In Snow White: A Tale of Terror (1997), director Michael Cohn transforms the familiar fairytale into a psychologically charged dark fantasy / Gothic horror narrative, foregrounding the darker aspects, submerged traumas, and emotional undercurrents that are glossed over in conventional retellings . At the core of the film lies the fraught relationship between the heroine, Lilli, and her stepmother, Claudia — two women shaped by loss, power, and transformation. While Lilli embodies a kind of innocence, especially in contrast to Claudia’s escalating cruelty and descent into obsession and violence, their dynamic reflects a more complex psychological entanglement in which maternal desire, grief, and resentment intertwine. Both characters are caught in the emotional aftermath of maternal loss, societal expectation, and repressed desire. Their relationship evokes the Freudian uncanny — a confrontation with the familiar rendered strange — as Claudia projects her anxieties, unmet longings, and internalised failures onto Lilli. In doing so, the film reframes the fairytale conflict not as a simple moral opposition, but as a tragic unravelling of identity and intimacy under the weight of unresolved psychic disturbances. In this space, repressed fears and unspoken wounds surface, suggesting that the monstrous emerges from within the fractured self and the intimate bonds we rely on to define it, rather than from fantasy.
Claudia (Sigourney Weaver) is a complex maternal figure whose descent into madness is portrayed not as inherent wickedness but as a tragic unravelling shaped by trauma and societal expectations of femininity. Her transformation into the “evil stepmother” archetype is rooted in psychological rupture — namely the stillbirth of her child and the alienation from her stepdaughter Lilli. Claudia becomes a vessel for projections of female monstrosity, aligning with the notion of the “monstrous-feminine,” wherein female power is rendered as both seductive and abject. Claudia’s descent into sorcery reflects a deeper unravelling of the self.
The figure of Snow White (Lilli), traditionally symbolic of passive purity, is here reimagined as a psychologically complex adolescent who must negotiate her own identity through confrontation with death, desire, and symbolic rebirth. Her exile into the forest becomes a metaphor for a Jungian descent into the unconscious, where she encounters exiled male figures — replacing the seven dwarves with psychologically wounded outsiders — each embodying dislocated or fractured aspects of the self. The forest becomes a liminal, destabilising space of psychic confrontation, in which the boundaries between civilisation and savagery, ego and shadow, are blurred.
The mirror motif, central to the Snow White mythos, is recontextualised in Snow White: A Tale of Terror as more than a symbol of vanity or narcissism. Instead, it operates as a Lacanian symbol of the fractured self — an object that reflects not a coherent identity, but the illusion of wholeness that conceals the subject’s fundamental split. In Lacan’s mirror stage, the subject misrecognises themselves in the mirror image, forging an ego that is both alien to them and foundational to their sense of self. In Claudia’s obsessive relationship with the mirror, we see a dramatisation of this (mis)recognition: she gazes into it to anchor a self that is internally collapsing, rather than to simply affirm her beauty. Her descent into violence is a response to the disintegration of this illusion, as the mirror ceases to reflect mastery and instead reveals her fragmentation and despair.
By rejecting moral binaries, the film destabilises the fairytale’s traditional roles of innocent and evil, exposing the uncanny not as an external threat, but as something that emerges from within the home, the self, and the maternal body. Rather than being born from fantastical monsters, the terror here is generated from the intimate collapse of identity and relational roles. The domestic sphere — once associated with nurturing and safety — becomes the site of dread, echoing Freud’s theory of the uncanny as the return of the repressed within the familiar. The forest, often a symbolic space of transformation in fairy tales, takes on a heightened function as a liminal realm where societal structures unravel. It is a psychic landscape as much as a physical one, reflecting Lilli’s internal conflict and Claudia’s descent into monstrosity. Within this space, the dichotomies of civilisation and savagery, ego and shadow, dissolve, leaving characters suspended in a realm where their deepest fears and desires are no longer containable.
The film’s Gothic setting — replete with decaying interiors, flickering candlelight, and looming ancestral trauma — functions as an externalisation of Claudia’s deteriorating psyche. As she becomes increasingly unhinged, her reflection in the mirror becomes less a source of affirmation and more a site of psychic disintegration. In this way, the mirror functions both as a magical device and a Lacanian symbol of the fractured self, mediating Claudia’s descent into madness. The horror in A Tale of Terror stems less from supernatural spectacle than from the emotional claustrophobia of unresolved grief, maternal envy, and the suffocating weight of legacy. The film compels its viewers to confront the monstrous feminine not as a mythic trope, but as a psychological inevitability within a repressive patriarchal structure.
