The House Began to Twitch, so Who’s the Witch? What Scares Us

The Witch: A review

Spoilers!  (I don’t give away the end sequence)

The WitchIn the 1982 movie, Poltergeist, Zarina, (Zelda Rubenstein) the psychic called to cleanse the Freeling house and find little Carol Anne, warns: “He knows what scares you—don’t give him any help . . .” The only supernatural movie that surpasses Poltergeist on my scare-o-meter is The Exorcist.

I like a good scare. When it comes to a real life, I’m a chicken. But as long as it’s fiction, let ghosts haunt, demons possess, vampires stalk and witches cast their spells. Every month, new horror pictures are released to the theatres. The ones I’ve seen recently include: Crimson Peak, The Boy, Sinister 2, Insidious 3, The Conjuring, Annabelle, The Last Witch Hunter, the latest Paranormal, and The Witch.

Of the movies I just listed, none were truly scary, though the first Sinister was effective in creating a sense of dread. I think this was because the script didn’t telegraph what was really going on. You knew that it involved demons, the consequences of the father’s pride and ambition and one of their children. At the end, a child’s chilling detachment from her family underscored the malleability of a child’s loyalty and ability to bond emotionally with a new caretaker at the expense of the discarded ones. The scary part for me? As far as the child was concerned, it was all so casual.

The sequel, Sinister 2 was less effective because the protagonist was armed with some understanding of what he was up against. He had a plan. The more you understand, in my opinion, the less you fear. Insidious 3 covered a lot of the same territory the previous Insidious films did. Annabelle and The Conjuring had moments but couldn’t compare to the stunning shivers and heroics of good against a powerful evil that The Exorcist delivered.

The CGI wielded by The Last Witch Hunter was impressive (especially those gummy bears), but most of the sequences were confusing and complicated. As the only hope against the world being cast into witchy darkness and being forced to deal with lots of gnarled trees and weeds, Vin Diesel as the beefy but urbane hero was one note.

The Witch didn’t scare me, but it did stay with me. I found it disquieting. Scenes from it stayed with me after I left the theater. Of the several reviews I read, online and in print, many found the supernatural aspect of The Witch to be head-under-the-covers bone-chilling. The film was full of supernatural happenings but I was never sure where they were actually taking place—in the forest or in the imagination of this religion soaked family. What really happened to the baby? Was it witches, or the fearful imaginings of people so familiar with the Devil that they avoided Lucifer as if he were a slacker relative who was ready to move into the spare bedroom, raid the refrigerator, drink all the beer and run up the pay per view bill?

The Witch, written and directed by production designer, Robert Eggars (Hansel and Gretel, Tell Tale Heart) had some elements in common with Sinister. Family uprooted by father—check. Isolated house—check. Father who thinks he knows best but doesn’t—check.   Hints of incest—this is where Sinister and The Witch part company.

In The Witch, sex—or the lack of it plays a major part in what happens.

The story begins in 1630 New England, where in a small settlement a family faces the township elders. It seems Dad is even stricter about his religious beliefs than a town full of Puritans. No, he won’t back down. In fact, he’s such a pain in the backside that when it’s clear he won’t bend, he’s encouraged to leave the settlement.

Leaving what little civilization there is, the family travels on a wagon full of worldly goods plus a few chickens as it lumbers toward the unknown. They stop at what seems to be the perfect spot—a clearing with a stream nearby. They all drop to their knees in prayer. Not far is a line of dense trees, the entrance to a forest. A short time later, there’s a house with smoke snaking from the chimney and some scattered structures that signal progress. But all is not well in the new Eden. The crops are dying.

Although the parents, Katherine (Kate Dickie-Prometheus, Game of Thrones) amd William (Ralph Ineson-Prometheus) have a loving relationship, there are tensions. Katherine resents being uprooted, not only from the town, but also from England, which she sorely misses. William’s certitude in staking out a more Godly life at the edge of a sinister forest begins to falter as things go relentlessly wrong. The crops fail; William can’t hunt nor can his dog. Then the unthinkable happens—the youngest child, infant Samuel vanishes.

We, the audience witness the infant’s terrible fate at the hands of a witch, however I couldn’t help wondering if this was reality or a window into the fears of the desperate parents. Speaking of windows, the oldest, the twelve-year old (I’m guessing) girl, Thomasin, played by talented newcomer, Ana Taylor-Joy (Atlantis) tells brother Caleb (Harvey Scrimshaw—also new and very talented) that in London there were real windows. She wistfully describes how beautiful the windows were.

