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.
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Dead Ringers (1988): The Uncanny Double – Narcissistic Symbiosis
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.
A glimpse into the mind of Louise Bourgeois: art and psychoanalysis
Louise Bourgeois viewed art as an alternative form of psychoanalysis, an unravelling of the psyche, as it is based on exploring unconscious associations. Currently on display at Hayward Gallery, in London, The Woven Child exhibition features sculptures that explore ambivalent mental states, past selves, ghostly memories, and physical and emotional pain, as well as art installations incorporating textiles, old fabrics, needles, and spiders – which she views as protective repairers, rather than frightening figures. The spider motif is associated with motherhood, whilst the process of weaving is also a metaphor for mending family relations.
Delving into her work can be an unsettling process. In “Louise Bourgeois, Freud’s Daughter”, a book that also features rare excerpts from Bourgeois’ notebooks and diaries, Juliet Mitchell hints at the uncanny effect of her work, mentioning the ambivalence of the emotions felt due to the way her art taps into past and present mental states. She also emphasises that Bourgeois’ wish was for the viewer to focus on their own (unconscious) response to her work, rather than wondering about her own free associations. This aligns with the discourse on the uncanny, which inherently relies on the subjective experience of the viewer. Objects are usually not thought of as inherently ‘uncanny’. Unconscious responses to her work (and art in general) can be similar, consistent, despite the fluctuations in our psychological configuration and in the psychic, repressed material that triggers the response.
Although this is an oversimplification of the themes she depicted, her innovative work is in part fuelled by a resentment towards her father and an admiration for her mother. According to Mitchell, Bourgeois was obsessively fascinated with her own childhood and afraid of her own capacity for aggression (a trait that is particularly condemned in women). She also sublimated sadistic, vengeful drives through her art. In her therapy sessions, she tried to question the “nice girl” tendencies, resurrecting the buried self. She allowed herself to express rage and criticism towards Freud, Lacan, and her own psychoanalyst, Lowenfeld, whilst appreciating Freud’s “opponents”, Jung and Klein.
Despite being engaged in Freudian psychoanalysis for a significant period of her life, Bourgeois wrote an essay titled “Freud’s Toys”, in which she expressed the view that Freud’s method wasn’t helpful for artists. There tends to be an ambivalence in her statements regarding both the function of art and the links between the creative and the psychoanalytical process: whilst she acknowledged they are both forms of psyche excavation, metamorphosis, and resurrection, her reinforcement of the image of the suffering, tormented artist appears to be incompatible with the ‘talking cure’.
She pointed out that “To be an artist involves some suffering. That’s why artists repeat themselves – because they have no access to a cure”.
At the same time, she stated: “The connections that I make in my work are connections that I cannot face. They are really unconscious connections. The artist has the privilege of being in touch with his or her unconscious, and this is really a gift. It is the definition of sanity. It is the definition of self-realization.”
Signe Pierce: a vibrant, hyperreal, holographic spectacle with vaporwave vibes
New York-based contemporary multimedia artist Signe Pierce self-identifies as a reality artist, exploring the blurred lines between art and technology, between art and life, and the concept of heightened reality through her neon urban signature photographic style characterised by a glamorous, saccharine aesthetic. The vibrant colour palette she uses is dominated by bright pink and purple hues, adding a different dimension to mundane urban landscapes. The chromatic excess emphasises artificiality, as the artist provides a visual commentary on the nature of reality in the digital world.
Signe Pierce embraces the idea of ‘unreality’ and takes it to extremes in her lurid, holographic paradise. The viewer entering her world is mesmerised, distracted, trapped in hyperreality. Beautifully influenced by her environment and the chaos of New York, her work provides a glimpse into an augmented version of the famous city for the outsider to be virtually immersed into. Since her art is of a meta-referential nature, it shouldn’t be surprising that it self-consciously depicts the ubiquity of commercial ads and photography, phone screens, screens in general, which, instead of piercing into her world, are rather being harmoniously incorporated in it.
The almost aggressive, consistent use of pink and light purple tones reveals a feminist preoccupation with what is considered stereotypically girly- being subverted by the themes depicted, such as consumerism, surveillance, hyper-reality, and assertive hyper-femininity. The artist not only plays with visual perceptions by depicting fluid forms and using distorted liquefied shapes in some of her pictures, she also challenges perceptions of femininity, by blurring the line between the objectifier and the objectified and portraying the female figure as provocative and strong.
The slick fashion commercial aesthetic of the photographs is reminiscent of surreal fashion horror films such as Nicolas Winding Refn’s Neon Demon and the urban vividness of cyberpunk cinematography. At the same time, her frequently updated Instagram feed includes cinematic photographs depicting a constantly wired, overstimulated world. Some elements often featured in her universe are mirrors, eyes, technological devices, shiny, holographic pieces of clothing, reflecting lights, rainy cityscapes, strip malls, and a lush, stunningly illuminated mise-en-scene. In addition to emphasising the inherent ‘simulacrum’ nature of the urban experience in New York, Signe Pierce’s hyperreal sensory spectacle merges perceptions of reality and simulation to make the viewer question the nature of truth and reality in contemporary society.
Alex Prager’s uncanny film stills: vivid, glamorous depictions of alienation
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 uncanny cinematic photography
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.
A glimpse of Annihilation (2018): The Uncanny Within
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 Reach Trilogy, 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.”
― Jeff VanderMeer, “Annihilation”
Nosferatu: subverting the myth of the romanticised vampire and embodying the human desire for the uncanny
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): life-like dolls and fetishism
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.
Psychological horror films set in the fashion world: The Neon Demon (2016) and Helter Skelter (2012)
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.