merriam-webster.com/dictionary/idol Issitt, M., & Main, C. (2014). Hidden Religion: The Greatest Mysteries and Symbols of the World’s Religious Beliefs. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO. Lebling, R. (2011). Legends of the Fire Spirits: Jinn and Genies from Arabia to Zanzibar. Berkeley, CA: Counterpoint. Parker, T., & Stone, M. (Creators). (1997-). South Park [Television series]. United States: Comedy Central. Santilli, P. (2007). Culture, Evil, and Horror. The American Journal of Economics and Sociology, 66(1). Smith, I.R. (2017). The Hollywood Meme: Transnational Adaptations in World Cinema. Edinburgh, Scotland: Edinburgh University Press. Stone, B. (2016). The Sanctification of Fear: Images of the Religious in Horror Films. Journal of Religion & Film, 2(5). Telotte, J.P. (2004). Faith and Idolatry in the Horror Film. In B.K. Grant & C. Sharrett (Eds.), Planks of Reason: Essays on the Horror Film. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press Inc. Wan, J. (Director). (2013). The Conjuring [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros.

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scared sacred Wan, J. (Director). (2016). The Conjuring 2 [Motion picture]. United States: Warner Bros. White, S. (Director). (2014). Ouija [Motion picture]. United States: Universal Pictures, Platinum Dunes & Blumhouse.

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PROPHETIC VOICES AND THE LETHAL HAND OF GOD: THE RELIGIOUS ZEALOTRY OF FRAILTY (2001) CHRIS HALLOCK

My happy and mostly secure world had just been flipped over. And there were dark things under there. (Frailty, 2001)

n 2001, prolific actor Bill Paxton unveiled his directorial debut IFrailty, a deeply penetrating psychological horror film constructed upon a foundation of intense family drama. It concerns the ordeal of an ordinary all-American family; the trinity is ensnared in a cycle of murder when the patriarch, a widowed father of two young sons, is visited by a messenger of God with Heaven-sent instructions to kill. In carrying out this divine plan, the horrific actions undertaken by the newly devout father thrust his family’s loving and relatively stable home life into turmoil. Their story functions as a cautionary allegory, warning against religious zealotry and the perils it poses to vulnerable and impressionable children under the guidance of an extremist. Frailty is accentuated with biblical allusions that parallel the story, emphasized by the mysterious supernatural atmosphere cultivated by the film’s creators. As Paxton described in “The Making of Frailty” featurette accompanying the 2003 DVD 381

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release, the film is about “faith, family, and the loss of innocence.” The film benefits substantially by allowing the audience space to draw conclusions from its ambiguous arrangement and unsettling subject matter. Centered by a complicated morality, and anchored by stunning performances from its core cast of veterans and newcomers alike, Frailty is an eerie slice of East Texas Southern Gothic that examines the devastating effects of religious fanaticism on a tightly knit family. Frailty opens in an FBI office in Dallas, Texas. Agent Wesley Doyle (Powers Boothe) receives a late-night visit from a distressed man, Fenton Meiks (Matthew McConaughey), who claims to have valuable information that will aid Doyle’s high-profile investigation into a sprawling series of axe murders perpetrated by an assailant the newspapers call the “God’s Hand Killer,” who mutilates his victims and leaves cryptic notes at the scenes of the crimes. Paxton sets the tone immediately with a montage of press clippings featuring grisly forensic photographs captioned with lurid titles like “Mystery of the Butchered Body” and “Second Victim Found in God’s Hand Case.” These images serve as a grave complement to the opening credits and feature disturbing photos culled from Paxton’s personal collection of vintage true crime magazines. Fenton reveals that the serial murderer is his brother Adam (Levi Kreis) and discloses the details of Adam’s recent tormented confessional phone call and subsequent suicide. Doyle is skeptical but intrigued by Fenton’s knowledge of key investigation details. As Meiks’ story seeps into the realms of the supernatural, Doyle finds difficulty maintaining confidence in Fenton’s fantastic spin. “Sometimes, truth defies reason,” implores Fenton. Doyle bites and accompanies the handcuffed Meiks on an excursion to the site where several 382

