In the echoing voids of abandoned funfairs and fog-enshrouded islands, two films strip humanity bare, revealing the terror of isolation and the abyss of existence.
Two horror masterpieces, separated by six decades, converge on the primal fears of solitude and meaninglessness: Carnival of Souls (1962) and The Menu (2022). Herk Harvey’s indie chiller and Mark Mylod’s culinary satire both weaponise remoteness to probe the human condition, turning physical separation into a metaphor for spiritual desolation.
- Carnival of Souls crafts existential dread through a woman’s spectral wanderings in desolate spaces, pioneering psychological horror on a shoestring budget.
- The Menu elevates isolation to class warfare, trapping elites in a fatal feast that exposes the hollowness of privilege and consumption.
- Both films master sound design and visual emptiness to evoke the soul-crushing weight of isolation, influencing generations of horror cinema.
Prelude to the Void: Two Tales of Severed Connections
Mary Henry, a church organist, plummets off a bridge during a drag race in Carnival of Souls, only to emerge unscathed from the muddy Kansas River. Her survival marks the beginning of an unraveling existence, haunted by pallid ghouls who pursue her through a crumbling pavilion by a saline lake. The film’s Kansas locations, shot in grainy black-and-white 16mm, amplify the starkness of her isolation; Lawrence, her new home, feels as alien as the afterlife. Harvey, a former industrial filmmaker, infuses the narrative with documentary realism, making Mary’s detachment palpable from the outset.
Contrast this with The Menu, where a cadre of wealthy diners—including a foodie critic, tech bros, and fading celebrities—ferry to Hawthorne Island for an exclusive meal curated by Chef Julian Slowik. Ralph Fiennes embodies Slowik with chilling precision, his genial facade masking revolutionary fury. The island’s seclusion, shrouded in mist and accessible only by boat, mirrors Mary’s entrapment in her own psyche. As courses unfold—from breadless ‘bread’ to staff-sourced ‘cheese’—the guests realise escape is impossible, their isolation a deliberate trap sprung by class resentment.
Both narratives hinge on journeys to remoteness: Mary’s drive to the lakeside carnival, now a skeletal relic, parallels the guests’ boat ride. This physical divorce from society catalyses existential horror, where everyday anchors—community, routine, identity—dissolve. In Mary’s case, colleagues dismiss her visions; in Slowik’s dining room, pleas for mercy fall on deaf ears. The films posit isolation not as mere setting but as antagonist, eroding the self until only dread remains.
Production contexts underscore these parallels. Harvey shot Carnival of Souls in 25 days for $100,000, repurposing an abandoned Saltair Pavilion as its eerie heart. Mylod’s $30 million production leveraged post-pandemic anxieties about confinement, filming on a purpose-built set amid COVID restrictions. Both emerged from personal visions—Harvey’s from a lakeside nightmare, Slowik’s menu from Seth Reiss and Will Tracy’s script satirising fine dining excesses—transforming autobiography into universal terror.
Spectral Solitude: Mary’s Phantom Limbo
At its core, Carnival of Souls dissects Mary’s isolation through hallucinatory episodes. She drifts through empty churches and silent streets, her reflection vanishing in mirrors—a motif symbolising fractured identity. Candace Hilligoss delivers a performance of quiet hysteria, her wide eyes conveying a woman adrift between worlds. The ghouls, makeup-less extras in pasty greasepaint, rise from the lake like existential harbingers, their silent stares more unnerving than screams.
The film’s soundscape intensifies this void: Candace’s organ music swells discordantly, blending sacred and profane. When silence descends—tires screeching mutely during chases—the absence becomes oppressive, evoking the soundless afterlife. Harvey’s editing, with abrupt cuts and static holds, mirrors Mary’s dissociation, prefiguring slow cinema’s dread in films like The Witch.
Mary’s interactions underscore her alienation. John Linden, her leering landlord, represents failed connection; his advances repulsed, he embodies male intrusion into female solitude. Her minister friend offers platitudes, blind to her torment. This relational isolation amplifies the existential question: if no one perceives your unraveling, do you exist? Harvey draws from post-war atomic anxieties, Mary’s survival evoking fallout survivors questioning reality.
Visually, the black-and-white palette drains colour from life, high-contrast lighting casting long shadows that swallow figures whole. The carnival pavilion, with its rotting piers and fog-veiled lake, becomes a purgatorial stage, its emptiness a canvas for Mary’s dread. These elements coalesce in the finale’s revelation: Mary’s life post-crash was a limbo illusion, her isolation absolute.
Gourmet Gulag: The Elite’s Fatal Feast
The Menu transposes isolation to socioeconomic heights, trapping the one percent in Slowik’s theatre of retribution. The island’s geography—cliffs, woods, no signals—enforces confinement, guests herded like cattle. Fiennes’ Slowik orchestrates with sadistic glee, his monologues dissecting diners’ complicity in cultural decay: Margot (Anya Taylor-Joy), the sex worker interloper, alone glimpses his vulnerability.
Class dynamics sharpen the horror. Tech bros boast of crypto empires; the critic, Richard Liebbrandt, embodies pretentious gatekeeping. Their isolation exposes privilege’s fragility: without underlings to serve, they confront their obsolescence. Slowik’s menu, a suicide note in courses, forces confrontation with mortality—s’mores evoking childhood lost to ambition.
