In the shadowed recesses of the human mind, two female filmmakers conjure nightmares that force us to confront our deepest fears—grief’s unrelenting grip and faith’s fanatic blaze.
Psychological horror thrives on ambiguity, where the line between reality and delusion blurs into oblivion. Jennifer Kent’s The Babadook (2014) and Rose Glass’s Saint Maud (2019) stand as towering achievements in this subgenre, helmed by visionary women directors who dissect the psyche with surgical precision. These films, both debut features, elevate personal torment to visceral terror, challenging viewers to peer into abysses of maternal anguish and religious ecstasy.
- Explore how The Babadook transforms grief into a top-hatted monster, redefining horror’s emotional core.
- Unpack Saint Maud‘s feverish portrait of faith turned fanatic, where salvation curdles into damnation.
- Trace the revolutionary impact of female gazes in psychological horror, shattering conventions with intimate, unflinching authenticity.
Grief’s Monstrous Incarnation
The Babadook emerges not from some external threat but from the raw wound of loss. Amelia, portrayed with shattering intensity by Essie Davis, grapples with the first anniversary of her husband’s death while raising a volatile son, Samuel. A pop-up book materialises in their home, introducing the titular creature—a gaunt figure in a battered top hat whose rhymes foretell doom. Kent masterfully builds dread through domestic banality: the creak of floorboards, the flicker of a nightlight, the mother’s fraying patience. Samuel’s screams pierce the night, his toy weapons a futile defence against an enemy born of unspoken sorrow.
As the Babadook manifests, its presence warps reality. Shadows stretch unnaturally across walls, Amelia’s exhaustion morphs into rage, and the monster’s gravelly voice—delivered through practical effects and Kim Deacon’s chilling performance—taunts her fragility. Kent draws from her own scriptwriting roots, layering dialogue with subtext; Amelia’s mantra, “If it’s in a word or in a look, you can’t get rid of the Babadook,” encapsulates the inescapability of trauma. The film’s centrepiece confrontation in the basement, where Amelia bashes the creature with a hammer only for it to return stronger, symbolises grief’s cyclical nature—suppression breeds resurgence.
Critics hailed the film’s allegorical depth, positioning it as a milestone in maternal horror. Unlike slashers reliant on spectacle, The Babadook internalises the scare, making every viewer complicit in Amelia’s breakdown. Kent’s direction favours long takes, allowing Davis’s micro-expressions—twitching lips, hollowed eyes—to convey descent. The production design reinforces isolation: their home, a decaying Victorian shell, mirrors Amelia’s mental state, with peeling wallpaper evoking shed sanity.
Faith’s Ecstatic Inferno
Shifting from familial loss to spiritual zealotry, Saint Maud plunges into the delirium of devout obsession. Rose Glass introduces Maud, a young nurse whose conversion after a car accident propels her into fervent Catholicism. Assigned to care for Amanda, a terminally ill dancer played by Jennifer Ehle with wry detachment, Maud perceives her charge as a soul ripe for redemption. Glass crafts a world of ascetic severity: Maud’s sparse flat adorned with crucifixes, her self-flagellation rituals conducted under harsh fluorescent lights.
The film’s horror unfolds through Maud’s synaesthetic visions—stigmata bleeding spontaneously, bodily contortions during prayer that blur agony and rapture. Morfydd Clark embodies this duality, her porcelain features contorting into grotesque ecstasy. A pivotal dinner scene exposes fractures: Amanda’s hedonistic past clashes with Maud’s purity crusade, culminating in a forced conversion attempt that spirals into violence. Glass employs subjective camerawork, tilting frames to mimic Maud’s disorientation, while the soundscape—panting breaths, cracking bones—amplifies corporeal horror.