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bodies are alleged to be buried, a public rose garden close to Meiks’ childhood home. Frailty met critical acclaim, but its release was delayed in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York City and Washington D.C. in 2001. The landscape of mainstream horror cinema had been altered by Wes Craven’s monumentally popular slasher satire Scream (1996) and a subsequent wave of self-aware sequels and imitators. These factors swiftly vanquished the somber Frailty from theaters by moviegoers who desired edgy teen-centric fare. The opening set-up might also be construed as a generic attempt to bank on the succession of recent neo-noir, serial-killer-driven thrillers like Seven (1995), Kiss the Girls (1997), and The Bone Collector (1999), which capitalized on the monumental success of Jonathan Demme’s landmark Oscar-winner The Silence of the Lambs (1991). Though Frailty was unfairly overlooked by mainstream filmgoers at the time, it endures as a significant cult entry thanks to accolades from Stephen King and Roger Ebert, both of whom commended the nuanced touch applied to Paxton’s gloomy vision. Paxton subverts expectations, taking Frailty down unusual avenues that confront the viewer with a variety of challenging proposals. Together with scriptwriter Brent Hanley, Paxton constructs the story by juggling two timelines: one rooted in the present and the other flashing back to events in 1979. The non-linear framework allows the narrative to unfurl deliberately, cultivating the paradoxes inherent in the film’s themes. This formal structure allows Paxton to contrast the responses of his child characters with the reactions of their future selves in dealing with circumstances outside of their control. The apocalyptic implications present in the story can also be viewed as an attempt 383

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to capture the fervor of a culture on the cusp of collapse. The minimalist story encapsulates the ensuing fanatical behavior associated with End Times and demonstrated by doomsday cults like Heaven’s Gate, whose members committed mass suicide in hopes of transcending earthly bodily trappings in 1997, or the Branch Davidians, whose extremist views and preparations regarding a second coming of Christ led to their violent destruction at the hands of government officials in 1993 (Jenkins, 2000). Frailty travels to the summer of 1979, in the provincial town of Thurman, Texas. The Meiks family comprises patriarch Dad Meiks (Bill Paxton) and his two sons, elder brother Fenton (Matt O’Leary) and younger brother Adam (Jeremy Sumpter); it is revealed that the boys’ mother died during Adam’s birth. Dad works as a mechanic in nearby Jupiter, and the boys attend a local school. Despite struggles to make ends meet, they are a contented household living behind the Thurman public rose garden in a modest home formerly housing the garden’s caretakers. In these banal but tender early moments, Paxton establishes the Meiks as a stable family unit enveloped by wholesome Americana while offering a casual clue that something sinister looms: a moment showing the boys enjoying an episode of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom (1963-88) on television, a documentary featuring the almighty alligator, a predator commonly found lurking in the backwaters and swamp bottoms of East Texas. The alligator strikes swiftly and without remorse, epitomizing the danger that will soon infiltrate their lives. The Meiks’ tranquil life is thrown into disorder when Dad awakens the boys in the middle of the night, revealing he has been visited by an angel with instructions from God. His first vision emanates from an innocuous, angel-shaped trophy on his 384

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bedroom shelf, shimmering with a near-blinding light. The angel has revealed Dad’s secret purpose: that he and his sons capture and kill demons disguised as people hiding among them in the surrounding communities. The trio will receive three magical weapons to aid them in their assignment. Dad warns his sons they are all that stands between humanity and an impending apocalypse. The younger Adam is intrigued by the heroic grandeur of this divine responsibility. He discusses the plan with Dad as if preparing for an exciting game. The older Fenton is petrified with fear that his father’s mental state is unraveling. As Dad implements the plan, Fenton’s allegiance falls to the protection of his younger brother. Religious zealotry, paternal authority, unconditional obedience, and coming-of-age in the wake of calamity are among the many psychological subtexts woven throughout the film’s structure. These elements transform Frailty from an ordinary procedural thriller into a provocative morality play. Its murky atmosphere and deep sense of isolation connect Frailty to the Southern Gothic tradition tread by provocative raconteurs William Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, and playwright Tracy Letts. Frailty also invokes Charles Laughton’s The Night of the Hunter (1955); Paxton and Hanley adopt a Hitchcockian approach to the material that benefits splendidly from the point-of-view of a skeptical child protagonist, one who questions the motives and mental state of the perilously devout adult in charge of his upbringing. As an extension of this, the film contains powerful allusions to the biblical stories of Abraham and Isaac, and, to a lesser extent, Cain and Abel. Throughout humankind’s tumultuous history, individuals acting upon divine instruction have impacted a 385

