Diana Marin is a creative content writer, founder, curator, and editor of The Uncanny Archive, art lover, poet, and social media enthusiast. She is a Literature and Film Graduate, with a Master’s degree in Film, Photography, and Media. She is never afraid to explore and embrace the multi-faceted nature of her mind, artistic potential, and of the world through interdisciplinary interests. Some of the themes she has researched and been inspired by throughout the years are the uncanny, memories, identity, dreams, the Unconscious mind, and channelling mental health disorders into art. Personal Website: dianamarin.com
Fascinated by the mysterious quality of the colour photographs of William Eggleston, a 20 year-old Alex Prager decided to buy a professional camera and dark room equipment in order to express herself creatively through images, in her quest for existential meaning. 18 years later, on show at the Photographers’ Gallery in London, the Silver Lake Drive exhibition represented a mid-career examination of her distinctive photographic and filmic work.
The internationally-acclaimed images of crowds, staged by the artist, portray a sense of emptiness and disconnection underneath the polished façade of active, compact crowds. It can be seen as a subtle commentary on the continuous, superficial interconnectedness that disguises individual alienation: everyone is self-preoccupied and follows their own narrative. There is an intertwining line between the public and the private- groups of people finding themselves in the same space, unaware of or uninterested in the silent stories hidden in the others’ eyes and in their conflicting facial expressions.
Often shot from above, from voyeuristic angles, Alex Prager’s still photographs always have a cinematic quality: they seem to be frozen film stills, presenting a fragment of a greater narrative; which is the main reason the self-taught artist decided to create short films conveying the ‘before’ and the ‘after’ moments surrounding the photographs. Through the cinematic perfection of her still images, the ordinary situations depicted become compelling: the staged details in deep focus, the strange lighting, the highly stylised and saturated aesthetic, all render the reality of her world in a glamourous and glossy way. However, despite the hyper-real and sometimes eerily perfect nature of the pictures, the essence of this world lies in the portrayal of a disturbing emotion, hence there is always a sense of authenticity beyond the artificial fictive layer.
The focus on emotion has been acknowledged by the artist and made particularly obvious in her short film, “Despair”. This early piece adopts characteristics of her general cinematic sources of inspiration, including Hollywood melodrama, silent movies, film noir, art house cinema, as well as Hitchcock and Lynch. The atmosphere dictating her work is ominous, as if tragedy always lurks around the corner – an idea reinforced by the recurrent theme of the vanishing woman, which can also be found in her more recent film shot in Paris, La Grande Sortie.
Gregory Crewdson’s dark, atmospheric, cinematic photographs capture perfectly framed frozen moments incorporating disconnected figures which seem to reflect the domestic and natural landscapes they inhabit; the mundane landscapes are often characterised by an eerie solitude and transformed into something otherworldly, haunting, and compelling. His photographs seem to both reveal and conceal something, creating ambiguous narratives – they are both stills of life and embodiments of the uncanny. The boundaries between life and art, between intimacy and isolation, between strange and familiar environments are blurred.
The cinematic nature of his work is also reflected in the complex process of creating and staging his images: there is a large crew involved in various aspects of production; props, casting, storyboards, and the natural world is heightened by the use of artificial Hollywood-style lighting and effects such as artificial rain and ice.
In his interviews, Gregory Crewdson emphasises the importance of the visual balance between the figure, the interior space, and the exterior space; the feeling of transience and the sense of in-between-ness evoked by his images, the enigmatic moments between other unknown moments, the visual commentary on the human condition, the portrayal of flesh, nudity, aging, vulnerability, and mortality.
Crewdson’s aesthetic incorporates American suburban surrealism, and the mise-en-scène usually features windows, mirrors, bleak settings shown in a mysterious, ghostly light. His photographs are windows into the intimacy of a world filled with hidden unsettling desires.
The characters created often seem alienated, immersed in deep thought, in cosmic loneliness, internal conflict, or a longing for something ineffable. Their expressions are pensive, focused on something beyond the world depicted, at times introspective. The feelings evoked are anticipation – frozen in time, subconscious disquiet, and estrangement.