Ultimately, Snow White: A Tale of Terror resists the moral clarity of traditional fairy tales, offering instead a meditation on the psychological toll of repression and idealisation. Its terror arises through the uncanny terrors rooted in the familial and the familiar.
“Giallo” translates to “yellow” in Italian. The term refers to a specific genre of Italian cinema that was prevalent in the 1970s, typically featuring intricate mystery or whodunit narratives, psychological horror, nudity, lurid sexual scenes, meticulously staged murders, psychopathic characters, slick, gratuitous violence, and a certain arthouse elegance and sophistication in visual style. It stems from the yellow covers of mystery and crime thriller novels by authors such as Agatha Christie, Edgar Allan Poe, and Raymond Chandler, that were translated into Italian and published by Mondadori Press in the 1920s.
One aspect that makes Tenebrae (1982) adistinctive film within the giallo genre is its self-referential nature. During a stay at a Los Angeles hotel, Argento was plagued by chilling phone calls from a fervent admirer of his work. As disclosed in Argento’s memoir, “Fear”, the caller’s demeanour shifted dramatically, culminating in a sinister vow to murder Argento. This unsettling encounter constituted the catalyst for Tenebrae. Tenebrae follows American crime novelist Peter Neal, portrayed by Anthony Franciosa, who finds himself entangled in a murder investigation during a book tour in Rome, with the killings seemingly mirroring his literary creations. The film mirrors Argento’s experience, with Neal, akin to Argento, being a connoisseur of the giallo genre and facing backlash from critics. One critic deems Neal’s work as sadistic and misogynistic, paralleling Argento’s real-life critics. The critic seems to be simultaneously weirdly fascinated and repulsed by his work.
At the time of its premiere in 1982, Tenebrae was met with disdain in the UK, and, as a result, it was significantly edited and added to the ‘video nasty’ list. Currently, the film is hailed as one of the Italian horror director’s most masterful films, as well as an introspective, self-referential, and deconstructive exploration of Argento’s filmography, experiences with critics, and the conventions typical of Italian giallo films. Its underlying exploration of the nature and impact of violent media on its consumers, of misogyny, and giallo storytelling has led to a reevaluation by critics.
Tenebrae features the captivating visuals and overall cinematography by Luciano Tovoli and the typical atmosphere-enhancing soundtrack by Goblin. Contrary to its name, which in Latin translates to “darkness”, Tenebrae is characterised by its vivid and intense lighting, underscoring the idea that the darkness alluded to is in fact a metaphor for the unconscious forces residing within the human psyche. The Rome depicted in the film deviates from the traditionally idyllic and historic portrayal commonly seen in films – it is rendered as an indistinct, clean, modern urban landscape dominated by towering structures, vast, somewhat desolated areas, and a surreal, futuristic ambiance enriched by the haunting synth and electronic sounds from the progressive rock soundtrack by Argento’s favourite band, Goblin. The dreamlike, otherworldly atmosphere heightens the sense of unease and dread.
On a narrative level, the trauma is revealed through phantasmagoric flashback sequences thatprovide a backstory for the killer, revealing the traumatic events that shaped their psychological makeup and motivated their actions. These flashbacks delve into the character’s past, uncovering the roots of their violence and linking their murders to a desire for revenge or retribution. The character suppresses their desires and emotions, only for them to emerge in violent and destructive ways. This is reflective of the broader theme of the relationship between violence and sexuality, with the film suggesting that the suppression of sexual desire can lead to violent outbursts. The flashbacks delve into the character’s past, uncovering the roots of their violence and linking their murders to a desire for revenge or retribution. The use of surreal and disorienting imagery creates a sense of unreality, reflecting the way in which trauma can warp and distort our memories and perceptions. The dreamlike flashbacks can also be seen as a reflection of the film’s themes of voyeurism and the nature of cinema itself.
Tenebrae explores Argento’s familiar motifs, including the glamorisation of violence, Freudian thought, stylised voyeurism, deep-seated, trauma, murderous desires, duality, and the return of the repressed. Tenebrae also stands out as an entirely captivating, masterfully designed whodunit, featuring a plethora of surprising plot shifts that keep the viewer on edge. The narrative is dotted with deceptive and suspicious figures hiding behind their personas, all of whom have conceivable motives for homicide and an air of ambiguity in their movements, situations, and discourse that makes them seem culpable.