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vast array of cultures in profound ways. In Theocratic societies, pharaohs, puritans, kings, and clerics governed while professing authority granted by divine right to rule. Messianic cult leaders like Marshall Applewhite, founder of the Heaven’s Gate sect, derived from visions that he was a Christ-like incarnation before leading his followers to mass suicide. Significant historical figures such as Socrates, Saint Joan of Arc, and Mahatma Gandhi (as well as more contemporary names like science-fiction author Philip K. Dick, actor Anthony Hopkins, and musician Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys) were also guided by inner voices they believed were disassociated from their core consciousness. These chosen few, it would seem, attained agency through guidance offered by voices and visions; they operated as vessels for change and were exalted for challenging the prevailing status quo of their respective eras. In Frailty’s early stages, viewers may conclude that Dad is more closely akin to psychopaths like David Berkowitz (Son of Sam) or Peter Sutcliffe (Yorkshire Ripper), both of whom claimed voices commanded them to commit unspeakable acts of violence against demonized victims. Dad, too, invites comparison to one of the Bible’s most morally complicated figures, Abraham, who was commanded by God to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac. An angelic messenger of God interrupted Abraham on the cusp of completing the unfathomable act of filicide, and Frailty’s father figure finds his own paternal instincts tested as his behavior plunges into the pathological depths required to fulfill God’s plan. Despite assumed economic struggle, the working-class Meiks family proves a loving household with no evidence of abuse or neglect. The Meiks’ matriarch is gone and, while her tragic passing is a source of sorrow, there is no trace of depressive or manic 386

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behavior resulting from her absence. Dad appears good-natured in earlier memories, cracking corny jokes over television dinners and warmly tucking his sons in at night—behavior far from the maliciousness that will define his later actions. Aside from enjoying a cold beer and cigarette with dinner, Dad is not indulgent in his vices. Most importantly, he does not exhibit any of the extremist views he adopts so readily after his first vision. The Meiks family may count themselves among the many church-going Christians residing in similar Texas communities, but Paxton presents no evidence of a belief system outside of basic capitalism. The circumstances defining Dad’s role in this apparently well-adjusted family belie the findings of psychologist William James, who reported that men and women historically linked to voices and visions were characterized as abnormal, unstable sufferers of delusion: William James observed that many of the notable men and women in history who have heard religious voices and seen religious visions have also been prone to fits of depression, anxiety, obsessions, and compulsions. They have been the reclusive, the anguished, the neurotic, and the maladjusted among us, people who today would likely attract a psychiatric diagnosis. What is more, religious experiences have often been the direct cause of mental pathology. Direct contact with God, if there is such a thing, appears to be one of the more painful experiences known to humankind. (Smith, 2007, p. 89) Dad, with his corny jokes and affectionate interactions with his sons, is the very antithesis of the sorts of “maladjusted” people reported by James. He is, essentially, a good-natured being who is 387

