This surprisingly thoughtful
examination of voodoo and political upheaval in Haiti is among Wes
Craven's strongest and most mature films – so why has it had such a
hard time getting its due credit?
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| "I'm here for the snobs who dismiss movies when they deviate from the source material." |
Few films experience the bizarrely
extreme dissonance of fan love and critical scorn which The
Serpent and the Rainbow has
endured for much of its existence. The pop-cultural tension over
whether Wes Craven's film is a masterpiece or a slap in the face is
so polarized that the argument might as well be over Batman
v Superman. Yet as extreme as
the arguments about the film's merits or offenses can get, most of
the criticisms against it don't even consider the film seriously or
give it a chance to prove itself; the criticism seems to be just that
it exists, period. Before it was even released in 1988, The
Serpent and the Rainbow encountered
a truly angry backlash from which, in a way, it never recovered:
critics went into the film predisposed to hate it simply for what
they assumed it to be, and the inevitable first wave of bad reviews
created a myth of the film's awfulness which persisted for years,
especially among those who had never seen it. There were critics –
like the greatly-missed Roger Ebert – who stood up for it as an
unfairly-maligned great film upon its release, and it almost
immediately became a cult-classic with a passionate following of
defenders. But it is only in more recent years, as the internet age
of film criticism has leveled the playing field, that Craven's movie
has gotten a more fair reassessment, and has even started to get
credit as a classic. Its Rotten Tomatoes score finally reads fresh
instead of rotten, and earlier this year it got a long-overdue
special edition blu-ray release from Scream Factory, with special
features that make a very compelling argument for the film's
reevaluation. It's about time: The Serpent and the Rainbow
is a great movie. It is one of Wes Craven's finest films, one of the
most ambitious and artistic movies to come out of the horror genre in
the 1980s, and crucially, it holds its own as a very good film,
period, not just a horror film. It is long overdue for the world to
realize it, and for its pop-cultural legacy to by changed for good.
The Serpent and the Rainbow
tells the story of a Harvard anthropologist (Bill Pullman) who goes
to Haiti to investigate the scientific and medical truths behind some
of the country's voodoo practices. Working with a Haitian doctor
(Cathy Tyson) who wants to expose the human rights abuses of “Baby
Doc” Duvalier's totalitarian regime, Pullman's Dr. Alan immerses
himself in Haiti's voodoo culture – and gets more than he bargained
for, in more ways than one. As the beautiful, haunting, complex
religion and its seemingly-real magic challenges and expands his
perspective, he faces grave danger as his presence draws the
attention of the sadistic captain (Zakes Mokae) of Duvalier's secret
police, who uses magic of a far more malicious kind. This story is
something very different for Wes Craven: for much of the film it
isn't a horror story at all, but a drama/thriller about real-life
voodoo beliefs and Haiti's political turmoil, told in a
psychologically-subjective way that gives it a heavy touch of
surrealism.
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| "Well, I guess this is still better than my hallucinations turning me into an ape..." |
The
tone Craven achieves is less A Nightmare on Elm Street,
and more along the lines of Ken Russell's hallucinatory journeys into
the psyche, like Altered States.
Most of the film's horror images – there are plenty, and they are
quite unnerving – exist in the context of nightmares, trances, and
hallucinations; Dr. Alan's psychological and spiritual reactions to
his experiences. The real-life horror of the Duvalier regime's
human-rights abuses are another matter; those feel real enough that
they could belong in Midnight Express.
It is only late in the film that it truly starts to enter horror
territory, but even then it builds off of, and is grounded by, the
far more realistic things that came before. Craven walks a careful
tonal tightrope with The Serpent and the Rainbow,
and while admittedly there are a couple moments that fly off into
too-stylized-for-its-own-good horror imagery, for probably 95% of the
film he strikes a near-perfect balance between occult thriller and
human drama. This is the movie that finally gave him a chance to show
what a mature director he could be when allowed to show off his
talents.
