Decades apart, yet bound by the spectral pull of cults: where lost souls find solace in the abyss.

In the shadowed annals of horror cinema, few films capture the insidious creep of cultish devotion quite like Carnival of Souls (1962) and Midsommar (2019). Herk Harvey’s low-budget chiller and Ari Aster’s sun-drenched nightmare both plunge their protagonists into worlds where grief morphs into otherworldly allegiance, inviting audiences to question the fragile line between sanity and surrender.

• Exploring parallel themes of bereavement and isolation that drive women towards enigmatic communes.
• Contrasting monochrome minimalism with vivid, floral psychedelia in evoking daylight dread.
• Tracing their enduring cult followings and ripples through modern horror landscapes.

Echoes from the Pavilion: Unveiling Cult Horror’s Timeless Twins

The Phantom Fairground: Birth of a Spectral Classic

Carnival of Souls emerged from the sun-baked flats of Lawrence, Kansas, a product of Herk Harvey’s audacious independent spirit. Shot in just weeks on a shoestring budget of around $33,000, the film follows Mary Henry (Candace Hilligoss), a church organist who survives a catastrophic car plunge off a bridge during a drag race. Emerging unscathed from the murky river, she relocates to a decaying lakeside resort town, only to be haunted by visions of pallid ghouls emerging from an abandoned amusement pavilion. These apparitions, led by a leering master of ceremonies, infiltrate her daily life, culminating in a revelation that blurs the boundaries between the living and the damned.

The film’s production mirrored its austerity: Harvey, a former industrial filmmaker, repurposed the skeletal remains of the Saltair Pavilion near Salt Lake City as the ghouls’ lair, its rusted rollercoaster tracks and crumbling piers lending an authentic eeriness. Public domain organ music from the Wurlitzer Hope-Jones Unit Orchestra floods the soundtrack, its bombastic swells underscoring Mary’s unraveling psyche. This economical approach birthed a raw, unpolished gem that initially floundered at drive-ins before finding fervent admirers in late-night television rotations and midnight screenings.

Contrast this with Midsommar, Ari Aster’s A24-backed follow-up to Hereditary (2018), which demanded a $9 million investment and months of meticulous crafting in Hungary. Dani Ardor (Florence Pugh), reeling from a family tragedy orchestrated by her bipolar sister, accompanies her indifferent boyfriend Christian (Jack Reynor) to a remote Swedish midsummer festival hosted by the Hårga commune. What begins as a quaint celebration of solstice rituals spirals into a tapestry of pagan sacrifices, hallucinogenic herbs, and communal rites that ensnare Dani in a web of maternal embrace and ritualistic horror.

Aster’s script, honed over years, draws from Scandinavian folklore and his own explorations of grief, transforming the verdant fields of Hårga into a labyrinth of floral atrocities. Where Harvey wielded scarcity, Aster deploys opulence: elaborate costumes woven from natural fibres, choreographed dances under perpetual daylight, and a script laced with faux-ethnographic detail. Both films, however, share a genesis in personal loss—Harvey’s meditation on mortality, Aster’s on familial rupture—forging narratives where external communes become mirrors to internal voids.

Grief’s Ghoulish Embrace: Protagonists Adrift

At the heart of both tales lie women unmoored by catastrophe. Mary’s survival isolates her; colleagues shun her detachment, her landlady probes her silences, and the bland suitor John (Sidney Berger) offers hollow comfort. Her organ performances devolve into frenzied improvisations, haunted by the ghouls’ silent stare. This emotional barrenness propels her towards the pavilion, where the undead beckon with promises of belonging amid the living’s rejection.

Dani’s arc echoes this desolation with visceral intensity. The film’s opening montage—her sister’s murderous rampage—shatters her world, leaving Christian’s apathy as her sole tether. In Hårga, the commune’s elders absorb her pain through ritual empathy, their harmonious wails during the ättestupa (elder suicide) rite validating her sorrow. Pugh’s raw performance, from guttural sobs to ecstatic release in the final dance, captures Dani’s transformation from victim to votary, much as Hilligoss’s wide-eyed vacancy conveys Mary’s inexorable pull towards the ethereal.