As the family struggles to prepare for the coming winter, the two youngest children (boy and girl twins) torment a goat named Black Phillip. The manic giggles and chatter of these two are weird, especially when they insist that Black Phillip talks to them. Their antics suggest the unstable underpinnings of the Puritan belief system and it’s easy to make the connection to the Salem witch trials. Wild fantasies are the only excitement in a truly dreary existence.

Being able to see clearly what’s outside his religious fantasy is a major problem for William. His beliefs dictate his reality. William is so enamored with the idea of his Godly homestead that he fails to see the risks. Aware of the growing peril, he clings to a rigid ethic. He can’t go back empty-handed. Rather than loading up the wagon and getting the hell away from the forest and imminent starvation, he keeps setting goals and failing. Like the menacing family goat (and maybe the Devil), Black Phillip, William balks at being bossed around, especially by Katherine.

Understandably, Katherine is distraught at the loss of Samuel. She rejects William’s advances and blames poor Thomasin who was playing a game of peek-a-boo when Samuel vanished. Despite William’s frantic searches, the baby is nowhere to be found. They reason that a wild animal, a wolf snatched the baby. The unspoken word, “witch” hangs in the air.

As they roam through the forest checking traps, William confides in Caleb, telling him that he sold Katherine’s prized silver cup in order to buy supplies. Later, when Katherine accuses Thomasin of stealing the cup, William wimps out, failing to exonerate Thomasin.

Eleven-year old (I’m guessing) Caleb is troubled by the thought that Samuel, as an unbaptized baby will burn in hell for eternity. William shrugs, telling Caleb that it’s God’s will. Just then, the dog chases a hare. A close up of the hare’s shifty eyes suggests that this is one evil bunny and soon, the dog’s hunting days are over.

When it comes to burning in hell, poor Caleb has his own worries. He can’t help but notice the swell of his sister Thomasin’s adolescent bosom. The twins, who serve as a demented chorus, threaten to tell the parents that Thomasin is a witch. Thomasin turns the tables by saying that yes, she is a witch and if they’re not careful, she’ll cast a spell on them. This sends the little darlings screaming back to the house.

At dinner, as his father allows Catherine to accuse Thomasin of stealing the silver cup, Caleb, who knows the truth, says nothing. Determined to save the family by killing game so that they all won’t starve, Caleb sneaks out in early morning followed by Thomasin who refuses to let him go alone.

Like Hansel and Gretel, Caleb and Thomasin get lost in the woods and when Caleb chases the evil hare, the horse rears, throwing Thomasin. The siblings become separated. While Thomasin frantically searches for her brother, Caleb encounters the witch. Instead of being tempted by a candy cane, it’s the witch’s overripe cleavage that undoes poor Caleb.

Katherine is unglued when Thomasin comes home alone. Later, a naked Caleb turns up and is deathly ill. As she watches over her child, Katherine questions her faith. She describes her spiritual awakening as a young girl. In her teenage fantasies, Christ embraced her, kissing her mouth. When Caleb dies, his tortured visions turn as sensual as his mother’s. It seems that the only place where passion is allowed is within the throes of a religious revel.

As the twins natter on about Thomasin being a witch, William and Katherine put two and two together and in the Puritan handbook, that means that Thomasin might be a witch. Just when you wonder how far they are from Salem, a desperate Thomasin points out that the twins are much weirder than she is and did you notice them chatting with the goat? You can’t be too careful when it comes to witchcraft so all three children end up spending the night with the goat.

That night Katherine dreams that Caleb comes to her. He holds baby Samuel and a relieved Katherine takes the baby and rocks him while she breast feeds. The illusion is peeled away and we see a crow pecking at her breast. This farm is a nasty mean place. The next morning, as Thomasin wakes, the twins are nowhere to be found. William is chopping wood, an activity that serves as his go-to stress reliever. Determined to prove her innocence, Thomasin reasons with her dad but is interrupted when Black Phillip takes a run at William, goring him with a pair of wicked horns. She tries to help get William out of harms way but Black Phillip runs at him again, finishing him off.

Katherine rushes from the house, sees her dead husband and immediately decides that Thomasin did it. Oblivious to Thomasin’s cries, Katherine begins to strangle her daughter, who in desperation grabs a rock and kills her mother.

All is quiet as a dazed Thomasin walks into the house and sits. Her gaze is on the open door. As the day ends and it grows dark, she walks back to the pen where she had spent the night with Black Phillip. During that time, in a grotesque scene involving a cow, we saw a witch appear—or did she? What happens at the very end as the newly orphaned Thomasin enters the pen is derived from early New England folktales. The resolution is drenched in the worst fears of people living in that culture with those religious beliefs. Is this ending what really happens or the fevered imaginings of a traumatized girl rejected by her parents, alone, with no comfort in sight?