So why did it face such a backlash when it was released? Honestly, in theory the reason seems totally understandable. The Serpent and the Rainbow is based on anthropologist Wade Davis's non-fiction book about his research into Haitian voodoo practices, and his experience of the final years of Duvalier's regime during his time there. A scholarly book, albeit one written with a very readable adventure-memoir style, Davis's The Serpent and the Rainbow is not something you would ever expect to see adapted into anything resembling a horror movie. Indeed, when a film adaptation was first pitched to the studio, it was supposed to be a Year of Living Dangerously-style drama directed by Peter Weir, and it only morphed into a psychological horror film after Wes Craven was attached as director. This disconnect between the nature of the source material and the style of the adaptation lead to widespread criticisms that Craven's film was an opportunistic non-adaptation that was an insult to Davis's book. Craven was accused of sensationalizing a serious study of a real-life religion in order to make another Elm Street-style shocker, and it was widely assumed that the resulting film would not be exactly respectful of Haitian culture; a set of criticisms similar to our current conversations about the ethics of cultural appropriation. The problem is that most of these assumptions were thoroughly solidified well before the film was even released, based strictly on Craven's involvement and the studio's horror-focused marketing. There is an inescapable feeling that a significant number of critics had decided in advance that the film would surely be an abomination, and the result was a bunch of very shallowly dismissive reviews that never got much past “it's a Wes Craven adaptation of a non-fiction book – enough said.” But the film isn't actually guilty of these criticisms at all – as those who went into the film with an open mind and a willingness to go against its negative buzz saw. Yes, it is (in a sense) a horror film, and yes, that may be a somewhat misjudged way to adapt an anthropological study. But it is equally true that in many ways this is a worthy adaptation of Wade Davis's book, and it's undeniable that Wes Craven worked very hard both to do justice to the book, and to be respectful towards Haitian culture. It may seem unlikely that this film could be all those things at once, but Craven manages to pull it off.
So why did it face such a backlash when it was released? Honestly, in theory the reason seems totally understandable. The Serpent and the Rainbow is based on anthropologist Wade Davis's non-fiction book about his research into Haitian voodoo practices, and his experience of the final years of Duvalier's regime during his time there. A scholarly book, albeit one written with a very readable adventure-memoir style, Davis's The Serpent and the Rainbow is not something you would ever expect to see adapted into anything resembling a horror movie. Indeed, when a film adaptation was first pitched to the studio, it was supposed to be a Year of Living Dangerously-style drama directed by Peter Weir, and it only morphed into a psychological horror film after Wes Craven was attached as director. This disconnect between the nature of the source material and the style of the adaptation lead to widespread criticisms that Craven's film was an opportunistic non-adaptation that was an insult to Davis's book. Craven was accused of sensationalizing a serious study of a real-life religion in order to make another Elm Street-style shocker, and it was widely assumed that the resulting film would not be exactly respectful of Haitian culture; a set of criticisms similar to our current conversations about the ethics of cultural appropriation. The problem is that most of these assumptions were thoroughly solidified well before the film was even released, based strictly on Craven's involvement and the studio's horror-focused marketing. There is an inescapable feeling that a significant number of critics had decided in advance that the film would surely be an abomination, and the result was a bunch of very shallowly dismissive reviews that never got much past “it's a Wes Craven adaptation of a non-fiction book – enough said.” But the film isn't actually guilty of these criticisms at all – as those who went into the film with an open mind and a willingness to go against its negative buzz saw. Yes, it is (in a sense) a horror film, and yes, that may be a somewhat misjudged way to adapt an anthropological study. But it is equally true that in many ways this is a worthy adaptation of Wade Davis's book, and it's undeniable that Wes Craven worked very hard both to do justice to the book, and to be respectful towards Haitian culture. It may seem unlikely that this film could be all those things at once, but Craven manages to pull it off.
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| Come on, Wes Craven puts images this beautiful into a film and still can't get taken seriously? |
There's
one absolutely crucial detail of The Serpent and the
Rainbow's production that most
criticisms of the film ignore, but the documentary on the Scream
Factory special edition emphasizes: while the film differs
significantly from Wade Davis's book, Davis himself was very actively
involved in the production. Far from Craven treating the source
material disrespectfully, he made a point of keeping the author in on
the creative process, to make sure he got it right. From working with
Wes Craven and Bill Pullman during pre-production to being right
there on-set making sure the film's portrayal of Haiti was authentic,
Wade Davis shaped this film more strongly than its detractors give
credit for. Of course, he's not entirely happy with the finished
product: he has always remained critical of how the last act flies
off the rails into horror-land. But in the Scream Factory
documentary, he sets the record straight that he does not blame or
begrudge Wes Craven for this: quite to the contrary, he says Craven
took the project very seriously, and wanted to make a great drama
that was a total departure from his past work. The touches of
brooding Ken Russell-ish surrealism were part of his artistic vision
to begin with, but Craven never wanted it to be the full-fledged
horror film that the last act turns it into. According to Davis, that
happened when the studio forced the director to add more Elm
Street-style stuff to the finale
so they could market it using the Wes Craven brand. That bit of
fairly obvious studio meddling aside, however, Davis has more good
things than bad to say about the late horror auteur's treatment of
his book, and of Haiti.
