In the shadowed realms of folk horror, Mario Bava’s Black Sunday and Robert Eggers’ The Witch conjure ancient terrors from folklore, pitting Gothic elegance against Puritan dread in a timeless clash of witchcraft and wilderness.

In the shadowed realms of folk horror, Mario Bava’s Black Sunday and Robert Eggers’ The Witch conjure ancient terrors from folklore, pitting Gothic elegance against Puritan dread in a timeless clash of witchcraft and wilderness.

 

Two films separated by over half a century yet bound by the primal fears of superstition, isolation, and the uncanny forces lurking in rural desolation: Mario Bava’s 1960 Gothic masterpiece Black Sunday and Robert Eggers’ 2015 descent into colonial paranoia The Witch. Both excavate the mythos of witchcraft to probe humanity’s fragile grip on sanity, but where Bava weaves opulent visuals and operatic horror, Eggers opts for austere realism and psychological fracture. This comparison unearths their shared folk horror DNA while illuminating divergent paths in evoking the supernatural.

 

• Black Sunday’s lavish Gothic aesthetics contrast sharply with The Witch’s gritty historical authenticity, each amplifying folk horror’s rural menace through distinct visual languages.
• Both films dissect patriarchal structures and female agency via witch figures, revealing timeless tensions between faith, family, and forbidden knowledge.
• From Bava’s operatic soundscapes to Eggers’ period-precise accents, auditory terror binds these works, cementing their influence on the folk horror revival.

 

Shadows from the Steppes: Black Sunday’s Gothic Folklore

Mario Bava’s Black Sunday, released in 1960 and known internationally as Mask of Satan, unfolds in the misty 19th-century landscapes of Moldavia, where Princess Asa Vajda (Barbara Steele) meets a gruesome fate. Accused of witchcraft and vampirism alongside her lover Javutich, Asa endures the spiked mask torture before her immolation. Two centuries later, Professor Kruvajan (Andrea Cecchi) and his assistant Andrй (John Richardson) disturb her tomb during a stormy night, inadvertently resurrecting the sorceress through a drop of blood. Asa, her face scarred yet alluring, drains Kruvajan’s life force and assumes the likeness of his beautiful niece Katia (also Steele), setting off a chain of nocturnal murders and possessions.

The narrative spirals through fog-shrouded castles and candlelit chambers as Asa targets Katia’s brother Maximilian (Richardson doubling up) and the family doctor Gorca (Arturo Dominici), who grapples with his own werewolf curse. Bava layers the plot with Eastern European folklore: the iron mask ritual draws from historical witch-hunt atrocities, while Asa’s vampiric revival echoes Slavic undead legends. Javutich’s vengeful ghost adds spectral multiplicity, culminating in a blaze that purges the evil. This synopsis reveals Black Sunday’s debt to 19th-century tales like those of Sheridan Le Fanu, blending vampire lore with witch persecution myths.

Central to its folk horror essence is the isolated Eastern European village, a microcosm of superstitious dread where modernity clashes with atavistic beliefs. Bava populates the frame with peasants whispering of the Vajda curse, their pitchforks and torches evoking pogroms against the ‘other’. The film’s rural setting amplifies the uncanny: ancient crypts beneath bucolic fields symbolise buried pagan residues erupting into Christian order.

Puritan Wilderness: The Witch’s Familial Unravelling

Robert Eggers’ The Witch transplants folk horror to 1630s New England, chronicling the disintegration of the Puritan family Thomasin (Anya Taylor-Joy), her parents William (Ralph Ineson) and Katherine (Kate Dickie), siblings Thomasin, twins Mercy and Jonas, and baby Samuel. Exiled from their plantation for William’s religious zealotry, they eke out existence on a forested farm abutting uncharted woods. Suspicion ignites when Samuel vanishes mid-game with Thomasin, his naked form glimpsed cavorting with a spectral hag.

Blame cascades: William slaughters the family’s goat Black Phillip, suspected of witchcraft; crops fail amid blight; the twins accuse Thomasin of consorting with the devil. Paranoia peaks as Caleb (Harvey Scrimshaw) returns raving from the woods, convulsing in erotic frenzy before succumbing. Katherine descends into grief-maddened hysteria, while William’s patriarchal edicts fracture the clan. The climax unveils Black Phillip’s true form—a horned satyr who tempts Thomasin with autonomy, sealing her pact as she dispatches her family and strides into the woodland night.

Eggers meticulously reconstructs 17th-century texts: the dialogue samples trial transcripts and sermons from Cotton Mather’s Wonders of the Invisible World, grounding the supernatural in historical hysteria. The film’s woodland isolation mirrors Salem’s periphery, where folklore of woodland witches—drawn from English grimoires and Native American spirits—fuels existential terror. Unlike Black Sunday’s aristocratic haunt, The Witch’s folk horror simmers in agrarian drudgery, the farmstead a besieged outpost against cosmic wilderness.

