MADE IN THE UK: YOUR FAVOURITE SCARY MOVIE

Words Freya Yeldham

Communities indebted to tradition, cycles, and rituals. Islanders finding solace in the ephemeral consequences of their actions; it’s only seasonal, after all. Sole protagonists are strangers, either arriving new or ostracised from the radical behaviours growing in the now cultish commune they once called home. It sounds familiar really, doesn’t it?

Folk Horror, or at least the British tradition of it, was founded in the late 60s and early 70s after the reprieve from post-war malaise — the bountiful swinging sixties — introduced a radical sense of cultural shift in the United Kingdom. From the beginnings of women’s lib, to the shift towards secularism, the end of the sixties saw in one of the most transformative eras for the British who had diligently followed the same way of life, the same way of being, for so many decades – with only minor changes. And thus, folk horror was born.

1968 saw the arrival of The Witchfinder General, the first in the ‘Unholy Trinity’ of films. Though now it may feel stilted in its execution, the film is carried by an enthralling performance from Vincent Price in the titular role. On a basic level, it tells the familiar story of the witch hunts that plagued the land way back when but, more deeply, does it bring forth those themes of a community under corruption; the shadowed witches are dangerous, they’re threatening, because they’re different, they follow new beliefs and have new rituals.

However, that’s not to say that each of those ‘Unholy Trinity’ films is attempting to metaphorically align with the fear of *gasp* new lifestyles in Britain. No, in fact, if we look to Blood On Satan’s Claw, a gruelling, painful watch through the modern lens, what we begin to see is a style of horror that evokes a critical look at the blood on Britain’s soil. The demonic presence lies within the earth, it is resurrected from the ground, and defiles the etiquette of the modern community as it wills the citizens to enact rapturous deeds.

As a film, the overt and unnecessary graphic depictions of sexual violence are stomach turning to watch in an age that has evolved from ‘shock value’ as a form of storytelling; yet, it does bring that much needed light onto the barbaric history of Britain by demonstrating corruption in the very land itself.

Somewhere in the middle of these two perspectives falls, arguably, the most prolific of the genre. Robin Hardy’s 1974 cult classic, The Wicker Man. Staunch in the rituals of his devout Christianity, Ed Woodward’s Sergeant Howie is besieged with contempt for the way of life of the pagan-worshipping island folk. Yet, as a whole, the film finds balance between its criticism of each culture. Though the islanders are ultimately barbaric, they are also rooted in a deep respect for the natural environment. Howie’s refusal to understand this naturalistic approach to life is vilified by the film just as much as it vilifies the extremism of the island’s sacrifice. In all, The Wicker Man manages to effortlessly condemn the traditional and the new, whilst also making strange the normal, and normalising the strange.

In our contemporary time, then, it’s no wonder that this branch of horror is blooming once more. Folk horror is complex, boundary pushing cinema that is exploring the way in which we interact, within our cultures and beyond. It’s self-critical, self-aware, of each culture it comes from. And now, more than ever, that is what we need.

Women Talking is a very rare thing. It is a quiet, subdued film that articulates a deeply tragic subject matter, yet it moves with character and a glowing warmth that, as the hope within these women begins to blossom, so too does the very film itself.

Unlike anything that has come before it, Sarah Polley’s adaptation of Miriam Toews’ bestseller, Women Talking gives a voice to the formerly silenced women of a suppressive religious colony. Mennonite in everything but name, these women have been drugged, raped, and silenced for their whole lives, living in squander and obedience as something below even secondclass citizens. It is after a particularly harrowing spate of attacks – these precede the film – the women of the colony must decide if they will forgive the men responsible, stay at the colony and fight for their safety and agency, or leave. What follows, Sarah Polley both intrigues and infuriates us at the commencement of the film, is an act of female imagination.

Joined in a council to determine the women’s fate are three families brought to life by an impassioned and gleefully enraged cast: Claire Foy, Jessie Buckley, Rooney Mara, Judith Ivey, Sheila McCarthy, Michelle McLeod, Liv McNeil, Kate Hallett; accompanied by the meeting minute-taker Ben Winshaw. Foy and Buckley are notable powerhouses, their characters warring on different sides of the debate but unified in their intrinsic drive, each sequence in which they’re interacting feels like a gift. As an ensemble, the cast bounce between each other with a familial chemistry, the bone deep connection feels decades old, not simply weeks. This is what makes Women Talking so captivating.

A striking balance of tone and intention, it’s the hand of Sarah Polley and her adept conduction of this beguiling cast that affords the film a unique position in the solid drama canon: a true understanding and respect of joy found within tragedy. Women Talking, whether it be context or an arguably flawed approach to marketing, is not a film that you expect to laugh in, to smile, to feel joy – but it is. There is a beauty in every chuckle, every bark of laughter, and it rounds out these women beyond their trauma, they feel real. Their trauma is what brings us to them, yet it is their very humanity that keeps us there.

Polley had been adamant in her production that, though the subject matter itself may be atrociously violent, this is not a violent picture. We do not see the assaults, we do not see the women in anguish of the act. We see the aftermath, the scars, the blood. Though this film may be about trauma, it respects the movement of survivors to work through it, as a community, and heal in the hope of a future beyond it. What we see, or at least the beginnings of, is women healing

Whether it be the true reality, or an act of female imagination, at least in this world, these women are afforded the chance of hope.

And that is the sanctum of the film.