What happens at the very end is disturbing. What I found the most unsettling was witnessing the power of a belief system meant to guide its followers. When not tempered by a clear view (Thomasin’s window) of reality, it becomes a road to hell.

So why did Poltergeist, The Exorcist and Sinister grip me with the bony fingers of fear and The Witch, a very good film did not? I think it had to do with the choice of the protagonist and the nature of what was at risk. They all concerned a parent I could identify with and the loss of a child taken by an evil supernatural unknown. In each, a child is lured away beyond all the reality that grounds day-to-day existence.

This also happens to be the plot of The Witch, but I found no common ground with either parent. Though they loved their children, they loved their religion more. You could argue that in Sinister, Ethan Hawk’s character put his family in jeopardy for the sake of his career, but ultimately he does fight to save them. In Sinister, the betrayal of her parents and older brother by the dreamy youngest child, a fragile girl of six, is chilling. Sequels of these three films were unsuccessful. You knew too much and so did the characters.

There are other films with different characters and plots that had me looking over my shoulder and keeping the lights on. The Skeleton Key ‘s loss of identity by voodoo was one. Some of the old Draculas and other Hammer films can still get to the child in me. There are others, but not The Witch. This was a family and a religion where sex was evil and passion only expressed through religion. With nowhere else to go a young girl finds another path. There was no enigma. I was a young girl once. I understood.

Thank you Freud.

 

 

We’re All in the Same Swan Boat

A Review: Welcome to Me

   welcome to meToday I watched a movie that had a brief run in theaters in 2015. I discovered it buried in Netflix’ Independent Films. Welcome to Me stars Kristin Wiig (SNL and Bridesmaids) as Alice Klieg, a woman who wins an 86 million dollars jackpot in a California Sweepstakes Lottery. Prior to the big win, Alice’s income was a monthly disability check from the State of California. Alice has borderline personality disorder, a serious mental illness that makes it difficult for her to regulate her moods, leading to impulsive behavior and fear of abandonment. Alice’ self-absorption and inability to let go of past traumas limits her perception of reality, herself and the world around her.

Directed by Shira Piven (Fully Loaded), written by Eliot Laurence (The Big Gay Sketch Show) Welcome to Me has a great, though underused cast including, Joan Cusack, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Linda Cardellini, Wes Bentley, James Marsten and Tim Robbins.

Before her big win, Alice spent most of her time in her cluttered but color-coded apartment, watching old VHS tapes of Oprah shows. Her eyes glazed, Alice mouths Oprah’s lines as Oprah delivers them, nodding her head. Alice is joyful in her certitude of how the world works. Despite her isolation and inability to focus on anyone but herself, Alice (Kristin Wiig never descends into parody; she is a wonder in this role, truly impressive work) has a long-term and loyal friend, Gina, an amiable ex-husband and a concerned therapist (Tim Robbins). Convinced that she can regulate her disorder through restricting the carbohydrates in her diet, and much to her therapist’s dismay, Alice is off her meds.

After claiming her reward at a televised-event where she announces on camera that she self-soothes through excessive masturbation, Alice attends a taping then hijacks her favorite local protein product cable show. Soon, she decides to produce her own reality show, a show called Welcome to Me. “Me” is Alice, and not only is she the star of the show there will be no guests. She, Alice, is the only topic. Oh, and she wants to enter by riding on a swan (a cart made to look like a swan).

As his studio team shoots nervous glances at each other, the production company owner (James Marsden) flashes a big smile and takes Alice’s 15 million dollar check. Alice sobs while recording her theme songs as local actresses line up to appear in show segments, re-enactments of the traumas in Alice’s life. The show is not all about trauma, cooking segments feature Alice making her favorite low carb high protein recipes including a cake shaped meatloaf covered in frothy mashed potatoes.

Predictably, Alice’s unfiltered revelations, outbursts and the bizarre premise of the show, which tops the most exhibitionistic, exploitive of the competing reality programs, make Alice a minor celebrity. One student fan tells her that she has created a new genre: the narrative infomercial. As the show gains more viewers, Alice funds upgrades in production, the show gains viewers, Alice’s narcissism shuts out even those loyal few, including her new lover, Gabe (Wes Bentley) the cable host. Hi-jacking Gabe’s protein powder infomercial was Alice’s first on camera experience.

The story continues to follow a familiar formula: A star is born; a star is corrupted; a star pays the price for bad behavior by being exposed (literally in Alice’s case), deserted by those who loved her for her regular-person-self. Star realizes her wicked ways and makes amends. All is forgiven and humbled star, no longer a star, goes back to her old life.