These character studies illuminate horror’s fascination with feminine mourning. Mary’s stoicism cracks under spectral assault, revealing a psyche primed for cultish absorption; Dani’s overt anguish finds catharsis in Hårga’s collective madness. Both narratives posit the cult not as malevolent imposition but as seductive salve, a theme resonant in feminist readings of horror where women reclaim agency through transgression.

Cultish Charms: Seduction Over Subjugation

The communes in these films defy slasher stereotypes of knife-wielding fanatics. The ghouls of Carnival of Souls exude a hypnotic passivity—their jerky, silent processions evoke a danse macabre rather than outright aggression. The pavilion master, with his kabuki makeup and elongated fingers, commands through gaze alone, drawing Mary into ballroom waltzes with the risen dead. This understated allure underscores the film’s proto-cult status, influencing David Lynch’s dreamlike surrealism.

Hårga’s cult pulses with communal vibrancy: flower-crowned acolytes share meals, inscribe runes, and pair off in ritual sex under the midnight sun. Christian’s ensnarement via hallucinogens and Simon’s (Archie Madekwe) intellectual seduction highlight consent’s erosion, yet Dani’s elevation to May Queen affirms the cult’s nurturing facade. Aster consulted anthropologists for authenticity, blending real Midsommar customs with fictional excesses to craft a horror where participation feels perilously voluntary.

Juxtaposed, these cults reveal evolving depictions: Harvey’s otherworldly pallor versus Aster’s earthy paganism, both leveraging isolation to amplify indoctrination. Mary’s final realisation—that she perished in the crash—cements her eternal servitude; Dani’s triumphant scream amid pyre flames suggests rebirth. Such parallels invite scrutiny of how cults exploit vulnerability, a motif echoed in everything from The Wicker Man (1973) to Apostle (2018).

Daylight’s Deception: Aesthetic Antitheses

Carnival of Souls thrives in monochrome desaturation, John Clifford’s cinematography rendering Kansas townscapes as ghostly voids. Long takes track Mary’s solitary walks, shadows pooling like ink, while the pavilion’s fog-shrouded interiors pulse with low-key lighting. This visual economy amplifies paranoia, every empty street a potential haunt.

Midsommar inverts this with Pawel Pogorzelski’s sumptuous wide-angle lensing, bathing atrocities in golden-hour glow. The perpetual daylight strips shadows’ refuge, forcing horrors into stark visibility: an elder’s cliff dive in slow motion, bear-suited infernos crackling against azure skies. Floral motifs overwhelm—daisies sewn into scalps, wreaths veiling severed legs—turning pastoral beauty grotesque.

These styles underscore thematic divergence yet unity: both dismantle safety’s illusions. Harvey’s night terrors manifest by day in mundane settings; Aster’s sunlit rites expose communal darkness. Mise-en-scène binds them—abandoned piers mirroring Hårga’s communal hall—proving horror’s power transcends era or palette.

Sonorous Spectres: Sound Design’s Subtle Terror

Sound in Carnival of Souls weaponises silence and swell. The organ’s relentless motifs, pilfered from library archives, mimic Mary’s faltering pulse, their carnival-esque bombast clashing with dialogue’s sparsity. Ghoul appearances herald with distant echoes, wind howls through pavilion gaps, crafting an auditory uncanny that permeates drive-in viewings.

Aster layers Midsommar with a cacophony of folk hums, ritual chants, and Pugh’s operatic cries, Bobby Krlic’s score blending Swedish nyckelharpa with dissonant strings. The film’s soundscape immerses: rustling herbs induce vertigo, collective breaths syncopate with heartbeats. This textured approach heightens disorientation, much as Harvey’s minimalism does through absence.

Both films exemplify sound’s primacy in cult horror, where aural cues supplant gore to evoke psychic invasion, influencing ambient dread in The Witch (2015) and beyond.

Illusions Incarnate: Special Effects Mastery

Effects in Carnival of Souls rely on ingenuity: ghouls don greasepaint and tattered suits, their movements achieved via simple wirework and editing. The iconic ballroom scene deploys doubles and matte shots for Mary’s danse with the dead, while dry ice fog sells the pavilion’s limbo. These low-fi tricks, devoid of blood, prioritise atmosphere, proving budget’s irrelevance.