Suspiria (1977), a classic horror masterpiece by Dario Argento, is the first film of the Three Mothers trilogy by Argento, followed by Inferno (1980), and The Mother of Tears (2007). Arguably the most vividly coloured, aesthetically pleasing classic horror film, Suspiria unravels the complex psychological journey of its protagonist within a surreal and haunting narrative. It is generally considered to be Argento’s departure from the typical giallo roots of his films towards supernatural horror, although it encapsulates elements of both genres. The film follows a young American ballet dancer, Suzy Bannion, who finds herself in the midst of mysterious and sinister events after enrolling in a prestigious dance academy in Germany. Themes of isolation, paranoia, power, and the loss of innocence are intricately woven into the narrative, challenging the viewer’s perception of reality. Dark forces seek to dominate and consume, mirroring the way in which fear and evil can infiltrate and corrupt the human psyche.
Distinguished by its ingenious amalgamation of ghastly themes with a lush, hyper-saturated visual tableau, the film can be likened to a fever dream. The vibrant, psychedelic colour palette, dominated by deep reds and stark blues, creates an otherworldly atmosphere that is both arresting and disquieting – a sensory overload that reflects the inner turmoil and chaos that permeates the film’s narrative. This vivid visual style, characterised by its meticulous attention to detail and captivating use of colour, is symbolic, echoing the emotions and psychological states of the characters. The blood-red hues, for instance, are emblematic of the violence and terror that lurk within the walls of the dance academy, while the cool blues serve as a stark contrast, representing the false sense of security that the institution appears to offer.
The stunning, intricate set designs add to the dreamlike quality of the film, creating a world that blurs the line between fantasy and nightmare. The motifs of mirrors, shadows, and labyrinthine architecture heighten the sense of disorientation and fear, culminating in a film that is as much an exploration of its characters’ psyches as it is a visual and thematic triumph. The labyrinthine corridors and hidden chambers of the dance academy symbolise the complex and dark recesses of human consciousness.
The aesthetics of Suspiria are further accentuated by the hauntingly beautiful soundtrack composed by Argento’s favourite musical collaborators, the Italian progressive rock band, Goblin. The eerie, cult-like melodies contribute significantly to the film’s hypnotic surrealism, creating a sense of unease and anticipation that keeps the viewer on the edge of their seat. The music is an integral part of the film’s narrative, underscoring the tension and horror that unfolds onscreen.
Blood and Black Lace (1964) is a quintessential, early giallo by Mario Bava, combining arthouse elements and unnatural hues with exploitation and gore. In Blood and Black Lace, the plot—revolving around a mysterious killer targeting models at a high fashion house—serves as a backdrop to Mario Bava’s visually stunning and wonderfully designed set pieces. The narrative is an intricate web of deception, violence, and mystery, unfolding within an atmosphere of paranoia, suspense, and impending doom, with sexual undertones. As models are killed one after another, dark secrets and pasts are unveiled, reflecting the fragmented nature of human psychology. The gruesome murders – depicted through fetishistic images – represent a catalyst for the characters to confront their inner demons, peeling back the layers of their seemingly polished exterior to reveal the chaos and darkness that lies beneath.
The psychology behind the plot is deeply interwoven with themes of obsession, identity, corruption, and the pervasive nature of evil. The fashion house, with its glamorous facade, symbolises the layer of respectability and civility that often masks the basest human instincts. The killer, wearing a featureless mask stripping them of any humanising features, represents the anonymity of evil, an omnipresent force that can manifest in the most unexpected places and people. The models symbolise the dual nature of human identity, their outward beauty belying the ugliness of their secrets.
Bava employs his signature, exquisite style, utilising rich, saturated colours and dramatic lighting to create a dream-like atmosphere that reflects the distorted reality of the film’s narrative. The use of mirrors and reflections further emphasises the theme of duality, mirroring the dual nature of the characters and the world they inhabit. The film’s soundtrack, a haunting melody that perfectly encapsulates the tension and terror of the narrative, adds another layer to the psychological complexity of the film.
Your Vice is a Locked Room and Only I have the Key (1972), directed by Sergio Martino, blends elements of gothic horror, thriller, and mystery to create a distinct and captivating cinematic experience. The intriguing, unique title alludes to the 1969 giallo The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh, also directed by Martino, establishing an interconnected giallo universe.