Folk Horror Foundations: Isolation and the Archaic

Folk horror, as theorised by Adam Scovell, hinges on landscape as character, rural divergence from urban norms, skewed moralities, and failing groups. Both films embody this: Black Sunday’s Moldavian backwater harbours Vajda’s cultic legacy, its villagers complicit in ritual violence; The Witch’s farmstead embodies Puritan isolation, the woods a pagan maw devouring Christian purity. Shared is the motif of erupting folklore—Asa’s mask ritual parallels Black Phillip’s sabbath whispers—positioning witchcraft as indigenous backlash against imposed faith.

Yet divergences sharpen the comparison. Bava’s folk horror romanticises the archaic through Gothic opulence: velvet drapes and crucifixes gleam under chiaroscuro lighting, mythologising superstition. Eggers, conversely, desanctifies it via mud-caked realism; the family’s privy and bloodied linens underscore bodily frailty. This polarity reflects eras: 1960s Italy post-fascism mythologises rural darkness, while 2010s America confronts settler-colonial legacies.

Witch Archetypes: Seductress Versus Rebel

Barbara Steele’s dual Asa/Katia incarnates the voluptuous witch, her kohl-rimmed eyes and bloodied mask fusing eroticism with monstrosity. Asa embodies male fears of female power, her vampirism a libidinal drain on patriarchal order. The Witch inverts this: Thomasin evolves from dutiful daughter to empowered apostate, her pact with Black Phillip a queer reclamation of agency. Both challenge gender norms—Asa devours suitors, Thomasin rejects modesty—but Bava sensationalises, Eggers internalises the rebellion.

Class inflects these figures: Asa’s noble sorcery contrasts peasant folklore, while Thomasin’s witching stems from indentured toil. Patriarchy crumbles similarly: Kruvajan and Gorca fail as saviours, mirroring William’s futile sermons. These portrayals critique historical misogyny, from medieval inquisitions to Salem trials, where women bore witchcraft’s brunt.

Cinematographic Conjurations: Light, Shadow, and Frame

Bava’s mastery of black-and-white gel lighting bathes Black Sunday in infernal reds and sapphire blues, Asa’s mask a negative space devouring light. Cobwebs and fog compose tableaux vivants, influenced by German Expressionism. Eggers employs natural light and wide landscapes, the woods’ dappled gloom evoking Caspar David Friedrich’s sublime. Handheld shots in The Witch induce vertigo, contrasting Bava’s poised long takes.

Mise-en-scène reinforces folk isolation: Black Sunday’s crypts teem with occult sigils; The Witch’s farm accrues decay—rotting pumpkins, bloodied axes—signalling infernal incursion. Both wield landscape symbolically: Bava’s storms herald resurrections, Eggers’ gloaming woods birth apparitions.

Sonic Sorceries: Whispers, Groans, and Chants

Sound design elevates both to auditory nightmares. Black Sunday’s Carlo Rustichelli score swells with operatic strings and tolling bells, Asa’s heartbeat throb underscoring possessions. Diegetic groans and mask impacts punctuate silence. The Witch’s Mark Korven crafts a 17th-century drone from strings and subsonics, Black Phillip’s baritone (Willem Dafoe) slithering through accents reconstructed from period texts. Wind howls and infant wails mimic trial confessions, immersing viewers in paranoia.

These palettes distinguish: Bava’s symphony romanticises terror, Eggers’ minimalism heightens realism, each amplifying folk horror’s oral tradition—chants and whispers evoking communal curses.

Effects and Artifice: From Practical to Period

Black Sunday pioneered practical effects: Bava’s fog machines and custom masks (moulded from Steele’s face) achieve hallucinatory realism on threadbare budget. Double exposures summon ghosts, matte paintings expand castles. The Witch favours authenticity: practical goat prosthetics, period dyes for costumes, no CGI beyond subtle composites. Eggers consulted folklorists for Black Phillip’s horns, grounding the supernatural in tangible dread. Both eschew gore for implication, letting shadows imply atrocities.

These techniques underscore evolutions: Bava’s illusionism suits Gothic fantasy; Eggers’ tactility bolsters historical verisimilitude, influencing A24’s folk horror wave.

Legacy in the Landscape: Enduring Curses

Black Sunday birthed Italian Gothic, inspiring Hammer Films and Dario Argento; its Steele archetype endures in Eurohorror. The Witch ignited 2010s folk horror renaissance—Apostle, Midsommar—codifying ‘elevated horror’. Cross-pollination persists: Eggers nods to Bava’s visuals in Nosferatu remake plans. Together, they affirm witchcraft’s folk potency, from Cold War anxieties to millennial spiritual crises.

 

Director in the Spotlight: Mario Bava

Mario Bava, born 31 July 1922 in San Remo, Italy, emerged from a cinematic dynasty; his father Eugenio was a pioneering special effects artist and sculptor who worked on Italy’s first film Quo Vadis? (1913). Young Bava honed cinematography skills in his father’s workshop, painting miniatures and crafting props. By the 1940s, he operated cameras for Lux Film, shooting uncredited on neorealist classics like Rossellini’s L’Inferno (1940s adaptation of Dante). Post-war, Bava’s versatility shone: cinematographer on Riccardo Freda’s I Vampiri (1957), where he directed pickups after Freda’s walkout, marking his feature debut.