Perhaps
the most pleasantly surprising thing is how well the film does in its
treatment of Haiti's voodoo religion. This is not one of those films
that uses stereotyped and vague voodoo images for exploitative,
tacitly racist thrills; in fact, it's just the opposite. Wes Craven
was always interested in exploring themes of faith and belief systems
in his movies, and he shared Wade Davis's commitment to not only show
the religion authentically, but counterbalance its more common,
exploitative pop-cultural representations by showing its beauty,
philosophy, and importance to Haitian heritage. To achieve this,
wherever possible he showed actual voodoo ceremonies, and employed
genuine local religious leaders to work on the scenes and the
set-dressing to ensure their authenticity. Several ceremonies shown
in the film are real, shot documentary-style, and the one major
sequence that had to be recreated using extras – a candlelight
pilgrimage of several thousand people to a holy site at a waterfall –
was carefully based on an actual pilgrimage documented by Davis
during his studies. That scene in particular is breathtakingly
beautiful, and shows how much Craven's focus was on the spirituality
of voodoo, rather than the horror. Of course, one could argue that
the villain of the film, Captain Peytraud, ostensibly being an evil
sorcerer somewhat undercuts the film's more positive intentions, but
the movie stresses that his evilness has nothing to do with his being
a voodoo practitioner; he is evil because he is a tyrant's
professional torturer, and he has corrupted magic to suit his ends.
The film counterbalances him with two voodoo-practicing heroes: Cathy
Tyson's Dr. Duchamp, and Paul Winfield's
priest-turned-nightclub-owner, Lucien. The portrayal undoubtedly
isn't perfect, but this has got to be one of the most authentic and
thoughtful looks at voodoo ever in a Hollywood film. Anyone who
accuses Craven of exploiting Davis's study of the religion for cheap
scares hasn't done their homework.
With the arguments about its intentions in adapting the book cleared up, it should be a bit easier to judge the movie based on its own merit, which is where it really shines. When judged as its own film, and not on assumptions about how Davis's memoir should have been adapted differently, it is excellent. Craven's tonal balance of more restrained drama punctuated by surreal nightmare images makes for a truly compelling and unusual experience, as both sides of the film are expertly handled. Shot mostly on location in Haiti and the Dominican Republic with gorgeous, documentary-style photography, the primary plotline of Dr. Alan's anthropological quest is more than strong enough to carry the movie on its own. The script takes time to soak in the details of Alan's journey, painting a very realistic-feeling portrait of a country on the verge of revolution, yet with a rich culture that refuses to be suppressed by the government-enforced fear. It is worth noting that, since the 1986 revolution against “Baby Doc” Duvalier was still very much in the realm of common-knowledge current events, the film gives very little background info on Haiti's politics, so those unfamiliar with that piece of history might benefit from a quick read-up about it before seeing the film. The way that the plot weaves itself into Haiti's recent history is very effectively handled, and actually shooting in Haiti just a year after the revolution gives a sense that the film is genuinely capturing a historical moment.
With the arguments about its intentions in adapting the book cleared up, it should be a bit easier to judge the movie based on its own merit, which is where it really shines. When judged as its own film, and not on assumptions about how Davis's memoir should have been adapted differently, it is excellent. Craven's tonal balance of more restrained drama punctuated by surreal nightmare images makes for a truly compelling and unusual experience, as both sides of the film are expertly handled. Shot mostly on location in Haiti and the Dominican Republic with gorgeous, documentary-style photography, the primary plotline of Dr. Alan's anthropological quest is more than strong enough to carry the movie on its own. The script takes time to soak in the details of Alan's journey, painting a very realistic-feeling portrait of a country on the verge of revolution, yet with a rich culture that refuses to be suppressed by the government-enforced fear. It is worth noting that, since the 1986 revolution against “Baby Doc” Duvalier was still very much in the realm of common-knowledge current events, the film gives very little background info on Haiti's politics, so those unfamiliar with that piece of history might benefit from a quick read-up about it before seeing the film. The way that the plot weaves itself into Haiti's recent history is very effectively handled, and actually shooting in Haiti just a year after the revolution gives a sense that the film is genuinely capturing a historical moment.
