The Witch (2015)
'Tis no ease to rise on a grey day; the devil holds fast your eyelids.
Witches have long been a fundamental part of folklore; the gruesome tales were used as a way to punish and control women who dared to rattle their chains or question the roles that were assigned to them by society. If a woman stepped out of line, someone could accuse her of witchcraft, and after failing a nonsensical set of "tests," she would be punished by death. In the vast majority of stories about witches, they are nothing but tales and fantasy, but what if they were real? What if something feral, filthy, and feminine lurked in the woods, skulking about, ready to pounce and feast upon the young?
The Witch follows a Puritan family banished from their village after patriarch William (Ralph Ineson) has an argument over religion with the local church. The family, comprised of William, his wife Katherine (Kate Dikie), and his four children (with one on the way), travels to the country and builds a small farmstead on the edge of a remote forest. William runs his household with an iron hand, imposing strict religious values on them with a focus on the "original sin" doctrine. While most of the family heeds his words, his eldest daughter, Thomasin (Anya Taylor-Joy), harbors a rebellious streak.
Unfortunately, tragedy doesn't take long to befall the clan; after baby Samuel is born, he disappears mysteriously while Thomasin watches him in a clearing near the woods. The child's inexplicable disappearance in the span of a few seconds heightens the magical realism for the rest of the film and establishes the unsettling atmosphere. In the early 1600s, when this story takes place, it wasn't uncommon to lose children to sudden death either from disease or accidents, and William also sees the situation as "it was God's will." His outward indifference to the death of his child eventually drives Katherine crazy, and she projects her anguish onto Thomasin, who she blames for Samuel's passing.
At this point, the film transitions into supernatural territory, showing glimpses of a gnarled nude woman who lives in the woods, grinding sticky tinctures in her moldy hut. As time passes, more unexplainable events happen, and the family starts to hide secrets from each other. The young twins have whispered conversations with the family goat, affectionally named Black Philip, and Katherine falls deeper into her grief and depression, lashing out at Thomasin whenever she has the chance. Katherine holds jealousy deep in her heart; she longs for the time in her youth when she felt true love and happiness, and Thomasin represents everything she used to have but no longer does. The Puritan lifestyle is incredibly oppressive and unkind to women especially, who aren't allowed the small freedoms and pleasures that men enjoy. If Thomasin doesn't escape her religious prison, she will become joyless and used up like her mother.
The Witch is primarily Thomasin's journey as she discovers and finally acknowledges her true aspirations in life. She doesn't want to be repressed forever and is initially scared by her bourgeoning feelings, especially since they coincide with terrible things happening to the ones she loves. Black Philip is a physical representation of her dark and bizarre inner thoughts and her position as the family scapegoat. The only way a woman can find her freedom in this era of history is through blood and violence, as the patriarchy and religion won't let them go without a fight. Thomasin's fate is bittersweet; she is reborn, literally transcending and floating in the night sky. However, she is doomed to be seen as a monster and an abomination because that is the only way a woman can indeed be free.
The Lighthouse (2019)
"Why'd ya spill yer beans?"
The Lighthouse begins on an ominous note, with two lone figures silently making their way on a boat to a lighthouse on an isolated island. A young man named Ephraim Winslow (Robert Pattinson) and a grizzled old sea dog named Thomas Wake (Willem Dafoe) cut shadowy figures as they trek to the dilapidated house that will be their home for the next four weeks. Thus begins a dizzying descent into madness that will have both Ephraim (which means "being fruitful" in Hebrew) and the audience questioning whether what they are experiencing is real.
The first two things that will be apparent are the boxy 1.19:1 aspect ratio that director Robert Eggers chose for the film and the heavy contrast black-and-white color grading. These two things combine to give the movie a silent film era aesthetic that is only further solidified by the many sequences of the film that are without dialogue. The aspect ratio reinforces the claustrophobic and insular atmosphere of the narrative, and it mirrors the oppressive feelings that the characters have for each other because they are forced to work in close quarters. In this way, their emotional anxiety is also conveyed to the viewer.
With Pattinson and Dafoe being the only two central characters in the film, they are the story's focus and, luckily, both put in spectacular performances. Dafoe's lines feel as though Herman Melville himself wrote them, and he gives several mesmerizing monologues that are simultaneously rousing and terrifying. There is something about how Dafoe's craggy and lined face catches the light that transforms it into a demonic visage. Pattinson also holds his own, and his depiction of a man slowly losing his sanity is deliciously manic and over-the-top. Surprisingly, much of The Lighthouse is hilarious, with perfectly timed humorous bits to relieve the constantly mounting tension.