The film revolves around the character of Oliviero, a failed writer who lives in a dilapidated mansion with his wife, Irina. The tension and resentment between the characters are palpable, with Oliviero’s abusive behavior towards Irina forming a significant part of the narrative. The plot thickens when a series of murders occurs, with the victims all being close to Oliviero, thus making him the prime suspect. The mystery deepens as the characters try to unravel the true identity of the murderer. A black cat named Satan acts as a symbolic representation of the characters’ psychological turmoil and moral corruption. Does this sound familiar to anyone? It was indeed, inspired by Poe’s short story, The Black Cat. You will also notice some other gothic influences in the visuals as well, as the film deviates from the urban giallo landscape.
Your Vice is a Locked Room and Only I Have the Key stands out for its psychological complexity and depth of characterisation. The film delves into the dark recesses of human nature, exploring themes of decadence, perversion, and the thin line between reality and madness. The characters are well-developed and multi-dimensional, adding a layer of depth to the narrative.
The film is also known for its striking visual aesthetics, with Martino employing a rich palette of colours, intricate camera movements, and sharp angles to create a surreal and unsettling atmosphere. The use of music, especially the haunting score, adds to the overall mood of the film, heightening the suspense and tension.
A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin (1971), directed by Lucio Fulci, is a psychological thriller that combines the giallo genre with surreal, hallucinogenic imagery. The narrative follows Carol Hammond, played by Florinda Bolkan, a woman who is plagued by vivid, sexually charged nightmares that seem to blur the line between reality and fantasy. As the story unfolds, Carol finds herself embroiled in a murder investigation after her dream seemingly comes to life.
The film explores themes of repressed sexuality, identity, and the subconscious mind. The title itself, A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin, alludes to the shedding of one’s outer layer to reveal their true nature, much like a lizard shedding its skin. This metaphor is reflective of Carol’s journey as she confronts her inner desires and suppressed emotions. The film significantly delves into the realm of psychoanalysis and the interpretation of dreams, reflecting Fulci’s engagement with Freudian theory. The character’s dreams unveil her “forbidden” fantasies and internal conflicts shaped by societal norms and familial expectations. The intersection of dreams and reality blurs as these nightmarish visions start permeating her waking life, ultimately leading to a distorted perception of reality. The psychological is intertwined with the mystical.
The use of psychedelic visuals and dream sequences sets A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin apart from other giallo films of the time. Fulci employs a range of visual effects, including split screens, slow motion, and distorted images, to create a surreal landscape that mirrors Carol’s mental state. These stylistic choices enhance the narrative, as well as immersing the audience in the protagonist’s psychological turmoil. The film’s score, composed by Ennio Morricone, enhances the film’s atmosphere, as the haunting melodies and discordant tones heighten the tension and contribute to the overall sense of unease.
The Tales of Hoffmann (1951) is a British Technicolor comic opera film written, produced, and directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. Adapted from Jacques Offenbach’s opera, the film is a visually striking exploration of the human psyche through the lens of operatic narrative. It presents three tragic love stories that function as fragmented reflections of the protagonist’s psyche. From a psychological standpoint, The Tales of Hoffmann also delves into the archetypes of the femme fatale, the obsessive lover, and the tragic hero. Hoffmann’s romantic obsessions are doomed by their nature as well as by his projections: each woman embodies an aspect of his psyche, representing an idealised, unattainable facet of his longing and different aspects of his desires and vulnerabilities.
His first love, Olympia, is a lifelike automaton, symbolising his naive infatuation with an illusion. Her mechanical nature represents his inability to separate fantasy from reality, reflecting his tendency to project his emotional needs onto a constructed image of perfection. The fact that Olympia is not real, but rather an object of artifice, signifies Hoffmann’s susceptibility to becoming entranced by superficial beauty, unable to confront the deeper complexities of true human connection.
The second woman, Giulietta, is a seductive courtesan whose charm leads Hoffmann into the trap of carnal temptation. Giulietta’s manipulation of Hoffmann is a metaphor for the destructive nature of indulgence and the loss of self-identity in the pursuit of physical pleasure. In the pivotal moment of their affair, Giulietta convinces Hoffmann to surrender his own reflection, symbolising the dangerous act of giving up one’s essence in exchange for fleeting gratification. Her presence exposes the psychological peril of prioritising external desires over internal authenticity, leaving Hoffmann more hollow and disconnected from his true self.