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struck by an irresistible compulsion that he believes serves a righteous purpose, harboring no moral misgivings over his actions. Outside of Dad’s visions, Frailty’s lack of spiritual imagery provides an engaging source of uncertainty. From the standpoint of mise-en-scène, the Meiks household is not visibly religious; the home is free of religious artifacts or iconography, and no crosses, bibles, or spiritual works of art are on display. The exception is the presence of a sports trophy, a winged object resembling an angel—clearly not a sacred emblem but one that will factor significantly in Dad’s spiritual epiphany. Even though a church is located across the street from the rose garden, no mention is made of membership in any particular denomination. The audience’s introduction to the Meiks boys presents them singing a Christian campfire tune from 1925, George William Cooke’s “Joy in My Heart” or “I’ve Got the Joy, Joy, Joy,” on their walk home from school, their rendition playfully changing the lyrics in the spirit of childish fun. Though it is the last day of school, no indication is present to demonstrate that the school is parochial in nature. The boys’ conversation turns to a crude recount of the big event of the day: their principal slipping in a classmate’s pile of vomit. Outside of the song, religion does not enter their conversation at any point. The family does not recite prayers before eating supper, nor do the boys say prayers before Dad tucks them in for the night. Despite this curious lack of any material or social connection to religious practice, Dad suddenly adopts an unwavering commitment to the divine plan placed before him, serving as the vengeful arm of his fire and brimstone Old Testament God. Religious historian Karen Armstrong (2001) writes extensively about the rise of religious fundamentalism, charting the efforts of American religious leaders to combat secularism with 388

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attempts to install religiosity back into everyday life, especially where government is concerned: In fact, as we have seen, the fundamentalist resurgence was neither sudden nor surprising. For decades, the more conservative religious people who felt, for different reasons, slighted, oppressed, and even persecuted by their secular governments, had been seething with resentment. Many had withdrawn from modern society to create a sacred reservation of pure faith. Convinced that they were in danger of being wiped out by regimes committed to their destruction, they felt embattled and defensive. They had evolved ideologies to mobilize the faithful in a struggle for survival. Surrounded by social forces that were either indifferent to religion or hostile to it, they had developed a siege mentality that could easily tip over into aggression. By the mid-1970s, the time was ripe. All had become aware of their strength, and were convinced that a crisis was at hand and that they were facing a unique moment in their history. All were determined to change the world before it changed them. In their view, history had taken a fatal turn; everything was awry. They now lived in societies which had either marginalized or excluded God, and they were ready to re-sacralize the world. (p. 279) Through its use of horror narrative and imagery, Frailty serves as a metaphor that echoes Armstrong’s observations of those who sought to sanctify what they felt was a sinful world that had declared war on them. Dad, disarming in his simple, playful manner, may seem content with his life, but his ensuing actions demonstrate another darker side. Dad’s second vision occurs on 389

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a commute home from work and provides him with the tools for his newfound battle. He follows a powerful light, seemingly pointing out an abandoned barn. Inside, the light shining through the tattered roof illuminates an axe embedded in a stump, next to a pair of leather work gloves. These are two of the magical weapons Dad has been expecting. He shows them to his sons at home, along with a lead pipe wrapped in cloth, and informs them that the angel will send them a list of seven names, demons posing as people that they will be expected to destroy. Fenton’s reaction changes from wariness to alarm. “Dad’s going to kill somebody,” he warns Adam. Adam, in a selfish attempt to please his father, claims to experience the same visions and shares his own list of demons. Dad recognizes the names of assorted bullies at school and immediately admonishes the boy. He is pleased, however, that Adam has embraced his role in God’s plan. Voice-hearing and visions manifest for myriad reasons, mainly attributed to negative causes like excessive drug use, severe emotional trauma, and debilitating mental illnesses. Auditory hallucinations are typically diagnosed as a common symptom of schizophrenia. The viewer, through the eyes of Fenton, is left to consider whether they believe Dad’s behavior is delusional or accept the frightening possibility that his prophetic visions are true. “Maybe you’re not right in the head,” accuses Fenton, discerning his father’s deteriorating mental state. The elder Meiks is unfazed by his son’s skepticism, urging Fenton to pray. Fenton’s perceived lack of faith disappoints Dad, but he believes Fenton will eventually see the light. Throughout their conversation, Dad remains resolute, explaining matter-of-factly that their mission is to destroy demons. Punctuating these provoking exchanges is cinematographer Bill Butler’s camera work, highlighting Dad 390