Crewdson’s photography reminds us of the suspense, sadness, and solitude of Edward Hopper’s paintings, of Diane Arbus’ bizarre and psychologically intense photographic portraits of people on the margins of society, of William Eggleston’s saturated depictions of seemingly normal, mundane settings behind which something disturbing seems to lurk; as well as the surreal quality of the films of David Lynch.
Crewdson’s series include Cathedral of Pines, Twilight, and Beneath the Roses.
After the success of his intense directorial debut, Ex Machina, Alex Garland creates a cinematic adaptation of Jeff VanderMeer’s first book from the Southern ReachTrilogy, Annihilation. The sci-fi thriller turns out to be a visually stunning exploration into the unknown, which in this case borrows the form of the enigmatic ‘Shimmer’, a disquieting yet alluring foreign veil encompassing a part of the Earth, Area X – ceaselessly expanding and threatening to swallow the whole world.
The film opening reveals Lena, the protagonist, a biologist portrayed by the enigmatic, detached Natalie Portman who appears disoriented while being interrogated about the expedition and its survivors. The next scene introduces us for a brief moment to the desolate landscape surrounding the lighthouse, which is mysteriously related to the powerful alien presence the film revolves around. The lighthouse becomes a symbol, the connection with another world, with something uncanny, just like the Monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).
The eerie and toxic beauty of the scenery from Area X echoes the dystopian “Zone” depicted in the well-known sci-fi, Stalker (1979), directed by Andrei Tarkovsky. Similarly, just as the Zone proves to be a philosophical journey, the Area X expedition also symbolises an exploration inwards, and eventually, a disintegration of identity – an idea poetically alluded to through the words uttered by the psychologist in a crucial intense scene towards the end: “Unfathomable mind: now beacon, now sea.”, quoting Samuel Beckett.
There are many alluring elements contributing to the immersive nature of the film and its fascinating uncanniness: The alien presence of an ambiguous nature, strange, nightmarish mutations, a symbiotic connection and the fear of being assimilated into something terrifying, blurred lines between self and other, the process of doubling, the tension, the eerie, magnetic atmosphere, gripping narrative, philosophical, introspective discourse, and compelling body horror imagery consisting in familiar elements depicted in a sinister, macabre way.
A geomorphologist, a paramedic, a physicist, a biologist, and a psychologist enter the Shimmer seeking answers and, whilst they encounter biological anomalies, beauty and decay, and a lot of unanswerable questions, we are encouraged to wonder what really lies beyond their (and our) human drive to enter the unknown, as well as how the uncanny encountered outwards echoes the uncanny within each of them.
Here are a few haunting excerpts from the eponymous book by Jeff VanderMeer. Among other thematic concerns, the book is also focused on environmental themes and metaphors for the conflict between nature and culture. VanderMeer alludes to the relationship between human beings and planet Earth, which can also be viewed through a lens of contamination. He emphasises the idea that nature should be treated as a part of us, just as we are part of nature; for if we dismiss it, we become alienated from a part of ourselves, of our humanness.
The following excerpts are amazingly reflective of the concept of the uncanny:
“The effect of this cannot be understood without being there. The beauty of it cannot be understood, either, and when you see beauty in desolation it changes something inside you. Desolation tries to colonise you.”
“I believed that it might be pulling these different impressions of itself from my mind and projecting them back at me, as a form of camouflage. To thwart the biologist in me, to frustrate the logic left in me.“
“A day that had the clarity of dream, of something strange yet familiar – familiar routine but strange calmness.”
“And what had manifested? What do I believe manifested? Think of it as a thorn, perhaps, a long, thick thorn so large it is buried deep in the side of the world. Injecting itself into the world. Emanating from this giant thorn is an endless, perhaps automatic, need to assimilate and to mimic. Assimilator and assimilated interact through the catalyst of a script of words, which powers the engine of transformation. Perhaps it is a creature living in perfect symbiosis with a host of other creatures. Perhaps it is “merely” a machine. But in either instance, if it has intelligence, that intelligence is far different from our own. It creates out of our ecosystem a new world, whose processes and aims are utterly alien—one that works through supreme acts of mirroring, and by remaining hidden in so many other ways, all without surrendering the foundations of its otherness as it becomes what it encounters.”