The final woman in Hoffmann’s tragic love trilogy is Antonia, a delicate singer whose passion for music ultimately leads to her downfall. Unlike the other two, Antonia’s love is rooted in a deeply emotional connection, but it is tainted by her frailty and the sinister forces that prey upon her vulnerability. Antonia’s talent becomes both her gift and her curse; it consumes her, manipulated by dark influences that push her toward self-destruction. Her fate reflects the psychological tension between personal ambition and the destructive toll of artistic passion, showing how Hoffmann’s love for her mirrors his own internal struggle with obsession and the fear of losing oneself to a singular, overpowering desire. Each of these women embodies an aspect of Hoffmann’s psyche, portraying the varying dangers of love and obsession and the emotional consequences of surrendering to illusions.
The film’s highly stylised aesthetic, with its theatrical sets and surreal colour palettes, externalises his internal conflicts, blurring the line between fantasy and reality. This deliberate artificiality emphasises how perception is shaped by the illusions we create for ourselves. Throughout the film, the poet’s obsession with love and his recurring disillusionments represent a psychological study of idealisation and the fragility of human desire. His inability to reconcile fantasy with reality creates a poignant tension, showcasing the psychological struggle between personal aspiration and the painful recognition of impermanence. The repetition of these patterns in Hoffmann’s relationships reflects a cyclical psychological process of hope, betrayal, and despair, inviting the viewer to reflect on the darker sides of romantic obsession.
The psychological complexity of The Tales of Hoffmann is further enhanced through its use of opera as a vehicle for heightened emotional expression. The operatic nature of the film allows characters to embody both psychological archetypes and emotional extremes, giving a voice to Hoffmann’s inner conflicts. In this heightened emotional landscape, the psychological torment of Hoffmann is portrayed through his actions as well as through his shifting perception of the women he encounters, reflecting his struggles with love and identity. His relationships are tragic, not because of the women themselves, but because of Hoffmann’s projection of his desires and flaws onto them. The film’s dreamlike sequences suggest that Hoffmann’s journey through these fantastical tales is a metaphorical exploration of the mind’s tendency to distort, idealise, and ultimately suffer through its own internalised struggles.
Joachim Trier’s Oslo, August 31st is an unflinching exploration of depression, addiction, and the weight of past choices. The film follows Anders, a recovering drug addict, as he spends a day in Oslo, revisiting old haunts and encountering people from his past. The story is set within a 24-hour period, but its psychological depth extends far beyond its timeframe.
The film captures the bleakness of existential despair. Anders is physically present, but emotionally detached, as if watching his life from the outside. The psychological struggle is in the tension between his desire to reintegrate into society and the overpowering feeling that he’s irreversibly damaged. He’s haunted by past mistakes, and even as he moves through the city, the memories of his addiction and the relationships he has destroyed shadow his every interaction.
The film mirrors Anders’ internal turmoil through its visual and auditory design. The muted colour palette of the city underscores his emotional numbness, while the conversations he has with friends, who are now settled into their lives, highlight his sense of alienation. Every scene seems to pulse with a quiet, unspoken dread—a reflection of Anders’ own inability to articulate his emotional devastation.
Oslo, August 31st tackles themes of shame, hopelessness, and the paralysis that often comes with depression. Anders’ sense of failure and self-loathing is palpable, especially in moments of solitude when he’s left alone with his thoughts. His conversations reveal a longing for redemption, but also a deep scepticism that it is possible.
Viy (1967), directed by Konstantin Ershov and Georgiy Kropachyov, is an engrossing adaptation of Nikolai Gogol’s eponymous horror novella. This Soviet-era cinematic gem reveals a tale of terror, folklore, and the uncanny in a rural place that becomes a liminal space of dread as the uncanny motif resurfaces through the dichotomous tension between the known and the unfamiliar, between the seemingly idyllic rural setting and the unsettling supernatural elements that inhabit it. The familiar shifts into something terrifying as the character of the witch, Pannochka, an embodiment and manifestation of the uncanny, oscillates in appearance, morphing from the archetypal fairytale figure of the crone into a beautiful, ghostly young woman who summons demons, vampires, and Viy, a horrifying creature.
Delving into the intersection of the familiar and the strange, the natural and the supernatural, the film’s disturbing visuals—like the summoning of demons, the witch’s flight, and the final ghastly revelation of Viy—juxtapose the mundane rural setting with the phantasmagoric. The uncanny is also present through the motif of repetition, the return of the repressed, the shift from the familiar to the alien, the tension between the two different states: idyllic bliss and the state of unsettling anxiety, unease, and ambiguity associated with supernatural occurrences.