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and Adam enjoying moments together as Fenton watches from afar or pulling away slowly from Fenton’s point-of-view to signify the strengthening bond between Dad and Adam. Butler’s cinematography not only expertly expresses the downbeat visual mood of the film but provides stark cinematic representations of the emotional lines of demarcation. The forlorn look on Fenton’s face registers the start of a developing trauma that will shape his horrific journey. Fenton hopes the situation will resolve itself like a fading dream, but his nightmare reaches into the immediate and very real world. Dad’s first victim is a woman; bound and gagged, she is dragged to the house in the middle of the night. Dad brings Fenton and Adam into their shed to observe. In a jolting juxtaposition, the frightened woman is taped up on the floor, with the wide-eyed boys standing over her in their pajamas. Dad lays hands on her and is stricken with a vision—the woman committing a monstrous act that rattles him to the core. The viewer is not allowed entry into the image Dad painfully receives, but the vision leaves him prepared to destroy the demon without hesitation. The boys watch in terror as Dad swings the axe, striking her down. Of note, Dad has not recruited either son to help with dispatching the woman; as Dad is conditioning them, the boys are present only to bear witness to her destruction. The act of burial becomes a perverse rite of passage as Dad explains the proper way to dispose of and bury the woman’s mutilated body. The ritualistic approach to their work is important to Dad, a means of sanctification. Adam is transfixed by the procedure, but the grisly initiation leaves Fenton in tears. Smith (2007) acknowledges the cognitive studies of psychologist Julian Jaynes, specifically his controversial theory of the 391

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Bicameral Mind. Jaynes’ bold claim is that human consciousness only emerged 3000 years ago, and all ancient people obeyed implicitly the commands of visions and voices imparted by external gods. Jaynes hypothesizes a division within the brains of ancient peoples, whom he refers to as “noble automatons” lacking self-reflectivity (Smith, 2007, p. 37). The Bicameral Mind segments cognitive functions into two parts, a speaking part (the voices of gods) and a hearing part (that which listens and obeys): “When an individual hears a voice, he is at that moment not the agent of his own thoughts but the vessel for them. He becomes, at the moment of voice-hearing, separate from himself, without control over his own mind—in effect, one of Jaynes’ noble automatons” (Smith, 2007, p. 37). Dad’s shocking lack of introspection resembles that of Jaynes’ “noble automaton,” actualizing God’s plan free of guilt. He rejects the reasoning of Fenton, who urges moral contemplation. Midway through the film, Paxton challenges the fanaticism taking root in the Meiks household by covertly inserting a scene from Art Clokey’s wholesome Christian-themed animated children’s program Davey and Goliath (1961-65). Fenton and Adam watch an episode on television one evening featuring the sage Goliath explaining to the virtuous yet naïve Davey that one need not blindly heed the word of God: individuals have choices. The two boys watch as Goliath imparts his wisdom to Davey: “You’re not a puppet with strings tied to you…so God doesn’t make you do anything.” How this message sits with either boy remains unclear, as they both consume the cartoon passively. One might infer that Fenton hopes that these claymation characters can reach Adam where he himself has failed to convince his brother to abandon Dad and his outrageous ideals. Both boys are engrossed in the cartoon’s whimsical situation, but it is unclear 392

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if Adam is processing the message within the context of his own circumstances or just merely entertained by the plight of Clokey’s charismatic clay puppets. The second violent act perpetrated by Dad carries a more disturbing potency. Fenton is now expected to participate in a convoluted plot to kidnap the next target. Dad has procured a beaten-up van and parks it in the lot of a large grocery store. Fenton pleads with his father to abort the plan to seize a middle-aged man who has just entered the store. Fenton finally succumbs to Dad’s urgent appeal and pretends a dog is hiding under the man’s car while Dad hits the distracted man over the head with the lead pipe. At home, Dad once again lays his bare hands on the man. “He was a murderer of children, babies,” Dad beseeches a protesting Fenton, before slaughtering the man. Frailty’s kinship with The Night of the Hunter surfaces in small but significant ways. In Laughton’s sole, masterful film, John Harper (Billy Chapin), the only person to see through the deceit of the murderous Rev. Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum), fails in his early attempts to warn his sister Pearl (Sally Jane Bruce) of the danger Powell poses. Pearl, like her mother Willa (Shelley Winters) and the members of their community, is enchanted with the charismatic power of Powell and falls under his spell. John eventually flees with Pearl when Powell’s cold-blooded tendencies surface in sudden fits of rage, paralleling Fenton’s similarly unsuccessful attempts to convince Adam to run away with him to escape their destructive father. Adam, enamored with the excitement of destroying demons, refuses, claiming ownership of the same visions as their father. Unlike the Harper children in Laughton’s narrative, Fenton and Adam never escape beyond the rose garden together. 393