“[…] Imagine these expeditions, and then recognise that they all still exist in Area X in some form, even the ones that came back, especially the ones that came back: layered over one another, communicating in whatever way is left to them. Imagine that this communication sometimes lends a sense of the uncanny to the landscape because of the narcissism of our human gaze, but that it is just part of the natural world here. I may never know what triggered the creation of the doppelgangers, but it may not matter.”
“The strange quality of the light upon this habitat, the stillness of it all, the sense of waiting, brought me halfway to a kind of ecstasy.”
There are two cinematic masterpieces depicting Nosferatu: Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922), a German expressionist film adaptation of Dracula, and Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979), dir. by Werner Herzog, a remake of Murnau’s version of the vampire story. Nosferatu is a subversion of the myth of Dracula. Whilst in Bram Stoker’s writing and in most cinematic depictions over time the Count is romanticised and generally portrayed as an elegant, rich, estranged and antisocial aristocratic count, hence an eerily human figure, Murnau’s Count Orlok is anything but elegant: much more animalistic and frightening-looking, he has a cadaverous rat-like appearance, and hands with claws that are usually held up in a bestial threatening way. Despite all this, Orlok is not as evil or cruel as Stoker’s Dracula- he is, instead, depicted as an alienated weakened creature living in a place in ruins. Herzog takes this concept even further, making the repulsive creature become more pitiful than scary. The face of immortality is no longer glamorous and glorified- it’s shown as unappealing and sometimes comically repugnant.
The animalistic features of Nosferatu are supposed to establish an association with the Natural rather than the Supernatural. Despite his unearthly powers, emphasised through special effects including superimposition, negative shots, and sped-up images, he should not be completely separated from the natural, rational world. He is less calculated and not as consciously sadistic as Dracula, who manifests a wicked pleasure in torturing Harker. An illustrative instance is when he tells him he is free to leave the castle if he wants- yet when he tries to do so, he is surrounded by wolves whilst Dracula’s cruel satisfaction is shown. According to Jonathan’s description in the book, Dracula is a cruel-looking old man (gradually rejuvenating), emanating the elegance of an elderly person. There is no blatant sexuality in his character, as he is not the lascivious gallant of other cinematic interpretations of vampires; yet there is a more subtle deadly sensuality in the passivity he induces in women. Since he is not constant in appearance, his sexual character is weakened, while his deathly nature is emphasised: when he feeds upon his preys, his body rejuvenates, reminding us of the theme of human mortality. Count Orlok’s image, on the other hand, is completely removed from any idea of sensuality and regeneration, being closer to a beast than the romanticised figure of the vampire.
As far as other characters are concerned, their numbers and roles are generally reduced in Nosferatu: Throughout the cinematic story, the male characters are either unimportant or completely eliminated from the plot. Whereas in the novel the men play an important role in defending womanhood and removing the threat, the film transfers the agency to the woman, who ultimately dies. This distinction between the literary and the cinematic work stems from the different outlooks of their creators. Thematically, Bram Stoker wanted to depict a fight between two human systems, between science and myth, good and evil, symbolised by the normal middle class (the band of virtuous, equal men and chaste women with their domestic, civilised ideals) versus the world of Dracula (the arrogant estranged and antisocial aristocratic count who controls the dark creatures and the alluring women). Order is inevitably re-established through the happy Victorian ending showing the triumph of the bourgeois family. As opposed to that, Herzog reflects Murnau’s version of the story which was influenced by his German expressionist pessimism and lack of faith in the social scheme of the bourgeoisie, reflected by the tragic ending.
