Two spectral visions separated by half a century, both whispering the same inescapable truth: some horrors pursue us not with fury, but with relentless, silent inevitability.

 

In the shadowed corridors of horror cinema, few films capture the raw chill of existential dread quite like Herk Harvey’s Carnival of Souls (1962) and David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows (2014). These works, though worlds apart in production values and cultural contexts, converge on a profound exploration of unseen threats that erode the boundaries between reality and nightmare. By pitting the low-budget phantasmagoria of a Kansas organist against the sun-bleached paranoia of suburban Detroit teens, this comparison unearths how both movies weaponise ambiguity, isolation, and the mundane to evoke a terror that lingers long after the credits roll.

 

  • Both films master the art of the invisible pursuer, transforming everyday spaces into labyrinths of dread through sparse, evocative visuals and soundscapes.
  • Existential horror pulses at their core, questioning life, death, and the fragile illusions we cling to amid inevitable doom.
  • From grainy black-and-white minimalism to crisp digital suburbia, their stylistic innovations cement a lasting influence on modern horror’s obsession with psychological unease.

 

Echoes from the Void: Carnival of Souls and the Birth of Spectral Pursuit

Herk Harvey’s Carnival of Souls emerges from the sun-scorched pavements of Lawrence, Kansas, where Mary Henry (Candace Hilligoss) survives a catastrophic car plunge into the river during a drag race. Emerging unscathed from the murky depths, she presses on to accept a church organist position in Salt Lake City, only to find her reality fracturing under the gaze of pallid ghouls who materialise in mirrors, empty pavilions, and fog-shrouded boardwalks. These spectral figures, with their hollow eyes and shuffling gait, do not lunge or scream; they simply are, an omnipresent reminder of mortality’s quiet encroachment. Harvey, a maestro of industrial films, infuses this narrative with a documentary-like detachment, turning the film’s $33,000 budget into a canvas for pure unease.

The boardwalk sequence stands as a pinnacle of minimalist terror, where Mary’s solitary dance amid abandoned stalls unfolds under stark lighting that carves shadows like accusations. Cinematographer Russell Pearce employs deep focus to isolate her against vast, indifferent architecture, symbolising the soul’s estrangement from the living world. This scene, devoid of dialogue or score beyond the ubiquitous calliope, forces viewers to confront the void alongside Mary, her growing dissociation mirroring our own brushes with existential irrelevance. Harvey’s choice to film in real locations—a derelict Saltair Pavilion—amplifies authenticity, blurring the line between fiction and the eerie decay of forgotten Americana.

Sound design in Carnival of Souls elevates its threat model, with the organ’s dissonant swells punctuating Mary’s visions like a dirge from beyond. Composed by Gene Moore, these motifs evoke both ecclesiastical sanctity and infernal summons, underscoring the film’s meditation on faith’s futility. When the ghouls first appear, their silence contrasts sharply with the real world’s chatter, heightening Mary’s alienation. This auditory strategy prefigures modern horror’s reliance on negative space, where what is not heard becomes as menacing as any scream.

The Relentless Stalker: It Follows and Suburban Doom

David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows transplants this dread to the flat expanses of Detroit’s outskirts, where Jay (Maika Monroe) inherits a curse via a post-coital encounter: an entity that assumes human form and pursues at a walking pace, visible only to the afflicted, transferable only through sex. Friends band together in futile evasion—beaches, pools, abandoned buildings—but the ‘it’ persists, shapeshifting into familiar faces or strangers, always advancing with mechanical determination. Mitchell’s script, honed from years of refinement, distils generational anxieties into a parable of inescapable consequence, shot on 35mm Super 16 for a tactile grain that evokes 1970s paranoia flicks.

The film’s centrepiece assault in Jay’s home exemplifies Mitchell’s command of spatial tension. As the entity, disguised as Jay’s father, hammers at the door, the camera lingers on wide shots of empty hallways, the slow footsteps building dread through anticipation. Production designer Michael Perry’s use of lived-in clutter—faded wallpapers, cluttered kitchens—grounds the supernatural in banal domesticity, making every corner a potential ambush. This sequence masterfully plays with viewer expectation, the entity’s unhurried approach forcing a reevaluation of safety in the everyday.

Synths dominate It Follows‘ score by Disasterpeace, their pulsing waves mimicking the entity’s gait, a hypnotic throb that invades the diegesis during chases. Rich Vreeland’s composition draws from John Carpenter’s analogue arsenal, but innovates with retro-futurist layers that underscore the curse’s timelessness. Silence punctuates peaks of pursuit, much like Carnival‘s ghouls, allowing ambient sounds—distant traffic, creaking floors—to swell into harbingers of doom. This sonic architecture binds the films, proving horror’s power lies not in volume, but in the spaces between notes.

Unseen Foes: The Philosophy of Invisible Menace

Central to both narratives is the unseen threat’s existential weight, a force that defies combat or reason, compelling protagonists to question their grip on reality. In Carnival of Souls, Mary’s visions blur into gaslighting from her landlady and minister, her insistence on the ghouls dismissed as hysteria—a gendered trope Harvey subverts by revealing her otherworldly limbo. Similarly, Jay’s pleas in It Follows strain friendships, the entity’s selectivity fostering paranoia that fractures social bonds. These dynamics probe isolation’s terror, where the mind becomes the true battleground.

Philosophically, both films channel Camus’ absurdism: Mary’s futile organ performances echo Sisyphus’ labour, while the curse’s promiscuous transmission mocks human connection as mere deferral of doom. Harvey’s ghouls embody death’s banality, their vacant stares stripping glamour from the afterlife; Mitchell’s entity, by contrast, sexualises mortality, transforming intimacy into a venereal spectre. Yet unity persists in their inexorability, forcing characters—and audiences—to confront finitude without catharsis.