The film's most intriguing aspect is that it functions entirely as a metaphor, and with an unreliable narrator, it is hard to discern what is real and what is fake. The main inspiration seems to be the Greek myth of Prometheus, the god who created man from clay. Prometheus stole the knowledge of fire from the Gods and gave humanity the gift of that knowledge. As punishment, he was bound to a rock, and an eagle sent by Zeus would eat his liver. The liver would regrow each day only to be continually eaten by birds. This tale of Prometheus has been given a sea legend retooling with Ephraim taking the role of Prometheus and Thomas becoming the jealous Zeus. Thomas is covetous of the light in the lighthouse, going to bask in its glow every night, and he won't let Ephraim see it. Ephraim makes it his goal to "steal the light," as it were, with the light taking the place of the fire in the original tale.
What is at the top of the lighthouse? Why is Ephriam having disturbing visions? The film can be read in numerous ways and never leans too heavily into any single definitive conclusion. There is some incredibly striking imagery, and it might turn off some viewers who don't like a lot of symbolism in their films. There are a few points where the story stalls a bit, especially in the middle, but it goes along at an excellent pace for the most part. Those looking for cinematic craziness and ambition will most likely love The Lighthouse.
The Northman (2022)
Robert Eggers has had a great run directing smaller period pieces, breaking onto the scene with The Witch in 2015 and following it up with The Lighthouse in 2019. His work tends to be slow, methodical, and sometimes bizarre, all things embraced in lower-profile productions. With his newest film, The Northman, Eggers takes a stab at directing an action-packed high-budget spectacle. While the influence of having a bigger studio is palpable, The Northman still has Eggers' style all over it, and it makes some intriguing choices with what could have been a stale tale of vengeance.
This film is loosely based on the Scandinavian legend of Amleth, a figure who inspired William Shakespeare to write Hamlet. Interestingly, the story feels more adjacent to Hamlet than the original tale, albeit more violent and intense. The narrative follows Amleth (Alexander Skarsgård), a young Viking prince who has his sheltered life turned upside down when his uncle Fjölnir (Claes Bang) murders his father, King Aurvandill (Ethan Hawk), and kidnaps his mother, Queen Gudrún (Nicole Kidman). Amleth runs away and joins a band of brutal mercenaries, but his thirst for revenge consumes him every moment.
Tales of vengeance are as old as time, and initially, The Northman embraces the familiar tropes of other films in that genre. Amleth has been grievously wronged, and this has put his life on a trajectory full of death and barbarity. His threads of fate have been woven into a tragic tapestry; however, threads can be severed. On the surface, all of the characters fit neatly into archetypes, but as the story progresses, the layers peel back and reveal deeper motivations and intentions.
Revenge is a messy business, paradoxically ensnaring the one pursuing it in the same type of activities that put them on that path in the first place, perpetuating a vicious circle. Is Amleth any better than his uncle if he also murders people to get his revenge? Eggers explores the ramifications of bloodthirst and the nuance of perception--the idea that one can be the hero in their story but a villain in someone else's tale. I suspect that some of the story beats and revelations might be divisive due to the moral ambiguity involved, but it elevates what could have been a cliché narrative in lesser hands.
Visually, The Northman is breathtaking, combining beautiful vistas with fantastic imagery. The film embraces the idea of old magic, seamlessly incorporating it into a grounded, organic reality. Thematically, Eggers is interested in the thin line separating man and beast and the situations that cause men to shed the trappings of civilized behavior to regress into an animalistic state, stripped down to their primal id impulses. There is an exploration of masculinity in a society that prizes it above all else, even when it is detrimental. While the women take a back seat for most of the film, both Nicole Kidman and Anya Taylor-Joy, who plays Olga, Amleth's love interest, have their own revelations that keep them from being two-dimensional characters.
It is invigorating to see a studio-backed piece that is allowed to be uncompromisingly grim and savage. Skarsgård is an absolute beast in this role, jacked up and snarling, always marching forward with murder in his eyes and blood on his hands. The audience is simultaneously drawn to him and repelled by his actions, dragged along on his journey of slaughter. Eggers has created a compelling story that will inspire both awe and revulsion in equal measure, in which man and beast are one and the same.
—Michelle Kisner