The theme of Nosferatu is psychological rather than social: it is more about the dualistic nature of humans, about the good and evil inside all of us. In Murnau’s work, this idea is reinforced by replacing female sexual dichotomy with female sexual ambivalence. From a Kracaueresque perspective, it reflects the German obsession with the dark forces integrated in our rational world. The contrast between chastity and sexuality is present in the book through female vampirism, whereas, in Nosferatu, this ambivalence is accomplished in the representation of Ellen as being both repulsed and subconsciously attracted to Nosferatu. A scene which reflects Ellen’s ambivalent character is when she awakens during the night, calling out and making Nosferatu withdraw from Hutter’s body. Beside the process of identification between her and the Count, the viewer also gets the ironic impression that Ellen reaches out for Nosferatu, not for Hutter, due to the cross-cutting showing the reactions of the two of them consecutively.
The elimination of female vampirism in Murnau’s adaptation is part of a purposeful process of displacement, just as Van Helsing’s simplified role is. Unlike the active patriarchal figure who uses hypnosis to help Mina remembers and interpret what she sees, Nosferatu’s Van Helsing or Prof. Bulwer, is only present in order to lecture on natural vampirism (the study of the Venus flytrap). This reinforces the idea that the phenomenon of Nosferatu should be seen, metaphorically, as a part of (human) nature. This is also relevant because it forces the woman to act, subverting gender roles. The main female character, Lucy, who is often found in a state of agony induced by night terrors, displays agency. She realises that the source of death is not the plague, and after vain attempts to convince the others, she sacrifices herself to lure and destroy evil. Ellen’s actions, however, are impulsive and based on superstition rather than science. Science has a merely theoretical role in the film; it is not enough in the process of understanding and explaining human nature. Initially, the Wisborg inhabitants do not question the occurrence of the plague- they are unaware of the undead and treat the event as a natural one. As a result, the horror of the vampire is replaced by isolation and acceptance of the threat.
There are some binary oppositions that remain present in Nosferatu, namely the contrast between the West and the East, between the familiar and the uncanny, between science and mysticism, between self and the ‘other’. At the beginning of Nosferatu, we see Hutter and Ellen revelling in the domestic bliss of their him, smiling and playing with kittens; by contrast, later on, Nosferatu’s dwelling proves to be very inhuman and barbaric. Whilst the classical binary oppositions are frequent in western culture, what is special about these stories, and about the horror genre in general, is the importance of the supposed area in between- the twilight zone. Due to his corporeal insubstantiality and the appearance he maintains, Dracula is not easy to categorise. The vampire is a phantom, a figure of inconstant substance, as opposed to a recognised monster (such as Shelley’s monster). Nosferatu is also given a ghostly appearance and presence by means of superimpositions and the magnified shadows on the walls. Nosferatu’s spectral nature may be a sign of self-reflexivity employed by Murnau: Actors also become ghost-like when they are projected on screen. The technique of self-reflexivity is a characteristic of German Expressionism.
While Dracula portrays a struggle between types and an external conflict between good and evil, ending with the triumph of the civilised over the alienated and the visceral, Nosferatu’s story remains carved in ambiguity. Nosferatu is trapped between the land of reason and the land of the supernatural; his figure symbolises the duality of human nature. The film speaks about the world within us, the world of repressed fears of mortality and desires for the uncanny. Count Orlok stands for “haunting dreams that will climb forth from your heart and feed on your blood”, as mentioned in the first tiles of the film.
Marie-poupée (1976), dir. by Joël Séria, is a problematic, subversive French psychosexual drama with horror undertones, tackling the lurid, uncomfortable subject of fetishism and sexual repression. A seemingly ordinary mundane situation takes an uncanny, subtly disturbing turn as the naive, delusional young woman with a doll-like appearance falls pray to dark impulses associated with male fantasies. The archetype of the virginal ingénue is taken to sinister extremes in this gripping depiction of an emotionally stunted lifelike doll with a limited view of sexuality, who is only just starting to feel physical cravings.
