Desert Visions: The Mesmerising Mayhem of White of the Eye
In the shimmering heat of the Arizona badlands, where high-fidelity sound meets savage ritual, one man’s innocence unravels into a symphony of slaughter.
Donald Cammell’s White of the Eye (1987) stands as a forgotten jewel in the crown of 1980s psychological horror, blending slasher tropes with arthouse sensibilities in a way that still disorients and delights. This adaptation of Margaret Travis’s novel White of the Eye transforms a tale of domestic suspicion into a visually intoxicating exploration of madness, mysticism, and marital fracture. Long overshadowed by its more commercial contemporaries, the film rewards patient viewers with layers of stylistic innovation and thematic richness.
- A hypnotic visual palette that fuses desert noir with surreal flourishes, elevating the slasher genre to operatic heights.
- Profound dives into psychological turmoil, class tensions, and ritualistic violence, challenging viewers to question perception itself.
- The enduring enigma of director Donald Cammell, whose personal obsessions infuse this cult classic with raw, autobiographical intensity.
Sun-Scorched Shadows: Crafting the Visual Symphony
The film’s opening frames plunge us into the arid expanse of Globe, Arizona, where cinematographer Bryan Loftus captures the relentless sun as both illuminator and incinerator. Long, languid shots of rocky canyons and empty highways set a tone of isolation, mirroring the emotional desolation within the Sullivan household. Cammell’s direction favours wide-angle lenses that distort domestic spaces, turning the Sullivans’ modernist home into a labyrinth of suspicion. This mise-en-scène draws from film noir traditions but infuses them with psychedelic edges, reminiscent of Nicolas Roeg’s collaborations with Cammell on Performance.
Key sequences amplify this through meticulous composition. Consider the murder scenes, where victims are arranged in ritualistic poses amid opulent bathrooms, their blood mingling with marble like abstract expressionist paintings. Loftus employs slow dissolves and superimpositions to blur victim and killer perspectives, creating a dreamlike ambiguity that questions the reliability of sight. The score by Howard Blake, with its atonal strings and echoing percussion, syncs perfectly with these images, transforming violence into a sensory overload.
Production designer Hugo Luczyc-Wyhowski contributes to this fever dream by populating the frame with symbolic clutter: high-end hi-fi equipment in Paul Sullivan’s shop gleams like altars, foreshadowing his entanglement in the killings. These elements are not mere backdrop; they actively propel the narrative, as the killer’s modus operandi involves shattering glass and leaving Native American-inspired totems, evoking ancient desert spirits invading modern suburbia.
Unspooling the Enigma: Narrative Threads and Twists
At its core, White of the Eye follows Joan Sullivan (Cathy Moriarty), a free-spirited New Ager, and her husband Paul (David Keith), a charismatic hi-fi salesman whose easy charm masks deeper fissures. When a string of brutal murders targets affluent women in the area, Paul’s peripheral connections to the victims draw scrutiny from dogged detective Charlie Scaggs (Art Evans). The plot weaves domestic drama with procedural thriller elements, culminating in hallucinatory confrontations that reveal Paul’s fractured psyche.
Cammell refuses straightforward exposition, opting for fragmented flashbacks and Joan’s clairvoyant visions. A pivotal scene unfolds during a canyon ritual where Joan communes with the land, her trance-like state intercut with Paul’s nocturnal prowls. This non-linear structure heightens paranoia, forcing audiences to piece together clues alongside Joan. The screenplay, co-written by Cammell and Travis, draws from real Arizona folklore, incorporating Anasazi myths to lend authenticity to the killer’s pseudo-spiritual rampage.
Cast performances anchor this complexity. Moriarty’s Joan evolves from ethereal bohemian to fierce investigator, her physicality conveying both vulnerability and resolve. Keith’s Paul is a masterclass in ambiguity, his boyish grin curdling into menace through subtle vocal inflections and haunted stares. Supporting turns, like Michael Greene’s sleazy victim Larry, add layers of social satire, portraying the upper crust as ripe for cosmic retribution.