Gender dynamics enrich this comparison. Mary navigates a male gaze, her ethereal beauty weaponised by leering suitors and ghouls alike, symbolising patriarchal erasure of female agency. Jay, empowered yet vulnerable, weaponises sexuality against the curse, inverting the dynamic in a post-#MeToo lens. Both women, adrift in masculine worlds, find agency in defiance, their arcs culminating in ambiguous reclamations of self amid encroaching voids.

From Black-and-White Ghosts to Digital Phantoms: Stylistic Evolutions

Carnival of Souls‘ monochrome palette, achieved through high-contrast lighting, renders the world as a negative print of life, ghouls emerging from overexposed whites like photographic glitches. Harvey’s static shots, influenced by Italian neorealism, prioritise composition over movement, each frame a tableau of unease. This austerity contrasts It Follows‘ fluid Steadicam prowls, courtesy of cinematographer Benjamin Kasulke, which mimic the entity’s advance, immersing viewers in perpetual motion sickness.

Mise-en-scène unites them: empty roads in Carnival mirror It Follows‘ deserted beaches, vast horizons dwarfing figures to emphasise cosmic indifference. Set design in both leverages decay—rusting piers, foreclosed homes—as metaphors for spiritual rot. Practical effects shine: Harvey’s ghouls, painted with mortician makeup by John Clifford, achieve uncanny realism on threadbare budgets; Mitchell’s entity relies on non-actors for authenticity, its forms evoking uncanny valley through subtle prosthetics by Matt Escobedo.

These choices reflect era-specific anxieties: 1960s atomic-age alienation in Carnival, millennial STD epidemics and foreclosure crises in It Follows. Yet their visual grammar endures, influencing arthouse horrors like The Witch (2015) and Hereditary (2018), where space itself conspires against sanity.

Legacy’s Long Shadow: Ripples Through Horror History

Carnival of Souls languished in obscurity until 1989’s VHS revival, inspiring David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977) and the Coen Brothers’ deadpan surrealism. Its public domain status democratised access, seeding cult fandom. It Follows, premiered at Cannes, grossed $23 million on a $2 million budget, spawning imitators like The Endless (2017). Both exemplify indie horror’s triumph over spectacle, prioritising mood over gore.

Production tales underscore resilience: Harvey shot in two weeks amid union woes; Mitchell endured rain-soaked nights for authenticity. Censorship skirted both—Carnival‘s nudity excised, It Follows‘ sex scene tempered—yet their subtlety evaded bans, proving implication’s potency.

In subgenre terms, they bridge slow-burn psychological horror with folk traditions of restless spirits, evolving from Night of the Living Dead (1968) to A24’s prestige wave. Their unseen threats redefine the slasher, replacing masks with metaphysics.

Director in the Spotlight: Herk Harvey

Homer Edward “Herk” Harvey, born 3 June 1924 in Windsor, Colorado, grew up amid the Dust Bowl’s hardships, fostering an early fascination with the macabre. After serving in the US Navy during World War II as a photographer, he studied at the University of Denver, earning a degree in theatre arts. In 1950, Harvey founded Centron Corporation in Lawrence, Kansas, producing over 400 educational and industrial films—classroom staples on safety, hygiene, and morality. His dry wit and visual flair shone in shorts like Why Vandalism? (1955), blending didacticism with subtle horror elements.

Though Carnival of Souls marked his sole narrative feature, it crystallised his obsessions with death and the uncanny, shot during a two-week hiatus from Centron duties. Harvey directed, produced, and co-wrote the script with John Clifford, leveraging company resources for ingenuity. Post-Carnival, he returned to industrials, helming Operation: Second Chance (1968) on parole reform and Clothier from the Sun (1971), but dabbled in horror cameos. Influences ranged from German Expressionism—Nosferatu (1922)—to Ingmar Bergman’s existentialism.

Retiring in 1986, Harvey succumbed to heart failure on 7 November 1996 in Lawrence. His filmography spans: What About Drinking? (1953, educational short on alcoholism); Shake Hands with Danger (1970, safety film); Carnival of Souls (1962, feature); The Pitch (1968, industrial); and dozens more under Centron, including series like “The Sniffles Family.” Harvey’s legacy endures as the godfather of Midwestern horror, his economical style paving paths for regional filmmakers.

Actor in the Spotlight: Maika Monroe

Maika Monroe, born Dillon Monroe on 29 May 1993 in Santa Barbara, California, traded competitive kiteboarding dreams for acting after a knee injury. Homeschooled, she debuted modelling before screen work, training at the Lee Strasberg Institute. Breakthrough came with At Any Price (2012) opposite Dennis Quaid, but horror cemented her stardom. In It Follows, her poised vulnerability as Jay propelled the film to acclaim, earning Gotham Award nods.

Monroe’s career trajectory blends genre and prestige: post-It Follows, she starred in The Guest (2014) as a vengeful teen, showcasing action chops; Independence Day: Resurgence (2016) as pilot Jessica; and Greta (2018) with Isabelle Huppert, delving psychological thriller. Awards include Fright Meter for It Follows; nominations from Fangoria Chainsaw. Influences: classic scream queens like Jamie Lee Curtis.

Filmography highlights: Labour Day (2013, drama); Echoes (2014, indie horror); MaXXXine (2024, final X trilogy as Maxine Minx); God Is a Bullet (2023, crime thriller); Significant Other (2022, sci-fi horror); Villains (2019, dark comedy); The Strangers: Prey at Night (2018, slasher); plus TV like Too Old to Die Young (2019). At 31, Monroe reigns as horror’s modern icon, blending ferocity with fragility.

Craving more spectral showdowns? Dive deeper into NecroTimes’ archives for horrors that haunt the soul.

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