The two male figures in Marie’s life are the cold, passionless, eccentric doll collector, who deprives her of actual intimacy and a predatory man driven by his carnal desires, who ends up raping her. The doll shop owner’s odd obsession with dolls and his treatment of the girl as a fragile porcelain doll is a condemnation of objectification and its ‘othering’ process. Marie is overly sweet, but with a dose of unhealthy submissiveness, a simplistic discourse, and a weirdness in her psychological make-up that goes beyond quirkiness. Without implying absolution for the fetishistic freakiness of the main male character or guilt for the mental state of the young woman who has the psychological configuration of a child, the story seems to promote the law of attraction- the protagonist presents herself like a doll (this extends well beyond fashion style as there’s nothing wrong with kawaii style)- and is in a relationship with a man who is obsessed with dolls and is fascinated with her solely due to her resemblance with an inanimate toy.
Their outlandish marital situation starts off as a fairy tale from her point of view: she is surrounded by beautiful things and dollhouse decor, she is spoilt and offered attention. Too unaware to perceive the peculiarity of their relationship dynamic, it all seems fine to her until it doesn’t, as she starts feeling something is off, without being able to tell what that is. The couple plays games, which would sound endearing if they weren’t creepy and one-sided, with her being an object of affection admired and taken care of in a state of detachment, thus being denied sensual touch. Whether it’s due to seeing her as pure and innocent and thus being influenced by the Madonna-whore complex or due to the particular nature of his paraphilic fantasy, her husband wants to possess her like an object, a doll, without indulging his sexual desires; there is no consummation. His physical touch during bathing scenes is clinical and cold. Naturally, her sexuality is awakened and she starts having physical cravings, inevitably seeking warmth and satisfaction in another man’s presence.
Ultimately, we can ponder about the message behind this artsy, cinematic exaggeration and the strange core dynamic: perhaps the young woman’s odd behaviour alludes to the idea of female self-objectification, the feminist take on the dangers of female passivity and lack of agency, which can lead one to turn into a pretty, calcified shell without a voice, trapped in the confines of a claustrophobic, dysfunctional marital situation. On a similar note, perhaps it’s an accusation of the idealisation of childish behaviour, of the appeal of virginity, the fetishisation of sexual innocence, of the docile, pristine girl archetype, of inexperience, and the idea of “purity”. Marie doesn’t seem to assume the embodiment of a doll and mimicry of overly sweet, childish behaviour in order to please. Her childish demeanour, emotional impairment, and little depth of character are a product of a tragic event from her past, therefore a feminist reading of her behaviour as a warning for women performing for the male gaze might be reaching beyond the scope of the film. Perhaps it is indirectly more judgmental of the concern with establishing an image of perfection or latching onto innocence – one’s identity, rather than persona.
Male sexual repression is another theme in the story, but the form it takes in the main relationship dynamic and the way it plays out doesn’t seem to be compatible with reality in the sense of making a statement on a wider issue, as this type of paraphilia is not often encountered and the sexual elements don’t seep through in an obvious way. Perhaps the point is using this mental disorder to illustrate the effects of and condemn the tendency for objectification. And yet, separating this aspect from the context of sexual acts makes it less relatable and subversive, and more of a case study of particularly mentally damaged people. To paint a different picture, we also have another male character who briefly exemplifies a more common side to the dangers of objectification and dehumanisation, this time overtly sexual, in the image of a man who ends up physically abusing her. On another note, the film also makes reference to female sexual awakening and the necessity to explore sexuality, to harness and access its power, drifting away from innocence, towards a full life. Perhaps this is less obvious, as it wasn’t done in a cliché way by blessing the protagonist with a transcendental sexual experience that elevates her consciousness, but it was a motivating factor leading her to escape her limiting domestic condition, her half life, despite her tragic demise. This extends beyond sexuality, as Marie didn’t experience other real types of intimacy and connection either: her conversations with her husband and the people around her lack depth. The end was not a punishment. As echoed through the words at the end, “she died from being a doll”. The message could be one encouraging action: it’s better to be truly alive or die trying rather than being dead whilst alive.
Whilst the film’s subject matter might seem sinister, the way in which it’s depicted on screen is quite subtle, and the pleasant, soft, diaphanous aesthetic contributes to its pretty disguise, as it all looks like a beautiful silky pastel dream. If this film was a Tumblr blog, it would be your typical soft angelcore / pastel princess dollhouse aesthetic blog. It matches the vibe with its pretty interior design, soft pastel lace & silk fashion, and subtle strangeness with a touch of horror.