Engaging with psychoanalytic concepts such as the uncanny doubling and repetition, The Double Life of Véronique (1991), dir. by Krzysztof Kieslowski, approaches the connection between two women, Weronika and Véronique, whose lives mirror each other, being connected through faith, music, situations, objects, disease, and their similar relationships with their families.
The uncanny lies in the concept of an eerie repetition of events and the phenomenon of doubling, which is approached both through the elusive, uncanny presence of Weronika in Véronique’s life and through Alexandre’s marionettes, that double and haunt Véronique, symbolising the regressive drive towards an inorganic, inanimate state whilst being used in the exploration of the complex emotions of being duplicated.
After Véronique connects with Alexandre – the puppeteer, his clues evoke the uncanny presence of Weronika, exposing Véronique to her double. With his help, she also finds the photograph she took of Weronika – which represents a key, cathartic moment allowing her to be more understanding of her own elusive feelings of the uncanny and of loss due to her ineffable (soul) connection with Weronika. Véronique experiences a figurative rebirth, similar to the butterfly story that Alexandre creates.
The film is referred to by the director as a representation of “the luminous, the numinous and the ominous”. Moving away from the psychoanalytic framework, the film approaches the spiritual themes of transcendence, pure intuition, and the existence of the soul.
Krzysztof Kieślowski about the beautiful impact of the film:
“At a meeting just outside Paris, a 15-year-old girl came up to me and said that she’d been to see [The Double Life of] Véronique. She’d gone once, twice, three times and only wanted to say one thing really – that she realised that there is such a thing as a soul. She hadn’t known before, but now she knew that the soul does exist. There’s something very beautiful in that. It was worth making Véronique for that girl.”
A Page of Madness (1926), dir. Teinosuke Kinugasa, is a mesmerising Japanese psychological avant-garde masterpiece exploring the oscillation between reality and fantasy through a distinctive, unsettling cinematic approach. The film was part of a broader context of Japanese avant-garde works created during Japan’s interwar period (1918-1941), when Japanese artistic expressions, as exemplified through poetry and other art forms, were influenced by European modernist and avant-garde art, exploring themes such as political repression, technology, and censorship through a mix of erotic, grotesque, and nonsensical depictions.
Set within the confining walls of a mental institution in Japan, the narrative primarily centres on a janitor haunted by the guilt of his past and struggling with acceptance whilst working to care for his institutionalised wife and grappling with his own emerging fantasies. Through a mixture of striking visuals, dream sequences, and silent storytelling, Kinugasa creates an unsettling cinematic experience that delves into themes of guilt, mental illness, and the fragility of human mind.
The film was also closely linked with the modernist literary group, shinkankakuha (New Perception school), as the screenplay was derived from consultations with several members of this group. One of the founders of the group, Riichi Yokomitsu, wrote “The phenomenon of perception for Shinkankakuha is, to put it briefly, the direct, intuitive sensation of a subjectivity that peels away the naturalised exterior aspects and leaps into the thing itself.”
Both Kinugasa’s films and the shinkankakuha focus on the concept of sense perception: A Page of Madness is characterised by its distinctive use of narrative and visual techniques, such as rapid montage sequences, multiple exposures, and lens distortions, as well as eerie painted sets and stylised lighting reminiscent of German Expressionism, to delve into the abnormal sensory experiences and perceptions of inmates in the asylum. The portrayal of mental illness reflects a tendency to transcend traditional, naturalistic depictions, in a way that also raised deep questions about societal perceptions of mental illness during the time.