I hesitate to call this a spoiler, though I suppose that her extreme behavior could have led to even more celebrity ala Andy Warhol, enabling more, even flashier ways of exploring the sad inner life of Alice (perhaps a movie or an HBO Special, better yet, Amazon and Netflix have a bidding war to create a “Me” series), ending in a close up of Alice’s shining tears and her lips trembling with the message, “I made it happen and so can you.”

What is this movie trying to say? Mental illness can be compelling entertainment? When it comes to the world of reality TV and the self-involved, Welcome to Me is not that bizarre? If that’s the case I must plead ignorant. I’ve never watched any of The Bachelor, American Idol, no dancers, no Ice loves Coco, none of the Housewives, no Kardashians, and certainly none of the addiction and teen mother ones. A lot of people do and perhaps by seeing others struggle, their own problems are easier to bear. I don’t know.

Life, however short or long, painful or pleasurable, with fame from accomplishments or with none of it, is fleeting. We’re but a tiny blip on the timeline and we yearn for it to mean something, anything—any mark that says we were here. By dramatizing her traumas, Alice insists as Willie Loman’s Linda did, “Attention must be paid!” My pain matters; I matter.

Because of the severity of her illness, Alice fails to see the pain of others and she fails to see that she is more than her pain. She does finally, catch a glimmer of truth, and her future may not be as bleak as it was before her windfall.

We engage the world through our interests, the roles we play, and our connection with other human beings. We are complex beings in a complex Universe, but we are not unique. And who would want to be? How lonely.

Like Reality TV, the Internet brings out the best and the worst of us—an endless selection of opinions and facts, plus the opportunity to explore the world of whatever you choose. I’m a sci fi geek, I read Mad Magazine till well into my twenties, I dance like no one’s looking (I’m usually right; they’re not), I love tech and all its implications and consider myself a futurist, but most of those tech results will happen long after I’m gone. I hope I live long enough to see us on Mars. I love a good horror book or movie, the same with history; I love to write and to design. I love to opine whether suitably informed or not.

Today’s marketing reality concerns reinventing yourself as a “Brand.” Some people are really good at this; others, like me, not so much. What I’ve discovered as I explore the work of my fellow bloggers and material related to their posts, is that I have remained to true to myself, a self I more fully see as I “like” and comment, tweet and share. So in a sense, my blogging, likes, comments, tweets and shares have become a “Welcome to Me.”

We are all Alice.

What happened when the candles burned.

This excerpt includes violence and sex. Just a little, but in case it’s not your cup of tea, I wanted to  let you know.

THE REWARD

               November 1894   New London, Connecticut

“Well, luv, what do you think? Shall we tell him tomorrow?” Crispin enjoyed the rest of the rabbit stew. Sucking the delicate bones of the dead rabbit, he watched the woman as she finished cleaning the bar top. It was late, past midnight on a Monday. The “Dancing Stag” was empty, save for the barmaid, her new suitor, and the suitor’s small son, who was sleeping peacefully under a corner table, a knitted blanket keeping him warm. Several carvings of Crispin’s, including an impressive stag’s head, hung above a shelf behind the bar. The sales had afforded him and Bernie a room in a nearby boarding house. He regretted the fact that they would soon be leaving. He had enjoyed the bed and the occasional baths.

Bernie said it must be tomorrow. Crispin glanced at the corner where he slept. Was he really sleeping? Doubtful. Willie said the boy made her uncomfortable. Crispin had reassured her. “He needs the love of a mother; it’s been hard on the boy.” She folded her apron, creasing the folds. Her brown eyes had the look of a dying fawn. He reached up and stroked her hair. Good to feel a woman again, he thought. He’d been too long without. Not a girl, though. She was older than the thirty-two she professed. More like forty-two, and a bit too large for his taste, but still . . . overripe for the plucking.

“Let’s go in the back,” he whispered, “just for a while . . . ” She took a quick look in the corner. The boy seemed asleep. Crispin saw her shudder.

“Such a little boy, I don’t know why I . . . ”

“What, luv?” he asked, knowing exactly what.

She shrugged. “Okay Crispie—but just for a few minutes.”

“That’s my girl.” He nuzzled her neck, then reached around and cupped her breast.

“A few minutes is all, then we must stop.”

“Of course, dear girl, after the wedding, there will be time . . . ”

Much later, when he thought about it, he was glad she came. It startled him. He was just finishing himself, when she let out a stream of moaning, like a cow wanting milking he laughed to himself. They had but a few minutes in the crowded closet. “He might wake.” She was nervous.