The Neon Demon(2016), directed by Nicolas Winding Refn, is a surreal hyper-stylised psychological horror film unveiling a dark satire of the fashion industry. Elle Fanning plays Jesse, who epitomises the trope of the pure, genuine, angelic character entering a wicked world filled with artificial, soulless, manufactured characters, and becoming tainted by her surroundings. Meanwhile, everything spirals out of control and eventually down into the macabre and the gruesome.
The hallucinatory and grotesque spectacle is shown through a slick fashion commercial aesthetic, accompanied by fitting synth sounds and little dialogue, as the film relies on its bewitching atmosphere. Many parallels can be drawn between Refn’s film and the stylish Japanese psychological horror film, Helter Skelter (2012), which was potentially a source of inspiration: they are both bloody, visually stunning, surreal, satirical reflections on the artificiality of the fashion world. They even share torn out eyeballs – the difference being The Neon Demon goes all the way when one character eats a regurgitated eyeball, in one of the many scenes alluding to the theme of women devouring each other and destroying themselves in pursuit of beauty-based fame. The shock value of The Neon Demon is continuously impactful, with elements ranging from self-mutilation and absurd knife fights to cannibalism and necrophilia.
The ghastly, sickening acts and soft gore visuals are mixed with beautiful, compelling imagery and a glamorous style in such a harmonious way, as if purposely trying to make it hard for viewers to be grossed out; instead, the viewer is under a spell, watching the unfolding of a disturbingly strange dream.
The majority of criticism the film has been subjected to revolves around it being shallow, reductive, objectifying, offensive, form over content. However, the film is clearly self-reflective in the sense that it’s a critique of the things it depicts and the things it exaggerates to an absurd degree. Sometimes the subtext eludes viewers because the film might appear to revel in its own madness and in the culture it condemns, but, in the end, every viewer perceives it differently. The Neon Demon is hypnotic and compelling with its gripping atmosphere, its dual aesthetic- incorporating both the glamorously exquisite and the macabre, and its bewildering dream sequences.
Based on the Japanese exploitative psychological horror manga by Kyoko Okazaki, Helter Skelter(2012), directed by Mika Ninagawa, is a disturbing hyperstylised surreal drama depicting the chaotic life of manufactured superstar Lilico, who navigates the dark side of the fashion world. What lurks beyond the glamorous facade is portrayed as not only sad, but grim, and merging with the macabre. Whilst Lilico gradually delves into psychotic delusions, the film touches upon notions of transience, artificiality, the impact of stardom and its correlation with mental state deterioration, the identification of the self purely with the image and the (fluctuating and inevitably fading) success of the image, and the consequent predictable corruption of the soul.
Lilico, played by suitably controversial Erika Sawajiri, is an influential and highly appreciated Japanese supermodel whose beautiful appearance permeates the news, magazines, and minds of Japanese teenage girls who look up to and aspire to be her – or the idea of her. Behind the scenes and the smiles, she embodies a clear case of narcissistic personality disorder, her existence solely dictated by an insatiable ego which is fed by fame and dependent on the recognition of her physical beauty and success. In some ways, her life seems to be a heavenly dream that she just grows tired of: she is always found either revelling or agonising in aesthetic, lurid, and shiny surroundings, around people who satisfy her every whim. She lives in an alluring, luxurious, decadent place, where the colour palette is dominated by red, the vividness of the decor being reminiscent of Argento’s classic, Suspiria (1977).
Jaded, tragically cynical, shallow, and malicious, Lilico ends up being a toxic presence in the lives of the few people in her proximity, constantly undermining and treating her assistant harshly despite her blind devotion, and trying to sabotage others’ happiness. Her self-centred, vitriolic demeanour is counteracted by moments of vulnerability in which she drowns in her own dramatic sadness, as depicted in explicit shots finding her collapsed and lying motionless on the floor. Lilico is unhinged, oscillating between feeling on top of the world, completely apathetic, in total agony, and at times terrifyingly psychotic. The psychotic episodes unfold like visually stunning, distorted psychedelic nightmares, featuring blood rain, optical illusions, and ominous butterflies.