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Despite the seemingly well-adjusted demeanor Dad holds early in the film, the audience may postulate that the man, heavy from the burden of repressed emotions, is secretly harboring a cynical worldview, a sensitive place where the seeds of pathology can take root. Looking at the circumstances in which he receives his visions, the first affects him in the dead of night, a time when the dreaming mind is prone to invasion of the day’s stresses and anxieties. His second vision, when he finds the pair of gloves and the axe inscribed with the word “Otis,”36 occurs on a drive through farmland where the repetitious landscape and act of driving opens a fraying mind to dark thoughts. Dad’s visit from the angel carrying the list of condemned names occurs while he is at work underneath a car; the undercarriage morphs into a glorious cathedral as the angel, wielding a flaming sword, drifts gracefully downward toward him. These gifts and visions offer an antidote to the hopeless daily grind, a call-to-arms against drudgery and accumulated agonies, promoting an apocalyptic interpretation of Dad’s dreams. According to the angel, Armageddon is already upon them and the demons have been loosed; in a sense, Dad’s actions are almost a futile act to save mankind. In an examination of fascist Christian movements, journalist and Presbyterian minister Chris Hedges (2008) illustrates the conditions for which a deeply troubled soul like Dad might expect (or even embrace) an apocalyptic fate. Describing the landscape surrounding a Detroit Baptist church in the 1970s, an area marked by the decay of deindustrialization and proliferation of strip malls, Hedges 36 In his audio commentary accompanying the DVD release, Paxton (2003) remarks that he chose the name “Otis” as a means of anthropomorphizing the tool, as well as a way of helping the audience recognize its recurrence later in the film.

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(2008) evokes the despair that may be agitating Dad Meiks and others like him: Ten or fifteen minutes negotiating the traffic down South Telegraph Road make the bizarre attraction of the End Times—the obliteration of this world of alienation, noise and distortion—comprehensible. The manufacturing jobs in the Detroit auto plants nearby are largely gone, outsourced to other nations with cheaper labor. The paint is flaking off the cramped two-story houses that lie in grid patterns off the highway. The plagues of alcoholism, divorce, drug abuse, poverty and domestic violence make the internal life here as depressing as the external one. And the congregation gathering today in this church waits for the final, welcome relief of the purgative of violence, the vast cleansing that will lift them up into the heavens, and leave the world they despise, the one they ruined or that was ruined for them, to be wracked by plagues and flood and fire until it, and all those they blame for the debacle of their lives, are consumed and destroyed by God. It is a theology of despair. And for many, the apocalypse can’t happen soon enough. (p. 186) Frailty examines zealotry to an extreme degree, but director Paxton carefully keeps Dad’s humanity intact. Despite performing reprehensible acts in which he enlists children to participate, Dad remains a sympathetic character. This is a testament to Paxton’s understated, relatable performance, imbuing Dad with an astonishing degree of pathos. The Meiks’ home beyond the rose garden exists as a hermetically sealed microcosm where Dad’s parental guidance is altered by his newly adopted beliefs—beliefs 395

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that do not need congregational validation. Dad is now the mouthpiece of God, solely responsible for instilling faith in his boys. Adam, at an impressionable young age, accepts everything his father says as gospel truth. Fenton, on the other hand, is on the cusp of puberty, the age at which many children challenge parents, abandoning the god-like view they once held toward such authority figures. These conflicting attitudes drive a wedge firmly between the family. Frailty’s setting in religious, conservative Texas functions perfectly as the story’s backdrop. Paxton and Hanley, as well as stars McConaughey and Boothe, were born in Texas and reared on the Lone Star State’s multifaceted culture, where a large portion of the population identifies as Christian. The state of Texas continues to administer capital punishment, yet perennially ranks among the top states statistically in numbers of serial murders (Stebbins & Frohlich, 2015); wholly believable is the concept that an undeterred serial murderer could avoid detection, hiding bodies in the vast expanse of territory—one that stretches from the arid climate of the west to the humid swamps of the east. It is also conceivable that delusional perpetrators of gruesome murder, as well as their counterparts working as state-sanctioned executioners, share the view that their work is righteous and mandated by a vengeful God. As the story progresses and Fenton becomes increasingly defiant, Dad asserts his authority in malicious ways. Dad orders Fenton to dig a large hole in the backyard, providing very specific dimensions, and suggests Fenton pray while doing so. This act is a form of punishment built upon the pretense of bolstering his son’s faith. Forcing Fenton to dig the hole, his son’s final chance to repent, is Dad’s only act of disobedience against God’s word. 396

