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Thursday, March 30, 2017
Saturday, March 25, 2017
The VVitch: a New England Folk Tale [2016]
by Roger Eggers
There's something not quite regular in the spine of what unfolds here. It evokes elements of such traditional stances... in such malicious orchestrating... it really does twist, very carefully, some of our most confortable storytelling (or rather "storyhearing") addictions. Think of the father (character), for instance: he isn't merely a religious man, he's an overzealous religious man — not necessarily described under the word "fanatic" per se (he is much more complex than that). He's a figure beyond suspicion, more righteous than the very institution (church) he's defined by. At first, by the very conduct of the narrative, he's shown unto us as incorruptible, as a true rock (of character and faith), willing to leave behind his spoils and confort to live his faith in the truest and worthiest of forms — much similar to any Moses-like prophet (in any wilderness-like setting) the bible so emphatically produces.
This purity in faith, this incorruptibility of character, this unwavering trust in his faith and ideals — all perfectly admirable trates in most cases — becomes one of the film's most potent dramatic conducts during the whole of the projection. The father, a 1800's man figure — provider, decider, defender, etc —, is (exponentially) exposed transitioning from admirably worthy to blatantly naive, to further be bent down (or broken) into "clearly obsolete", 'till the character is finally made bear — butt naked as is — stripped of any values or accolades, becoming, himself, a clueless pawn in a much bigger game he (simply) couldn't help but not fathom. Such conductive cadence seem to follow the key elements of this dark narrative, which, as a whole, demonstrates to draw strength and girth from the exponential twisting of safe havens (such as faith, character, etc) into relevant contributing factors for the atmosphere of despair and dread, when knelt at the feet of an all seeing evil, present from the start (in the ambience sounds and photography, for example) but uncognito to us (audience + hero) till all our hopes are effectively crushed in the very edge of (audience) reasoning.
Another well bent element "VVitch" succeeds in drawing upon is "infancy", and the audience's pre-programmed disposition to esteem children as innocent and, as brought up before, the inherent association of innocence with "good", as a preset os sorts, branding it, by all means, "above suspicion". It seems the witch (character) is essentially drawn towards — and allured (deliciously) by — signs of (and even smells of) "purity", for it — as frightening as it sounds — delights in consuming it, in its entirety — finger licking and all —, rendering it to be, narratively speaking, somewhat as tempting and urgent to her (the witch) as blood is often known to be to vampires or, perhaps, as water to us humans (when desert-like thirsty). Therefore, in this sense, if the movie could be expressed in a single verb it, most assuredly, would be "decay"... or, at least, anything relating to the act (and process) of rotting and corrupting. That's its most impressive attribute, suiting its structure as a well crafted spine (upon which everything else depends), making "VVitch" stand out (out of the hundreds of average horror films of its generation) as nothing short of a brilliant piece of cinematic construction, fully able to stand the test time.
However simple it may appear, with its single lonely house and bucolic woods for scenery, "VVitch" is, by all means, a dense visual spectacle — a real sickener (in royal blue!) —, that transcends, responsibly — whenever closest to the witch (character) —, the expectations of its audience (being in no way obvious), through the temperature of its colours and lights, and the very narrative choice itself, in so far as it transmorphs from point to point — as illustrated before —, much like a creek or river, marching slowly towards a pentecost-like rapture at its (more than worthy) ending. In a way, "VVitch", is, under such considerations, a reverent narrative of displacement and fright, nihilist and Cioran-ish*, that conceals in its storytelling — till time so bids —, that which is reality concealed by the livings of (that) society.
At a certain point of the projection the — arguably naturalistic — narrative becomes much more of a fantastic exposing, precisely when the audience (along with the main character) successfully outgrows its pre-conceived notions and is found worthy to receive, by the goat — when as naked as the hero —, the complete scope of what it had only glimpsed in portion. Its ending sequence — a treaty in beauty in itself — resumes the spiraling decays (of the elements previously spoken of) in dancing-like conduction, immersing the audience (along with the hero) in a blunt and frightening (initiation) solemnity. That's when we (the audience) know there's no way back, no linings of silver above, precisely when our hero becomes, of its own and innocent accord, the fair bearer of the heading in the title — the very "VVitch" we (the audience) had gone there to see —, no longer a hostage or prisoner, but herself — at every passing second —, an ever greater voidness of innocence, ever more alike the old kidnapper at the heart of the cursed pines.