When another model enters the picture and seems to steal the spotlight, threatening her goddess status with her presence, Lilico is faced with the acute awareness of the flimsy quality of the fashion industry. Consumed by feelings of helplessness and resentment, she wants to destroy the new star, Kozue Yoshikawa, despite acknowledging the inherent ephemeral nature of modelling careers and the hunt for newness. However, since her numerous cosmetic surgeries are taking their toll as the clinic she went to is accused of suspicious conduct in their treatments, Lilico’s physical health diminishes and she ends up destroying herself and performing a shocking act in front of a myriad of cameras pointed at her- an act which, of course, involves the eyes.
Aesthetically, Helter Skelter is a hypnotic feast for the senses, which is unsurprising considering the director of the film is Mika Ninagawa, who has a background in commercial photography and a lurid, vividly-coloured signature photographic style. The message is transparent in this twisted, grotesque, yet highly aesthetic spectacle, namely a poignant and compelling critique of the fashion world, its objectifying nature, and the concept of stardom which encourages the cultivation of appearance over essence. The protagonist displays a perfect, glamourous, appealing image out into the world, whilst being rotten on the inside- both mentally and physically. Lilico is unequivocally damned, however not entirely responsible for her own damnation.
The opening sequence of Melancholia (2011, Lars von Trier), a collection of gloomy, surreal, painting-resembling, slow-motion shots, is an insidious introduction to the themes of this compelling cinematic symphony of death and destruction. What completes the eerie dreamscape is the exquisite, haunting piece of music by Wagner – the Prelude to the tragic opera Tristan und Isolde, which magnifies the sorrow depicted in the shots and throughout the whole film. The film and the opera both exhibit the philosophical pessimism of Schopenhauer, revolving around unhappiness, death, and painful, unfulfilled human yearning. The nocturnal landscape, the Realm of the Night from Wagner’s opera, symbolically stands for the realm of hidden truth; and the only escape or redemption from a world perceived as evil and relentlessly suffering, is spiritual release, death, hence Justine’s morbid Ophelia moment and the early appearance of the destructive planet, “Melancholia”. The deadly planet, with its suggestive name, is a metaphor most beautifully conveyed visually when Justine, the perpetually despondent and apathetic bride, bathes naked in its light and is shown yearning for its life-threatening touch, on the same musical notes from the Prelude. Death appears in other forms in von Trier’s haunting cinematic overture as well, such as the striking nightmarish image of the dead birds falling from the sky in the background whilst Justine’s cold blank face is shown in a close-up shot; or the horse collapsing backwards in bleak surroundings. Another memorable surreal image is that of a fascinated Justine staring at her fingertips as they seem to be connected to the bolts of lightning.
Within the themes and the atmosphere of Melancholia, we can also find echoes of Wagner’s own beautifully dark poetic words about Tristan und Isolde, once again resonating with Schopenhauer’s philosophy. He describes the tragic story as “a tale of endless yearning, longing, the bliss and wretchedness of love; world, power, fame, honour, chivalry, loyalty, and friendship all blown away like an insubstantial dream; one thing left living – longing, longing unquenchable, a yearning, a hunger, a languishing forever renewing itself; one sole redemption – death, finality, a sleep without awakening…”
Fascination (1979), dir. by Jean Rollin, is an artful, aesthetically-pleasing erotic Gothic horror film situated between arthouse and grindhouse. Rollin tends to be associated with the sexploitation genre, whilst being recognised for the surreal dark fantasy style of his lyrical, tantalising, elegant, and atmospheric films which merge sensuality with visual poetry. Fascination’s opening scene takes place in 1905 in an abattoir where seemingly ordinary French women drink ox blood, considered a cure for anaemia at the time. Despite this bizarre moment and the fact that, as one of the ethereal vampire girls picks up a scythe, the film appears to progress into the slasher realm, Fascination is soft compared to other gore films, and not as surreal or bewildering as other Rollin films. The little gore that appears in the film is almost elegantly depicted. Fascination is shot in a ghostly sinister castle surrounded by mist and emptiness. A thief ends up hiding in the chateau, where he finds two enigmatic nymph-like angelic-looking young women all alone, Eva and Elizabeth. They initially seem to be easy prey, but there is something unsettling about them, and it turns out they are actually part of a cult of aristocratic vampires.