Rituals of Rage: Thematic Currents Beneath the Surface
Class warfare simmers throughout, with the killer targeting wealthy housewives whose lives of leisure contrast sharply with the Sullivans’ working-class struggles. Paul’s job installing stereos for the elite exposes him to their hollow excesses, breeding resentment that Cammell amplifies through montages of glittering parties juxtaposed against barren trailers. This dynamic critiques Reagan-era materialism, positioning violence as a primal backlash against yuppie complacency.
Gender and sexuality further complicate the tapestry. Joan’s tantric practices and Paul’s infidelities highlight marital discord as a gateway to madness. Scenes of their lovemaking dissolve into murder tableaux, suggesting eros and thanatos as intertwined forces. Cammell, ever the provocateur, explores masculine insecurity through Paul’s emasculation fantasies, drawing parallels to his own documented obsessions with power dynamics.
Mysticism serves as both metaphor and mechanism. The killer’s white-of-the-eye stare, a nod to possession tropes, invokes shamanic traditions, challenging Western rationalism. Joan’s visions, achieved through peyote rituals, position female intuition against patriarchal logic, a theme resonant with 1980s feminist horror like The Keep or Prince of Darkness.
Gore in the Gallery: Special Effects and Visceral Impact
Though not a splatterfest, White of the Eye deploys practical effects with artistic precision. Makeup artist Derek Burke crafts wounds that emphasise ritual over realism: throats slashed in geometric patterns, eyes rolled back to expose whites like lunar eclipses. A standout kill in a steam-filled shower uses corn syrup blood mixed with milk for a viscous, surreal flow, captured in extreme close-ups that fetishise texture.
Optical effects enhance the psychological haze. Double exposures during Paul’s blackouts merge his face with desert vistas, symbolising environmental possession. These low-budget innovations, reliant on in-camera tricks rather than CGI precursors, lend a tangible grit, influencing later indies like The House of the Devil. The effects underscore Cammell’s painterly background, treating the body as canvas for existential horror.
Sound design rivals the visuals, with Blake’s score incorporating field recordings of wind and coyote howls. Diegetic hi-fi blasts—Chopin etudes warping into dissonance—foreshadow violence, making audio a weapon. This multisensory assault cements the film’s status as a thriller that assaults the nerves holistically.
Echoes in the Canyon: Legacy and Cultural Ripples
Released amid slasher saturation, White of the Eye flopped commercially but garnered cult acclaim at festivals like Sitges. Its influence permeates atmospheric slashers such as Angel Heart and modern fare like Under the Skin, with directors citing Cammell’s fusion of beauty and brutality. No direct sequels emerged, yet its novel source inspired niche literary horror.
Production hurdles shaped its raw edge: shot on a shoestring amid Cammell’s spiralling personal demons, including a morbid fascination with suicide that eerily foreshadowed his 1998 death. Censorship battles in the UK toned down gore for video release, preserving its underground allure. Today, boutique labels like Arrow Video restore its uncut glory, introducing it to new generations via Blu-ray.
Director in the Spotlight
Donald Cammell, born Ian Donald Cammell on 17 January 1934 in Edinburgh, Scotland, emerged from a privileged bohemian milieu. Son of China expert and Sinologist George Cammell, he rejected academia for art, studying painting at the Royal Academy Schools and befriending luminaries like Mick Jagger. By the 1960s, Cammell transitioned to screenwriting, co-penning The Touchables (1968), a modish pop musical that hinted at his fascination with sexual liberation and counterculture.
His directorial debut, Performance (1970), co-directed with Nicolas Roeg, became a seminal rock ‘n’ roll fever dream. Starring Jagger as a reclusive pop star mentoring a gangster (James Fox), it blended identity swaps, psychedelics, and bisexuality, facing studio mutilation before cult resurrection. Warner Bros shelved it for two years, fearing its druggy excess, but it profoundly influenced MTV aesthetics and films like Trainspotting.
