We Don't Go Back #33: Berberian Sound Studio (2012)

(This post should also be considered On a Thousand Walls #0)

Occasionally in this project I've come across something that is wholly relevant to my interests, but which I can't quite categorise. Before I saw Peter Strickland's Berberian Sound Studio, I wasn't entirely sure why it was so popular with folk horror fans. When I read Adam Scovell's Urban Wyrd article, I thought, aha, this story of a chap working in a sound studio must be part of that, and I initially included it in the list I drew up for On a Thousand Walls, and now I've seen it... it sort of it and it sort of isn't. What is it, then?

On a Thousand Walls #2: Candyman (1992)

When I started my We Don't Go Back project, one of the things that most delighted me about it was that so many of the films I loved were already in the category of folk horror. And it gave me the chance to watch things I hadn't seen for many years. Like Candyman. Candyman is one of the very rare pure horror films that I genuinely rate; usually I will tend towards the artsy, as I have said many times before, but Candyman (directed by Bernard Rose, and based loosely on a short story by Clive Barker) is strictly a genre piece. It is also, I think, one of the best horror films I have ever seen.

It is also about as close as you can get to an urban American equivalent to a folk horror piece. It is probably one of the most quintessentially Urban Wyrd movies ever made.

On a Thousand Walls #1: The Nine Lives of Tomas Katz (1999)

So one of my favourite blogs right now is Adam Scovell's Celluloid Wicker Man. He writes about all the stuff I've been writing about these last few months and he's actually researching it full time, and he's academically inclined and he's got a book coming out soon. Anyway, back in 2015, he coined the term "urban wyrd", which he used to describe things that felt like folk horror, and looked like folk horror, and which clearly weren't. Adam talks around the subject, but he suggests a particularly urban subgenre made of folklore and psychogeography, social isolation and urban myth.

Now while I've been working on We Don't Go Back I've bumped into the occasional film that I want to write about, but had to discount because it just wasn't in the theme. I mean, it felt right, but it was in the city or it was about something other than folk. I'll be honest, there's two movies I've reviewed in We Don't Go Back that are very much edge cases: Symptoms, which doesn't really have the pagan thing so much, and Psychomania which has all the satanism and stone circles and stuff, but is somehow, indefinably not really there (it's still terrific though). But there's all these films that have that subtext I love and they're not folk horror and I still want to write about them and... you know, I reckon Adam had that experience too. Hence, urban wyrd.

In the spirit of being the second person to have a good idea, welcome to On a Thousand Walls, where I attempt to develop an idea of what a list of "urban wyrd" films looks like.

Adam talked in his post about Quatermass and the Pit and Death Line. I'll add to them Philip Ridley's Heartless. Dead Man's Shoes will get a write-up. I don't think there's a more quintessential urban wyrd movie than Candyman. I'm going to make a strong case for the inclusion of Christine Lawlor and Joe Molloy's Helen (a film that you either think is a work of stunning, mesmerising beauty, or an experience slightly less interesting than watching paint dry, and I'm in the former camp, but I respect and understand the latter). Similarly, I'm going to make arguments for Dennis Potter's controversial play Brimstone and Treacle, and for Andrzej Żuławski's almost as controversial collapsing-marriage horror Possession.

I'm going to start, though, with something more obscure and awkward than any of these, Ben Hopkins' 1999 oddity The Nine Lives of Tomas Katz.

We Don't Go Back #32: The Blair Witch Project (1999)

I admit, I have been trying to catch this lightning in a bottle for a long time. Most of my fiction revolves around the idea of documenting the effects of a fictional thing that someone out there believes might actually be.

Cult Cinema #1: Sound of My Voice (2012)

This is the first of a new, short series about cults in movies and TV. First up is Brit Marling and Zal Batmanglij's Sound of My Voice.

We Don't Go Back #31: Symptoms (1974)

So occasionally in this project, with folk horror being the accidental genre it is and everything, I've found movies and TV that fit neatly into other genres and subgenres. Highbrow TV theatre. Ghost Stories. Documentary. Black comedy.

So I want to talk about giallo movies. In the genre's native Italy, “giallo” (yellow, for the pages of pulp magazines) seems to be used to describe any horror/thriller movie with a bit of sex and gore in it, but in the same way that the Japanese word for “comic book” means something very particular outside of Japan, giallo for the enthusiast means a very specific sort of movie. And already I’m out of my depth, here, and the fact is that the nearest most people get to giallo films are films that aren’t strictly part of that genre, but which draw their inspiration from it. I'm talking about films like Suspiria here. Repulsion (1965). Black Swan (2010). These movies are almost always highly emotionally charged. These movies are almost always highly emotionally charged. Although often artsy and meticulously constructed, they usually include over-the-top violence and gore (like the bit in Suspiria where there's this girl running away from a killer and she falls through a window that erupts into glassy shards and then ten feet into a room that is entirely! full! of barbed wire!) and they are often homoerotic in a soft-focus, voyeuristic sort of a way. And of course, it goes without saying that these films are almost always made by straight men.

I prefer myself to call these films Stabby Movies, because a lot of stabbing seems to happen in films like this. And in the field of Stabby Movies, Symptoms is quite stabby.

We Don't Go Back #30: A Photograph (1977), The Ice House (1978)

Certain writers and directors have cropped up here more than once. I've done two posts so far about Lawrence Gordon Clark's ghost stories, covering six things by him, and I have a couple more to do. Nigel Kneale has been covered three times now. I've written essays about three films by Ben Wheatley. I suppose the least well known of these multiple contributors to my homespun canon is the playwright and screenwriter John Bowen. Bowen's contribution to folk horror rests mainly on the lost-then-found Robin Redbreast, but his work has a running strand that often enters folk horror territory. Aside from his adaptation of The Treasure of Abbot Thomas, there are these two other plays in the genre, another Play for Today, and another ghost story.

He's really consistently good. His stories are always about something. Bowen's stories seem to bring the downfall of the arrogant and smug, the overbearing and the privileged. He explores the faultlines between people and finds powerful stories in the widening cracks.