The Beyond (1981) is a surreal cult horror film with Southern Gothic echoes, directed by Lucio Fulci, who is known as “The Godfather of Gore”. When Liza decides to renovate her newly-inherited dilapidated hotel, the activity triggers a series of mysterious deaths. It is revealed that the hotel is built over one of the seven portals to Hell, which was activated by the renovation. The violent darkness of the film unfolds in an unsettling combination of supernatural events, visceral graphic scenes featuring tarantulas and ghastly rotten zombie flesh, and uncanny silhouettes haunting empty houses. Towards the end, the afterlife is painted as an eerie wasteland filled with corpses. The film exhibits a chaotic dreamlike atmosphere mixed with gruesome visuals and otherworldly sounds.
The Uncanny appears in many shapes and forms. Lurid, erotic, provocative, disturbing, hallucinatory, and grotesque are a few words you can use to describe David Cronenberg’s famous body horror film, Videodrome (1983), a sinister commentary on the sadomasochistic consumerist nature of our society & the pervasiveness and intrusiveness of technology. Cronenberg approached this theme in the 80s, yet it becomes increasingly relevant in time. Videodrome is a TV show featuring violent acts of punishment with sexual undertones tailored to an audience belonging to the age of over-stimulation. Marked by his girlfriend’s disappearance after auditioning for the show, Max explores the Videodrome phenomenon, finding out that the line between reality and simulation is blurred. The film ends on a tragic note, including the famous cult line “Death to Videodrome! Long live the new flesh!” uttered repetitively throughout the film like an incantation.
I Am Mother (2019), a post-apocalyptic sci-fi film directed by Grant Sputore, starts off at a slow pace, revealing the eerie routine and mother-daughter bond between an android and a human inside an enclosed, clinical ‘repopulation facility’ resembling a spaceship. Besides them, from the first shots we find out that the site contains thousands of human embryos, as Mother promises the family will extend when she is ready to raise more children. Whilst Daughter receives advanced education in various fields ranging from medicine to philosophy, everything is surrounded by an aura of mystery as the film offers little explanation for the circumstances of the “extinction event” and whatever is happening outside the facility beyond the warnings of Mother about the toxicity of the external environment. When a visitor is surreptitiously granted access to their sanctuary thanks to the rebellious and inquisitive nature of Daughter, the pace and atmosphere of the film change, and we are oscillating between the clashing words, convictions, and insidious influences of Mother and of the newcomer. The evocative performances, touching cinematography, beautiful intimacy, and the maternal bonding established in the first part of the film are powerful elements facilitating the process of empathising with the robot and being invested in their connection, which gets saddening and complicated when conflicts arise between them, when reality outside the protective bubble that Daughter has been raised in is gradually unveiled.
Perfect Blue (1997), directed by Satoshi Kon, is a disturbing, disorienting, surreal Japanese animated psychological horror/thriller film based on the 1991 novel “Perfect Blue: Complete Metamorphosis” written by Yoshikazu Takeuchi. Mima, a 21-year-old former pop icon pursuing an acting career, can no longer discern between reality and fantasy, as she is haunted by ghosts of her past as a teen idol and subsequently delves into paranoid delusions and nightmares. Her doppelgänger- an elusive mirror figure seemingly belonging to a parallel reality- is an embodiment of her former J-pop self whose taunting remarks about her failed diva status seem to spring from her own unconscious mind. The underlying commentary of the film touches the theme of unstable selfhood correlated with celebrity and the vicious effects of stardom, in a dark critique of Japanese pop culture and the cult of celebrity.
This eerie stylised depiction of madness filled with blood, violence, and suspense, has been seen as an animated version of a Giallo thriller directed by Dario Argento; it has also been cited as the inspiration behind Darren Aronofsky’s work, the most obvious one being Black Swan.