Sound here contrasts Carnival‘s silence: clinking cutlery, gasping breaths, and a throbbing score build to cacophony. Ben Kutchins’ cinematography employs wide lenses to dwarf humans against vast seascapes, echoing Mary’s desolation. Fire motifs—flambéed bodies, pyre finales—purify through destruction, existential horror manifesting as consumptive apocalypse.
Mylod infuses dark comedy, guests’ quips masking panic, subverting slasher tropes. Margot’s escape via personal connection—recalling Slowik’s pre-fame burger—highlights isolation’s antidote: authenticity amid artifice. Yet the survivors bear scars, the mainland a hollow return to ‘normalcy’.
Existential Echoes: The Abyss Stares Back
Both films grapple with nihilism: Mary’s ghouls embody Camus’ absurd, pursuing without purpose; Slowik’s rampage indicts hedonism’s void. Isolation accelerates this, stripping distractions to reveal life’s meaninglessness. Nietzschean undertones pervade—Mary dances unwillingly with ghouls, guests perform in Slowik’s spectacle.
Gender inflects terror differently. Mary’s autonomy crumbles under patriarchal gaze; Margot weaponises femininity for survival. Both navigate male-dominated spaces—church/pavilion, kitchen/dining room—where isolation amplifies vulnerability yet sparks agency.
Cinematography unites them: Dutch angles in Carnival disorient, tracking shots in The Menu encircle prey. Special effects, minimal in both, prioritise suggestion: fog machines for ghouls, practical fires for the menu’s climax, proving restraint heightens dread.
Influence spans eras. Carnival inspired David Lynch’s dream logic and The Others‘ twists; The Menu echoes Ready or Not‘s class satire, reviving Carnival‘s indie ethos in blockbusters.
Silent Symphonies: Sound as Isolation’s Weapon
Harvey’s use of public-domain organ tracks creates a liturgical dirge, silence punctuating visions. Car crashes mute, footsteps echo hollowly—auditory voids mirror Mary’s emotional chasm. This low-fi approach democratised horror, proving budget belies impact.
The Menu layers foley meticulously: sizzling pans, cracking bones, choral swells. Slowik’s whispers intimate doom, communal silence during tastings amplifying tension. Sound bridges isolation’s personal to collective, guests’ shared horror forging ironic bonds.
These designs prefigure modern horror’s reliance on ambience, from Hereditary‘s snaps to Midsommar‘s folk drones, cementing isolation’s sonic terror.
Legacy of the Lone: Enduring Nightmares
Carnival of Souls cult status grew via late-night TV, influencing Session 9 and House of the Devil. Restorations reveal its prescience in psychological horror. The Menu, a streaming hit, grossed $80 million, sparking dining parodies and elite backlash discourse.
Their comparison illuminates horror’s evolution: from analogue unease to digital satire, isolation remains timeless, existential queries evergreen.
Director in the Spotlight
Herk Harvey, born in 1924 in Denver, Colorado, emerged from a modest background into industrial filmmaking, graduating from the University of Denver with a theatre degree. His career spanned educational shorts for Centron Corporation, producing over 400 films on hygiene, safety, and morality—ironic precursors to horror. Harvey’s pivot to features birthed Carnival of Souls, self-financed after a Saltair dream, shot guerrilla-style with non-actors. Though it flopped initially, VHS revival cemented his legend.
Harvey directed sparingly post-Carnival: What Happened to Biddy Bock? (1968), a comedy; The Slide (1966), a water park romp; and Carnival Rock (1957), a musical. Influences included German Expressionism and Val Lewton’s suggestion-heavy shadows. He retired to Lawrence, Kansas, dying in 1996, but his DIY ethos inspired indie horror pioneers like Robert Rodriguez and Ti West. Harvey’s filmography, though slim, prioritised atmosphere over gore, prioritising psychological depth.
Key works: Carnival of Souls (1962)—existential ghost story; Centron shorts (1950s-60s)—educational precursors; The Burning Court (unrealised adaptation). His legacy endures in horror scholarship, lauded for subverting expectations on zero budget.
Actor in the Spotlight
Ralph Fiennes, born December 22, 1962, in Suffolk, England, to a photographer mother and farmer father, honed his craft at RADA after Chelsea School of Art. Theatre triumphs—Schindler’s List (1993) as chilling Nazi Amon Göth earned Oscar nods—propelled him to stardom. Fiennes embodies intensity, from Voldemort in the Harry Potter series to commandants in The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014).
His horror turns include The Menu (2022), a career-defining villainy blending charm and menace. Awards: Tony for Hamlet, BAFTA for The English Patient (1996). Filmography spans: Schindler’s List (1993)—villainous breakout; Strange Days (1995)—futuristic lensman; The English Patient (1996)—romantic lead; The Constant Gardener (2005)—activist; No Time to Die (2021)—M; The King’s Man (2021)—Rasch; plus theatre like Faith Healer (2006). Fiennes’ precision elevates genre fare, his Slowik a symphony of suppressed rage.
Recent: Conclave (2024). Philanthropy includes arts patronage; he remains a stage mainstay, blending high drama with horror’s edge.
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Bibliography
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