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| "What, you mean grave-robbing wasn't a skill you studied for your anthropology degree?" |
Shifting
from this style into surreal visions is not an easy thing to do
without straining plausibility (not even Ken Russell could get it
quite right every time), but by using moody dreamlike transitions to
signal the shift from a real-world perspective to Dr. Alan's psyche,
Craven gets these two sides of the film to fit together remarkably
well. Shifting from a documentary shooting mode to swirling, stylized
camerawork similar to his nightmare sequences on Elm
Street, he gives his Altered
States-style trips an eerie
power that really gets under the viewer's skin. Conjuring up
impressively-realized, ever-shifting horrors backed by imagery and
symbolism relatable to the real-world storyline, he uses these
sequences to underscore the larger plot and further Alan's
psychological/spiritual journey, as well as frighten. In his efforts
to stay as close to Wade Davis's book as possible, he styles many of
these visions in such a way as to leave their nature ambiguous: are
we actually witnessing magic, or just tricks of our protagonist's
mind, influenced by the mysticism he has encountered? As the film
goes on Craven gradually ratchets up the intensity of the
dreams/visions, increasing the supernaturally-tinged horror
proportionately to the real-world horrors Dr. Alan encounters at the
hands of Captain Peytraud and the Tonton Macoute (Haiti's secret
police).
This
gradual shift from drama with some horror to horror with some drama
manages to work not just because of Craven's directing, but also
thanks to a great cast that sells it all at an emotional level. Bill
Pullman, in his third film and first dramatic role (after Ruthless
People and Spaceballs),
gives an excellent performance, adding to the believability of the
film's more realistic sections, and grounding it in its more surreal
moments. He conveys perfectly a young and somewhat cocky academic who
in theory has an expert level of knowledge, but in practice is
woefully unprepared for what he is about to encounter. It's the sort
of personality that very plausibly lends itself to vivid nightmares
and moments of surreal panic as he finds himself literally and
metaphysically in over his head. Cathy Tyson is just as good as a
fellow scientist with far more practical experience, having grown up
both with voodoo and with the harsh political realities of life in
Haiti. Paul Winfield and Brent Jennings give extremely memorable
supporting performances as important voodoo practitioners. But the
movie-stealing performance belongs to Zakes Mokae in one of the
strongest roles of his long career as a character actor: that of
Captain Peytraud. Mokae radiates menace and violence, as exactly the
sort of person you would be terrified to encounter if you had the
misfortune to get arrested in an oppressive dictatorship. What makes
his performance so scary is that he doesn't play Peytraud as a horror
villain; his villainy feels extremely real, as though he dropped in
from a straight political thriller like Missing or
Midnight Express. The
ambiguous nature of his character – whether he is a genuine
sorcerer or just a sadist hiding behind mystical iconography –
works because he is such a master of intimidation that it doesn't
necessarily matter; he could scare you to death either way.
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| "Have you seen Casino Royale, Dr. Alan? There's this one scene that's my favorite..." |
Despite
these strengths, the film still has a few flaws, mostly in the last
act. A strong argument could be made that it goes a couple steps too
far into horror imagery at the end, when the studio's request of a
stereotypically Craven-esque finale forces the film a bit too close
to familiar Elm Street
territory. In fact, given what Wade Davis says in the Scream Factory
documentary about Craven's original intentions, I suspect the
director himself would agree that the ending was a misstep, or at
least a compromise that he would rather have not made. It doesn't
quite fly off the rails and lose its dramatic credibility, but
there's a moment or two when it gets perilously close. Even so,
there's enough room left to imagination and psychological
subjectivity that viewers can still debate what was actual magic and
what was merely psychological torture backed by the power of
suggestion and belief. I can't help but think that a Wes Craven
director's cut would have had a stronger ending, but the ending we
get is not enough to undo the greatness of the film it caps off.
While
the iconic nature of A Nightmare on Elm Street, The Hills
Have Eyes, and Scream
overshadows much of the rest of Craven's career, The
Serpent and the Rainbow stands
as one of the very best entries in his filmography. While it has its
(mostly studio-mandated) flaws, and while adapting Wade Davis's book
as a horror film maybe wasn't, politically-speaking, the wisest idea,
the movie is a fascinating narrative experiment that mostly works
brilliantly. Combining a rare showcase of Craven's skills as a
dramatic director with moments of mind-grabbing surrealism that are
among the most memorable he ever crafted, this movie is proof that
the late genre auteur was one of – if not the – best of his
generation. It's nice to see the record finally being set straight
about The Serpent and the Rainbow being
a great movie, but it hasn't happened fast enough. The mere fact that
the film never got a special edition release until after Craven's
death is proof enough of that. Scream Factory's release of The
Serpent and the Rainbow is
nonetheless excellent, even if it came too late to include the
director's involvement. With a documentary that does a wonderful job
of putting the film in context and correcting its longstanding
criticisms, the new blu-ray is perhaps the final piece of the puzzle
to change this misunderstood movie's legacy. It is one of the biggest
must-own horror releases of 2016 so far. Don't miss it.
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Score:
-
Christopher S. Jordan