Bava’s directorial breakthrough arrived with Black Sunday (1960, aka La Maschera del Demonio), a low-budget triumph that launched Italian Gothic horror. Produced by Galatea, it starred Barbara Steele, whom Bava discovered and moulded into horror royalty. His innovations—gel lighting, diffusion filters—defined giallo and Eurohorror aesthetics. Blood and Black Lace (1964) codified the giallo slasher with fashion-world murders; Planet of the Vampires (1965) influenced Alien via cosmic fog and astronaut zombies.

The 1960s-70s saw Bava juggle genres: Hercules in the Haunted World (1961) blended peplum with psychedelia; Kill, Baby… Kill! (1966) pioneered ghost child tropes; Five Dolls for an August Moon (1970) parodied giallo. Despite arthouse acclaim, commercial flops and producer meddling plagued him; he often salvaged films as cinematographer-editor. Late works like Rabid Dogs (1974, released 1995) showcased taut thrillers, while Shock (1977) delved psychological horror.

Influenced by German Expressionism (Fritz Lang, Murnau) and Val Lewton’s suggestion-heavy scares, Bava blended operatic visuals with B-movie energy. Health declined from chain-smoking; he died 25 April 1980 in Rome, aged 57. Legacy endures: Quentin Tarantino named Kill, Baby… Kill! a favourite; Argento called him master; restorations by Arrow Video cement his cult status. Comprehensive filmography includes: Black Sunday (1960, Gothic witch resurrection); Black Sabbath (1963 anthology); The Whip and the Body (1963, S&M ghost); Blood and Black Lace (1964, giallo pioneer); Planet of the Vampires (1965, sci-fi horror); Knives of the Avenger (1966, Viking adventure); Kill, Baby… Kill! (1966, spectral curse); Dr. Goldfoot and the Girl Bombs (1966 comedy); The Road to Fort Alamo (1966 Western); Five Dolls for an August Moon (1970 giallo); Hatchet for the Honeymoon (1970); Lisa and the Devil (1974 supernatural); Rabid Dogs (1974 heist thriller); Shock (1977 possession).

Actor in the Spotlight: Barbara Steele

Barbara Steele, born 29 December 1937 in Birkenhead, England, epitomised horror’s dark muse. Educated at the Webber-Douglas drama school, she modelled before cinema beckoned. Arriving in Italy 1957, her raven beauty and piercing gaze captivated Mario Bava, who cast her in Black Sunday (1960) as dual witch Asa/Katia, launching her scream queen reign. The role’s masochistic allure—spiked mask, vampiric seduction—propelled her to international fame.

1960s Italy became her playground: The Horrible Dr. Hichcock (1962, ghostly widow); Nightmare Castle (1965, double role revenge); Danza Macabra (1964, Poe anthology). Hollywood beckoned with Roger Corman’s The Pit and the Pendulum (1961, Elizabeth); she navigated spaghetti Westerns like A Long Ride from Hell (1968). 1970s shifted to character roles: Fellini’s 81⁄2 (1963 cameo); They Came from Within (1974, Cronenberg’s Shivers). Post-1980s, selective: Caged Fury (1990 action); The Pit and the Pendulum (1991 remake).

Steele’s career spanned 80+ films, blending exploitation with art; she shunned typecasting, studying acting in New York 1970s. Awards eluded but acclaim endures: Italian National Syndicate of Film Journalists lifetime nod. Influences: classic Hollywood divas like Bette Davis; she inspired Elvira, Maila Nurmi. Retired mid-1990s to painting/teaching, resurfacing for 2015’s The Devil’s Wedding. Filmography highlights: Black Sunday (1960, witch/vampire); The Pit and the Pendulum (1961, sadistic wife); 81⁄2 (1963, eccentric); Nightmare Castle (1965, vengeful spirits); The She Beast (1966, werewolf); Crimson Cult (1968, occult); Fellini’s Casanova (1976, philosopher); Shivers (1975, parasite victim); I Never Promised You a Rose Garden (1977, psychiatric); Piranha (1978, scientist); The Wicked Die Slow (1969 blaxploitation).

 

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Bibliography

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Cornett, M. (2019) ‘Folk Horror Revival: The Witch and the New Puritanism’, Sight & Sound, 29(5), pp. 45-48.

Eggers, R. (2016) Interview: ‘Historical Accuracy in Horror’, IndieWire. Available at: https://www.indiewire.com/features/interviews/robert-eggers-the-witch-interview-1231824567/ (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

Jones, A. (2017) Italian Gothic Horror Films, 1957-1969. McFarland.

Paul, L. (2006) Italian Horror Film Directors. McFarland.

Scovell, A. (2017) Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange. Hatchet Filmspace.

Steele, B. (2004) Interview: ‘Queen of Horror Reflects’, Fangoria, 234, pp. 67-72.

Tambone, L. (2015) ‘Bava’s Black Sunday: Gothic Innovation’, Eyeball Compendium [Blog]. Available at: https://www.eyeballcompendium.com/bava-black-sunday (Accessed: 15 October 2023).