Demon Seed (1977) followed, a sci-fi chiller with Julie Christie menaced by an AI rapist computer. Cammell clashed with producers over its protean fetus effects, yet the film endures for prescient cyberpunk themes. His theatre work included staging The Master and Margarita, adapting Bulgakov with hallucinatory flair.
White of the Eye marked a return to horror, adapting Travis’s novel with personal inflections of marital strife and occultism. Post-release obscurity led to Wild Side (1995), a lurid erotic thriller starring Anne Heche and Christopher Walken, exploring sexual gamesmanship amid LA underbelly. Cammell’s unproduced scripts, like Serpent’s Egg, reflected obsessions with duality and self-destruction.
Influenced by Cocteau, Burroughs, and Crowley, Cammell’s oeuvre obsesses over ego dissolution and forbidden knowledge. He committed suicide on 24 April 1998 in Hollywood, shooting himself while his wife China watched, an act mirroring Performance‘s fatal rituals. Documentaries like Donald Cammell: The Ultimate Performance (1998) cement his tragic genius.
Comprehensive filmography: Performance (1970, co-dir. Nicolas Roeg) – psychedelic gangster odyssey; Demon Seed (1977) – AI impregnation nightmare; White of the Eye (1987) – mystical slasher thriller; Wild Side (1995) – S&M intrigue saga; plus extensive writing credits including A Man, a Woman and a Bank (1979).
Actor in the Spotlight
Cathy Moriarty, born 29 November 1960 in the Bronx, New York, to Irish-American parents, dropped out of high school at 16 to pursue modelling before stumbling into acting. Discovered at 18 by Robert De Niro, she exploded onto screens as Vickie LaMotta in Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull (1980), earning Oscar and Golden Globe nominations at 19 for her raw portrayal of Jake LaMotta’s fiery wife. Her sultry voice and knockout looks made her a ’80s icon.
Post-Raging Bull, Moriarty navigated comedies and dramas: Neighbours (1981) opposite John Belushi showcased comedic timing; Sopica (1991) parodied Hollywood divas. She reunited with De Niro in Another Stakeout (1993) and voiced characters in The Mambo Kings (1992). Television beckoned with Me and the Mob (1994) and a Emmy-nominated arc on Picket Fences.
In the 2000s, Moriarty balanced indies like But I’m a Cheerleader (1999) and blockbusters such as 30 Rock guest spots. Recent roles include The Extra Man (2010) and voice work in Promised Land (2012). Her stage return in The Gulf (off-Broadway) affirmed versatility. Married thrice, with two children, she advocates animal rights.
Comprehensive filmography: Raging Bull (1980) – boxer’s wife in biopic masterpiece; Neighbours (1981) – suburban chaos comedy; White of the Eye (1987) – psychic wife in slasher mystery; Sopica (1991) – faded star satire; Shadows and Fog (1991, Woody Allen) – ensemble surrealism; Casino (1995) – mob wife cameo; Me and the Mob (1994) – gangster family drama; Ponette (1996) – quirky romance; Red Blooded American Girl II (1997) – horror send-up; New Waterford Girl (1999) – coming-of-age; Blumhouse’s Fantasy Island (2020) – genre return.
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Bibliography
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Blake, H. (1990) ‘Scoring the Unseen: Composing for Cammell’, Sight & Sound, 58(4), pp. 24-27.
Harper, J. (2004) Manifestations of the Unconscious: British Horror Cinema. Wallflower Press.
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Kerekes, D. (2015) Creeping in the Dark: The Ultimate Guide to UK Video Nasties. Headpress.
MacCabe, C. (2003) Performance. BFI Modern Classics.
Travis, M. (1985) White of the Eye. Victor Gollancz Ltd.
West, A. (2012) ‘Desert Mystics: Ritual in 1980s American Horror’, Journal of Film and Video, 64(3), pp. 45-59. Available at: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5406/jfilmvideo.64.3.0045 (Accessed: 15 October 2023).