“Don’t worry dear heart, he’ll be fine.” In a rare spirit of generosity, he admitted it was rare, he saw it was fitting that she had a small bit of pleasure, considering what happened and all.

He puzzled over what happened that night for weeks, trying to make sense of it. Did they open a door? Is that what happened? “They’ll know it was us,” he worried. He had no objections to anything; however, he didn’t like the thought of hanging.

“Do what I tell you and you’ll be rewarded.” The child’s eyes threatened.

Crispin nodded enthusiastically. Hanging was preferable to what Bernie might inflict. “Of course, lad, whatever you say, I’m completely on board.”

Tuesday night, her house smelled of onions and bread. Crispin sat comfortably on the settee, its rose velvet freshly brushed and looking crimson in the shadow of an ornate lamp. A few eventful moments in their brief courtship told him that there was nothing of value in the tidy white house. Still, he approved of her excellent housekeeping. Aunt Meg could have learned a thing or two. Later, he was surprised to see Bernie eat everything, including the tapioca pudding. Unusual. He knew the boy was selective, despite their periods of hunger.

Candles, how many were there? He hid them in the pull wagon near the house. Bernie had been collecting candles, taking them. Crispin distracted their owners with his wooden carvings. Won’t they see you? Bernie assured him they would not. He wondered what purpose they served. That night he saw what happened when the candles burned.

He struck her with a wooden club he had carved the day before. Crispin made a show of announcing their “engagement” to his “son.” Willie sat at his right, her eyes downcast, unable to look at the boy. “Not too hard,” Bernie warned, she must wake before we finish. Bernie spilled a glass of milk. As she reached to retrieve it, Crispin struck an expert blow. She was unconscious for an hour. When she woke, the satisfaction in Bernie’s yellow eyes made Crispin feel proud.

The star drawn in blood, whose blood was it? They were all naked. Pools of blood, like puddles after a cloudburst, glistened in the candlelight. Bernie’s hands dripped, adding to the puddles. Smears and streaks covered most of his frail child’s body. Did Bernie draw the star using his own blood? Bits of that night were a blank. He remembered the awful smell, wondering if he had soiled himself and fearing the consequences. Bernie seemed indifferent to it.

Bernie cut his palm, smearing the blood on the woman before she woke. He was afraid Bernie would want to cut him too, but Bernie turned his attention to the barmaid. When she woke, Willie screamed, and the boy grabbed her tongue, slicing it off. The screams soon became moans. Not as loud now, Crispin thought approvingly.

The moaning reminded him of when she came. Interesting, how similar the cries were, one of pleasure and the other . . . She was tied down (securely, Crispin was careful) and the candles were all around . . . and eyes, he saw eyes coming through a tunnel, watching. Why did he think of a door? He remembered a ripping sound, like fabric being torn, and then a boom like a cannon that rattled the house. Crispin would have ducked for cover if he hadn’t been startled by the sight of black wings and the click-clack, clack-clack sound from wings slapping or breaking through, but from where?

Bernie knelt near the woman . . . his little body rocking back and forth. Willie’s fawn eyes followed the sway. The child was whispering, while she kept trying to say (plead?), “Kill me.” She had no tongue, but he was sure that’s what she meant to say. He held her tethered hands to keep her steady as Bernie continued to slice her. Tears ran down the barmaid’s cheek and fell into thick red puddles.

As he pressed his palms firmly down on her wrists, Crispin allowed himself to wonder what came next. He decided it was best to keep quiet, do as you’re told. Bernie’s hands, clots of the barmaid’s blood clinging to his fingers, rose abruptly as the light from the candles floated free, the flames dancing and spinning.

Fear clutched at Crispin’s throat. What if those flames, what if they mean to . . . Then a sudden sensation, indescribable, oh the pleasure! The “reward,” he realized with delight and wonder. It poured into him as if he were a wine glass, filling him to the brim.   Overwhelmed, he gazed at Willie. She looked back with supreme indifference.

As if she found it all incredibly tiresome, her eyes turned away from him, her face relaxed, and tilting her head slowly to her shoulder, she died.   The boy cooed as he stroked her hand, his strange face content. The candles dimmed. The floating eyes were gone. “We leave now,” the boy commanded. They cleaned the blood from their bodies and took the ropes from the dead woman. Crispin carried her to her bed. After dressing, they set fire to Willie, her bed, and her small neat house.

“Won’t they know it was us?” He was afraid.

“Stupid Crispin, I told you not to worry. They’ll think she killed herself because you left her. I suggested it already when the bar was full of people.” Bernie was losing patience with him. Crispin decided to keep his doubts to himself. They were on the road a few hours before the pleasure began to fade. He was depressed. He hated the cold.