Written and directed by Benjamin Christensen, Häxan / Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922) constitutes a mix of documentary style storytelling, essay film aspects, and gothic horror. Blurring the lines between real historical facts and fabricated narratives, Häxan provides an intriguing, partly fictionalised and dramatised depiction of witchcraft through history. Concerned with socio-cultural, ideological, political, medical, and religious frameworks, the film supports the idea that the mass hysteria associated with witch hunts and Satanic possession during the medieval era can be attributed to misconceptions regarding mental disorders. An exploration of myth and religion at the crossroads between the hallucinatory and the real, the film features macabre images of torture, sacrifice, and satanic rituals. “Chronologically specific and anachronistically out-of-joint” (Doty and Ingham 2014), Häxan provides modernised re-enactments of the medieval phenomenon of witch hunts, whilst conflating different time periods in its unique approach. The witches include “unhinged” nuns, widows, and temptresses. In some cultures, pregnancy and menstruation were associated with witchcraft and magical powers, reinforcing the process of viewing femininity as the ‘other’. These mystical powers were thought to have a dual nature, with the capacity of being both nurturing and destructive. The underlying film commentary regarding religion is compatible with the medical discourses focusing on the reasons why certain individuals are drawn towards mysticism and the occult or experience the presence of unknown forces. The sequences including the figure of the stereotypical broomstick-riding witch and the portrayal of grotesque devils, demonic orgies, and other hellish motifs, reveal a glimpse into the irrational mindset of those influenced by fear-instilling, religious superstitions.
Let’s celebrate David Cronenberg’s birthday by immersing ourselves in the uncanny, gruesome, and occasionally dreamlike psychological horror universe of Dead Ringers (1988). As the master of the Body Horror genre, Cronenberg always intertwines physical collapse with psychological disintegration in a way that unsettles the psyche. All of this is simultaneous with the unfolding of his characteristic fascination with the human body and the ghastly ways in which it can be corrupted for the purpose of symbolically exploring themes of alienation, repressed fears, and the mind-body duality.
The uncanny theme of the double is hypnotically crystallised through the dual role of Jeremy Irons, who plays Beverly and Elliot, twins with the same profession and sources of distress, as well as substantial character differences and taste. Irons manages to breathe life into two striking gynaecologists with an unusual bond, offering an impressive, complex portrayal of each character’s dynamic inner and outer self as they eventually spiral down into psychological disintegration and insanity. It is even more impressive taking into account the psychopathology of the twins, who exhibit tendencies compatible with narcissism and covert narcissism. The actor’s brilliance is essential: Whilst to other characters the twins have to sometimes appear indistinguishable from each other (making it possible for them to present themselves as the other in some situations), as a viewer, you have to perceive their separate external traits and mannerisms – and you often do, even if they can be very subtle at times, reflected in slight gestures.
“Pain creates character distortion.” Bev is a tortured, anxious, neurotic, research-obsessed spirit who does all the behind-the-scenes work, whilst Elliot is the sociable, arrogant, emotionally detached twin who takes care of their public image. Elliot has a polished, outwardly narcissistic persona beneath which one can find both pity and fascination for Bev’s raw self, who is consumed by his addictions. At the same time, there are mutual signs of human feelings of jealousy within their transcendental, paradoxically narcissistic love for each other. Their psychological configuration can be linked with trauma-induced hysteria, their underlying motivation being the challenging pursuit of wholeness, of single unity. There is a duality in terms of their desire for symbiosis which clashes with their desire for detachment from the other. Their mutual interest Claire’s body becomes the maternal body, the third uncanny “other” which houses the twins in Beverly’s Siamese nightmare – a scene revealing his anxiety at the haunting thought of separation from his brother, but also from the womb. The ‘abnormal’ nature of the womb, which represents a fascinating and tantalising pull for the gynaecologists, also becomes a source of unease, due to Bev’s displacement of his dread of separation and symbolic castration onto the female body.
Bev’s disturbing uncanny dream reflects the uncanny, intimate connection of the twins – which is sometimes attributed mystical connotations. There is a mutual understanding and undefined fear between them, which reflects the fear of the unknown, of the other. Elliot strangely adds that “Whatever’s in his bloodstream goes directly into mine. […] Beverly and I just have to get synchronised. Once we’re synchronised, it’ll be easy.” Everything feels safe as long as their connection is predictable. In the end, in a way that aligns with tendencies in narcissistic relating, their personality morphs into the other, and inner chaos is unleashed, which leads to annihilation of the Other – as well as a symbolic self-annihilation. Bev seems to have absorbed Elliot’s personality- destroying him can be interpreted as an act of possession and of both self-love and self-loathing. The subtext of the narrative revolves around the integration of the other, as a solution following the rejection of the identification with the reflection of inner parts that have been alienated.
By embracing the grotesque through his characteristic film genre, Cronenberg reaches beyond the flesh towards a corruption of the spirit in a traumatic process of unravelling. Although the cold, clinical approach of the film can be alienating for some viewers, its unsettling subject matter, medical setting, and provocative narrative are effective in producing strong responses, whilst allowing space for fascination.
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.”