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This act seemingly tarnishes the unyielding faith Dad has been practicing—or does it? Danish philosopher and theologian Søren Kierkegaard (1994) wrote extensively about the paradox of faith, critiquing the validity of Abraham’s absolute duty toward God when commanded to kill his son Isaac: In the story of Abraham we find such a paradox. His relation to Isaac, ethically expressed, is this, that the father should love the son. This ethical relation is reduced to a relative position in contrast with the absolute relation to God. To the question, “Why?” Abraham has no answer except that it is a trial, a temptation […] terms which, as was remarked above, express the unity of the two points of view: that it is for God’s sake and for his own sake. (p. 61) Despite Kierkegaard’s opaque language, the principle point remains that only an act committed ethically is a true demonstration of faith. This idea can be applied to Dad’s predicament; by offering his son a chance to repent, thereby sparing his life, Dad has taken the ethical path and demonstrated true faith—at least from the standpoint of Kierkegaard’s treatise. However, the young Fenton refuses to repent in a religious manner and renounces God. He uses hard manual labor as a means of personal atonement for the atrocities in which he has been complicit. He self-punishes by shoveling without gloves, working his hands until raw and bleeding, and is unyielding in his refusal to pray. Dad and Fenton work together to push the shed over the freshly dug hole. Dad refers to it as a cellar, but Fenton recognizes the claustrophobic space for its true horrific power—the dungeon in which Dad plans to hold demons captive. 397

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Another parallel to Laughton’s film manifests as Fenton attempts to thwart his father’s next murderous act. Fenton flees the shed to enlist the help of Sheriff Smalls (Luke Askew). Dad is a citizen in good standing in the community, and the sheriff is unamused by what he thinks is a prank. Fenton’s own reputation as a trouble-free kid prompts the sheriff to pay a visit to the Meiks home regardless. The ensuing confrontation forces Dad to kill the sheriff, experiencing a painful emotional reaction as a result. He cries, shakes uncontrollably, and vomits in a visceral response to this murderous act: the sheriff was human, innocent. This moment marks a return to Dad’s own humanity, suggesting to the viewer that his moral compass is still somewhat intact and that he may even be redeemable. Dad confesses that his latest vision reveals Fenton is a demon, a painful admission that Dad cannot accept. His patience with Fenton has worn thin, and he resorts to imprisoning his son in the very dungeon he excavated. Fenton is locked away in utter darkness, starved, and given very little water to survive for seven days in an attempt to purge the corruption within him. During his ordeal, Fenton blacks out and receives hallucinatory visions, believing he has gone insane. His experience runs counter to his father, who never questions his own sanity in initial hallucinatory visitations or when it escalates to calculated killings. Upon his release from the dark depths of the cellar, Fenton proclaims, to Dad’s great relief, that he has finally seen God. After their next abduction, Fenton, on the pretense of destroying a demon, uses the axe to strike down his father instead. Fenton moves to release the latest captive but is too late: Adam kills the victim using the axe Fenton has just embedded in his father’s chest. After burying the bodies together, the brothers strike a deal: Fenton makes 398