Maud’s arc peaks in a climactic party sequence, where rejection shatters her fragile piety, leading to arson and a final, transfixing shot of her reinvented self. Glass, influenced by her nursing background, infuses authenticity into medical scenes, contrasting clinical sterility with Maud’s fevered mysticism. The film’s religious iconography—nails driven into palms, flames licking flesh—evokes medieval martyrdom, yet grounds it in modern alienation.
Cinematography’s Claustrophobic Grip
Both films wield cinematography as a weapon of immersion. In The Babadook, Radek Ladczuk’s lensing favours high-contrast shadows, the Babadook’s silhouette a void against jaundiced walls. Kent’s static shots in early acts lull viewers into complacency, shattered by sudden Dutch angles during manifestations. Sound design complements this: Jed Kurzel’s score swells with atonal strings, mimicking a heartbeat’s stutter, while diegetic noises—clinking cutlery, slamming doors—build unbearable tension.
Saint Maud‘s James Bloom employs a 4:3 aspect ratio, evoking old religious paintings and trapping Maud in a box of her own making. Close-ups dominate, pores glistening with sweat, eyes dilated in trance. Glass’s use of rack focus shifts between Maud’s fanatic gaze and Amanda’s sceptical one, underscoring perceptual unreliability. The film’s climax, lit by bonfire glow, bathes Clark in infernal reds, symbolising faith’s infernal flip-side.
These technical choices underscore female directors’ precision: no gratuitous gore, but intimate invasions of personal space. Practical effects shine—the Babadook’s jerky puppetry evokes silent-era Expressionism, while Maud’s burns use meticulous prosthetics, prioritising psychological realism over CGI excess.
Themes of Gendered Torment
Central to both narratives is the female experience of bodily and emotional autonomy’s erosion. Amelia’s widowhood strips her societal role, reducing her to a “hysterical mother,” echoing historical pathologisation of women’s grief. Kent subverts this by granting Amelia agency in the finale, force-feeding the Babadook worms—a raw act of coexistence with pain. Samuel’s Oedipal aggression further complicates maternity, positioning the mother as both protector and peril.
Maud’s story interrogates feminine spirituality’s double bind: her nurse’s uniform symbolises service, yet her masochism inverts victimhood into power. Glass explores how patriarchal religion co-opts female suffering—visions of Christ parallel Maud’s wounds—while Amanda’s bisexuality hints at queer undercurrents, repressed in Maud’s dogma. Both protagonists reject communal bonds for solitary madness, critiquing isolation’s gendered toll.
Class intersects here: Amelia’s working-class drudgery fuels resentment, her library job a site of belittlement; Maud’s lower origins contrast Amanda’s privilege, breeding envy masked as evangelism. These films indict societal structures that amplify women’s private hells into public spectacles.
Production Perils and Censorship Battles
The Babadook‘s journey to screen was arduous. Kent, after years scripting for TV, crowdfunded her debut amid Australian industry’s male dominance. Financing woes delayed shooting, yet the $2 million budget yielded genre-defining intimacy. Post-release, the film faced misinterpretation as a depression allegory, which Kent clarified in interviews as broader trauma exploration. Its queer icon status—Babadook as gay metaphor—emerged organically from fan culture.
Glass’s Saint Maud, backed by A24 and BFI, navigated religious sensitivities; early cuts toned down violence for UK certification. Shot in stark northern England, the production mirrored Maud’s austerity—cast and crew endured grim coastal weather. Glass’s script, honed at the BFI Network, drew from personal faith doubts, infusing authenticity that propelled its festival triumphs.
Influence on Contemporary Horror
These films ripple through modern horror. The Babadook inspired elevated dread in Ari Aster’s Hereditary (2018), sharing grief’s familial fracture. Its pop-culture permeation—memes, costumes—belies critical acclaim, grossing $10 million worldwide. Saint Maud prefigures The Power of the Dog‘s repressed desires, its body horror echoing Possessor (2020). Both elevated female directors: Kent’s follow-up The Nightingale (2018) tackled colonial revenge, Glass’s Love Lies Bleeding (2024) queer noir.