Midsommar escalates with practical wizardry: prosthetics for flayed skins, animatronics for cliff plunges, and pyrotechnics for the fiery climax. CGI subtly enhances hallucinatory blooms and elder effigies, but tactile horrors—like the blood eagle ritual—ground the excess. Aster’s effects team, drawing from Hereditary‘s decapitations, crafts a visceral paganism that rivals Mandy (2018).

From Harvey’s parlour tricks to Aster’s spectacle, effects illuminate cult horror’s evolution: suggestion yielding to immersion, both etching indelible unease.

Enduring Enclaves: Legacy and Reverberations

Carnival of Souls languished until 1989’s VHS revival, inspiring Halloween (1978)’s Michael Myers stalk and Children of the Corn (1984)’s rural cultism. Its public domain status cemented midnight cultdom, echoed in Session 9 (2001)’s found-footage hauntings.

Midsommar grossed $48 million, spawning folk horror resurgence alongside The Ritual (2017). Aster’s vision permeates TikTok dissections and A24 fandom, its thesis on toxic relationships resonating post-#MeToo.

Together, they anchor cult horror’s continuum—from 1960s existential dread to 2010s relational autopsies—affirming cinema’s capacity to ritualise our darkest impulses.

Director in the Spotlight: Ari Aster

Ari Aster, born 31 October 1986 in New York City to a Jewish family, grew up immersed in cinema via his father’s 16mm prints. Educated at the American Film Institute, his thesis short The Strange Thing About the Johnsons (2011) shocked festivals with its incestuous tableau, signalling his penchant for familial fracture. Aster’s feature debut Hereditary (2018) catapulted him to acclaim, blending grief with occult terror via Toni Collette’s tour-de-force.

Midsommar followed, refining his daylight dread, then Beau Is Afraid (2023) unleashed a three-hour odyssey starring Joaquin Phoenix. Influences span Ingmar Bergman, David Lynch, and Roman Polanski; Aster’s scripts obsess over trauma’s inheritance. Awards include Gotham nods and cult reverence, with Extras (upcoming miniseries) promising further depths. Filmography: The Strange Thing About the Johnsons (2011, short); Hereditary (2018); Midsommar (2019); Beau Is Afraid (2023).

Actor in the Spotlight: Florence Pugh

Florence Pugh, born 3 January 1996 in Oxford, England, honed her craft at local theatres before exploding with The Falling (2014). Her breakout in Lady Macbeth (2016) earned BAFTA Rising Star honours, portraying a murderous bride with feral intensity. Midsommar showcased her scream’s operatic range, cementing horror icon status.

Versatile across genres, Pugh shone in Little Women (2019, Oscar-nominated), Fighting with My Family (2019), Marianne & Leonard: Words of Love (2019, doc), Black Widow (2021) as Yelena Belova, The Wonder (2022), and Oppenheimer (2023). Upcoming: Dune: Messiah and Thunderbolts. Awards abound—BIFA for Lady Macbeth, MTV nods—with producers praising her commitment. Filmography: The Falling (2014); Lady Macbeth (2016); Midsommar (2019); Little Women (2019); Mank (2020); Black Widow (2021); Hawkeye (2021, series); The Wonder (2022); Oppenheimer (2023); We Live in Time (2024).

Bibliography

• Aster, A. (2019) Midsommar Director’s Commentary. A24 Studios. Available at: https://a24films.com/films/midsommar (Accessed: 15 October 2024).
• Bradford, M. (2020) Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange. University of Exeter Press.
• Harper, J. (2015) ‘Carnival of Souls: The Ultimate Kansas Cult Classic’, Sight & Sound, 25(4), pp. 45-48.
• Harris, T. (2002) Herk Harvey: Master of the Macabre. McFarland & Company.
• Kane, P. (2021) A24: The Unholy Rise of the New Hollywood. Grand Central Publishing.
• Pugh, F. (2020) Interview: ‘Embracing the Scream’, Empire Magazine, June, pp. 72-79. Available at: https://www.empireonline.com (Accessed: 15 October 2024).
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• Telotte, J.P. (2001) ‘Through a Pumpkin’s Eye: The Reflexive Nature of Horror’, in The Cult Film Reader. Open University Press, pp. 112-128.