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Adam promise that if he ever destroys him, he will bury him in the rose garden. This may be interpreted as Fenton’s confession that he is, indeed, a demon—an admission that Adam may already be aware of from his own visions. The circumstances are markedly different, but the allegorical connection to Cain and Abel implied by the potential for fratricide is undeniable. There are different theories as to why Cain murdered Abel, be it jealousy or anger, but the indication here is that one Meiks brother is good and the other is evil. Paxton abandons the film’s ambivalent essence in the third act by injecting a twist in the climax—a surprise identity swap. Returning full circle to the now-decayed rose garden, littered with withered bushes and fallen markers, these broken angelic monuments act as a reminder of the traumatic loss of innocence endured by both Meiks children. Fenton confesses his true identity to Doyle: Fenton is in fact Adam. Adam recounts his responsibility in destroying his demonic sibling, who committed the senseless murders Doyle is investigating, and how he, Adam, was able to fulfill his childhood promise to his tormented brother by burying Fenton in the rose garden. The entire journey—and identity swap—was a maneuver to lure Doyle to the rose garden. As Adam lays his hands on the agent, the audience bears witness to a vision of Doyle as a younger man committing matricide. Some viewers may feel betrayed by this revelation of Fenton actually being Adam, but Paxton dares to explore the possibility that Dad and Adam righteously served as the vengeful hands of God after all, disposing of deplorable abusers and murderers. The crux of Adam’s service to God is the sacrifice of his own brother, a demonstration of unwavering faith thicker than blood. 399

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Unlike many films that throw in twist endings for shock value, Paxton’s ending does not function as an ambush, nor a cop-out. It is revealed that Adam works as a sheriff in nearby Meat, a small town not unlike Thurman which acts as a base of operations for him to continue carrying out God’s plan with badge in hand. This union of Church and State, with Adam acting as an officially appointed avenging-angel, is precisely the outcome fundamentalists desire. Paxton may leave the audience, to the disappointment of some, with a definitive truth, but this truth does not alleviate the larger, horrific implications of the moment. Ultimately, Paxton remains sincere to a point-of-view expressed in an interview with The Guardian (2002), in which he comments on the importance of duality, measuring the virtuous against the shadowy side of human nature: “You see, I don’t believe in heroes and villains ultimately. I believe people are capable of great villainy and great heroism - the same person” (see Mitchell, para. 14). Adam wholly embodies that philosophy, and an unsettling closing shot pulls away from him, along with his pregnant partner—God’s chosen guardians—holding vigil over a provincial town ostensibly preserved in time.

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prophetic voices and the lethal hand of god Craven, W. (Director). (1996). Scream [Motion picture]. United States: Dimension Films. Demme, J. (Director). (1991). The Silence of the Lambs [Motion picture]. United States: Orion Pictures. Fincher, D. (Director). (1995). Seven [Motion picture]. United States: New Line Cinema. Fleder, G. (Director). (1997). Kiss the Girls [Motion picture]. United States: Paramount Pictures. Hedges, C. (2008). American Fascists: The Christian Right and the War on America. New York, NY: Free Press. Jenkins, P. (2000). Mystics and Messiahs: Cults and New Religions in American History. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Kierkegaard, S. (1994). Fear and Trembling and the Book on Adler (W. Lowrie, Trans.). New York, NY: Alfred. A. Knopf (Everyman’s Library Classic Series). Laughton, C. (Director). (1955). Night of the Hunter [Motion picture]. United States: United Artists. Meier, D., Perkins, M., & Skutt, V.J. (Creators). (1963-88). Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom [Television series]. United States: National Broadcasting Company. Mitchell, S. (2002, August 22). Bill Paxton: ‘I Don’t Believe in Heroes’. The Guardian. Retrieved from www.theguardian.com/film/2002/aug/22/ artsfeatures.festivals Noyce, P. (Director). (1999). The Bone Collector [Motion picture]. United States: Universal Pictures. Paxton, B. (Director). (2001). Frailty [Motion picture]. United States: Lionsgate. Paxton, B. (2003). The Making of Frailty. Frailty [DVD]. United States: Lionsgate. Smith, D.B. (2007). Muses, Madmen, and Prophets: Rethinking the History, Science, and Meaning of Auditory Hallucination. New York, NY: Penguin Books. Stebbins, S., & Frohlich, T.C. (2015, October 30). The States with the Most Serial Murder. 24/7 Wall St. Retrieved from 247wallst.com/ special-report/2015/10/30/the-states-with-the-most-serial-murder/

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