Their legacy lies in subgenre evolution: psychological horror now prioritises emotional veracity over jump scares, paving for Relic (2020) and Men (2022). Female-led visions diversify tropes, foregrounding interiority over invasion.
Director in the Spotlight: Jennifer Kent
Jennifer Kent, born in 1969 in Brisbane, Australia, emerged from a theatre background before pivoting to film. She studied at the National Institute of Dramatic Art (NIDA), where her passion for storytelling deepened. Early career highlights include acting in Monkey Grip (1982) and assisting on Guillermo del Toro’s Babe: Pig in the City (1998), absorbing his blend of whimsy and darkness. Kent’s writing career flourished with episodes of EastEnders and Love My Way, honing her character-driven narratives.
Her directorial debut, The Babadook (2014), catapulted her to international acclaim, winning 19 Australian Academy Awards and influencing global horror. Undeterred by typecasting, Kent helmed The Nightingale (2018), a brutal Bushranger tale starring Aisling Franciosi, earning Venice Film Festival praise for its unflinching feminism. She directed episodes of Spiral (The Walking Dead spin-off, 2020) and penned His Dark Materials adaptations.
Influenced by Expressionist cinema and Alfred Hitchcock, Kent favours atmospheric dread over gore. Her filmography includes: The Babadook (2014, psychological horror debut); The Nightingale (2018, historical revenge drama); Stanley (short, 2008); and upcoming projects like Deleter (producer, 2022). Kent advocates for women in Australian cinema, mentoring emerging talents through Screen Australia initiatives. Her work consistently probes trauma’s tendrils, cementing her as a genre innovator.
Actor in the Spotlight: Morfydd Clark
Morfydd Clark, born 27 March 1993 in Maesteg, Wales, grew up bilingual in Welsh and English, fostering her emotive range. She trained at the Drama Centre London, debuting in theatre with The Lord of the Rings musical. Early film roles included The Call Up (2016) and Loving Vincent (2017), showcasing her in voice and live-action.
Breakthrough came as Galadriel and young Nessa in Amazon’s The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power (2022–), earning Emmy buzz. Awards include BAFTA Cymru for Saint Maud (2020). Her intensity suits horror: Saint Maud (2019) netted British Independent Film Award nomination.
Comprehensive filmography: The Rising Hawk (2020, historical action); Crawl (short, 2019); Midsommar (2019, cult horror); His Dark Materials (2019–2022, TV fantasy); Olaf’s Frozen Adventure (2017, voice); The Party’s Just Beginning (2018, directorial debut); National Theatre Live: Les Liaisons Dangereuses (2016). Clark’s versatility spans Pride (2014) to Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse (2023, voice), marking her as a rising force.
Discover more chilling analyses at NecroTimes—subscribe for weekly dives into horror’s darkest corners. Share your thoughts on these female-led terrors in the comments below!
Bibliography
Bradshaw, P. (2014) The Babadook review. The Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/oct/23/the-babadook-review-jennifer-kent-essie-davis (Accessed: 15 October 2024).
Clark, M. (2020) Saint Maud: Rose Glass interview. Sight & Sound, British Film Institute.
Hudson, D. (2019) Saint Maud and the horror of religious conviction. The New Yorker. Available at: https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-front-row/saint-maud-and-the-horror-of-religious-conviction (Accessed: 15 October 2024).
Kent, J. (2015) The Babadook: Director’s commentary insights. Fangoria, Issue 350.
Phillips, K. (2021) Women Make Horror: Jennifer Kent, Rose Glass. University Press of Mississippi.
Romney, J. (2020) Saint Maud – review. The Observer. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2020/feb/09/saint-maud-review-rose-glass-morfydd-clark-religious-horror (Accessed: 15 October 2024).
West, A. (2014) The Babadook and the monster of motherhood. Film Quarterly, 68(2), pp. 44-52.