by Roger Eggers
There's something not quite regular in the spine of what unfolds here. It evokes elements of such traditional stances... in such malicious orchestrating... it really does twist, very carefully, some of our most confortable storytelling (or rather "storyhearing") addictions. Think of the father (character), for instance: he isn't merely a religious man, he's an overzealous religious man — not necessarily described under the word "fanatic" per se (he is much more complex than that). He's a figure beyond suspicion, more righteous than the very institution (church) he's defined by. At first, by the very conduct of the narrative, he's shown unto us as incorruptible, as a true rock (of character and faith), willing to leave behind his spoils and confort to live his faith in the truest and worthiest of forms — much similar to any Moses-like prophet (in any wilderness-like setting) the bible so emphatically produces.
This purity in faith, this incorruptibility of character, this unwavering trust in his faith and ideals — all perfectly admirable trates in most cases — becomes one of the film's most potent dramatic conducts during the whole of the projection. The father, a 1800's man figure — provider, decider, defender, etc —, is (exponentially) exposed transitioning from admirably worthy to blatantly naive, to further be bent down (or broken) into "clearly obsolete", 'till the character is finally made bear — butt naked as is — stripped of any values or accolades, becoming, himself, a clueless pawn in a much bigger game he (simply) couldn't help but not fathom. Such conductive cadence seem to follow the key elements of this dark narrative, which, as a whole, demonstrates to draw strength and girth from the exponential twisting of safe havens (such as faith, character, etc) into relevant contributing factors for the atmosphere of despair and dread, when knelt at the feet of an all seeing evil, present from the start (in the ambience sounds and photography, for example) but uncognito to us (audience + hero) till all our hopes are effectively crushed in the very edge of (audience) reasoning.
Another well bent element "VVitch" succeeds in drawing upon is "infancy", and the audience's pre-programmed disposition to esteem children as innocent and, as brought up before, the inherent association of innocence with "good", as a preset os sorts, branding it, by all means, "above suspicion". It seems the witch (character) is essentially drawn towards — and allured (deliciously) by — signs of (and even smells of) "purity", for it — as frightening as it sounds — delights in consuming it, in its entirety — finger licking and all —, rendering it to be, narratively speaking, somewhat as tempting and urgent to her (the witch) as blood is often known to be to vampires or, perhaps, as water to us humans (when desert-like thirsty). Therefore, in this sense, if the movie could be expressed in a single verb it, most assuredly, would be "decay"... or, at least, anything relating to the act (and process) of rotting and corrupting. That's its most impressive attribute, suiting its structure as a well crafted spine (upon which everything else depends), making "VVitch" stand out (out of the hundreds of average horror films of its generation) as nothing short of a brilliant piece of cinematic construction, fully able to stand the test time.
However simple it may appear, with its single lonely house and bucolic woods for scenery, "VVitch" is, by all means, a dense visual spectacle — a real sickener (in royal blue!) —, that transcends, responsibly — whenever closest to the witch (character) —, the expectations of its audience (being in no way obvious), through the temperature of its colours and lights, and the very narrative choice itself, in so far as it transmorphs from point to point — as illustrated before —, much like a creek or river, marching slowly towards a pentecost-like rapture at its (more than worthy) ending. In a way, "VVitch", is, under such considerations, a reverent narrative of displacement and fright, nihilist and Cioran-ish*, that conceals in its storytelling — till time so bids —, that which is reality concealed by the livings of (that) society.
At a certain point of the projection the — arguably naturalistic — narrative becomes much more of a fantastic exposing, precisely when the audience (along with the main character) successfully outgrows its pre-conceived notions and is found worthy to receive, by the goat — when as naked as the hero —, the complete scope of what it had only glimpsed in portion. Its ending sequence — a treaty in beauty in itself — resumes the spiraling decays (of the elements previously spoken of) in dancing-like conduction, immersing the audience (along with the hero) in a blunt and frightening (initiation) solemnity. That's when we (the audience) know there's no way back, no linings of silver above, precisely when our hero becomes, of its own and innocent accord, the fair bearer of the heading in the title — the very "VVitch" we (the audience) had gone there to see —, no longer a hostage or prisoner, but herself — at every passing second —, an ever greater voidness of innocence, ever more alike the old kidnapper at the heart of the cursed pines.
by T Augusto Pereira
*Emil Cioran was a Romanian philosopher and essayist, noted for its pervasive philosophical pessimism, and frequently engaged with issues of suffering, decay, and nihilism [Link]
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