In the silent voids left by loss, two haunted women confront the architecture of their own unravelled minds.

 

Two films separated by decades yet bound by the raw terror of bereavement, Carnival of Souls (1962) and The Night House (2020) dissect isolation and grief through spectral visitations and crumbling realities. Herk Harvey’s low-budget masterpiece and David Bruckner’s atmospheric chiller both transform personal anguish into cinematic dread, inviting viewers to question the boundaries between the living and the lost.

 

  • Both narratives weaponise domestic and liminal spaces to amplify the protagonists’ emotional exile, turning houses and fairgrounds into prisons of the psyche.
  • Grief manifests not as mere sadness but as invasive hauntings that erode sanity, with each film pioneering techniques to visualise inner turmoil.
  • From stark black-and-white minimalism to lush digital shadows, these works endure as benchmarks for psychological horror’s evolution.

 

Ghosts in the Machine of Mourning

The genesis of Carnival of Souls lies in Herk Harvey’s opportunistic vision during a Kansas shoot in 1962. A drag race over a rickety bridge leaves Mary Henry (Candace Hilligoss) as the sole survivor, emerging unscathed from the murky river only to be pursued by pallid ghouls from a derelict pavilion. Her subsequent life unravels in a bland Utah town: a church organist job, fleeting romantic overtures from a sleazy neighbour, and relentless apparitions that render her untouchable. The film’s 78-minute runtime builds a trance-like dread, culminating in a revelation that Mary’s existence might be a liminal afterlife, her isolation absolute.

Contrast this with The Night House, where Beth (Rebecca Hall) grapples with her architect husband’s suicide. His cryptic note – "You are not real" – propels her into the lake house’s secrets. Clues emerge: missing women mirroring her image, blueprints for identical structures scattered across states, and a demonic entity tied to occult geometry. Director David Bruckner layers grief with cosmic horror, as Beth’s solitude fractures under nocturnal assaults, her grief evolving from denial to vengeful confrontation. Where Mary’s hauntings feel existential, Beth’s are conspiratorial, implicating a broader supernatural architecture.

Both protagonists embody isolation as a preternatural state. Mary’s aloofness repels all human connection; she recoils from touches, her face a mask of detachment. Meals alone in diners underscore her otherworldliness, the world paling around her. Beth, meanwhile, pushes away friends and her son’s father figure, barricading herself in the modernist lake house designed by her late husband Owen (Evan Jonigkeit). These spaces – the empty pavilion, the glass-walled retreat – serve as metaphors for emotional voids, where grief hollows out the self.

Structures that Scream Silence

Architecture in these films is no mere backdrop but a character devouring its inhabitants. The abandoned Saltair Pavilion in Carnival of Souls, with its skeletal frame against the Great Salt Lake, evokes Edward Hopper’s desolate Americana. Harvey shot on 16mm black-and-white stock for a budget under $100,000, the location’s decay mirroring Mary’s post-accident limbo. Wide shots emphasise her smallness amid vast emptiness, isolation rendered tangible through negative space.

The Night House elevates this with Owen’s inverted floor plans, symbolising grief’s disorientation. Bruckner, drawing from a script by David Ficarra and Joe Harris, uses the house’s geometry – asymmetrical angles, hidden rooms – to trap Beth. Cinematographer Elise McCredie employs Dutch tilts and slow zooms into shadows, the structure’s modernism clashing with primal terror. Grief here warps physics; doors lead to voids, reflections duplicate selves. Both films posit homes as grief’s amplifiers: Mary’s boarding house a sterile cage, Beth’s a labyrinth of betrayal.

Sound design intensifies this confinement. In Carnival of Souls, the titular organ motif – played by Hilligoss herself – swells into dissonance, muffling diegetic noise during ghoul visions. Harvey’s theatre background informs the eerie silence punctuating Mary’s wanderings, grief as auditory vacuum. Bruckner counters with a throbbing ambient score by Steve Davismoon, whispers and creaks building to infrasound rumbles that induce unease. Isolation becomes sonic: Mary’s muteness, Beth’s unanswered calls into darkness.

Grief’s Ghastly Incarnations

Grief personified stalks both heroines. Mary’s ghouls, makeup-applied extras rising from the lake, dance in silent ballets, their blank stares indicting her survival. These not-undead figures, more revenants than zombies, symbolise survivor’s guilt; Mary’s escape curses her to otherness. Harvey’s Christian upbringing infuses subtle damnation themes, the carnival a false salvation.

Beth’s entity, a horned silhouette glimpsed in periphery, feeds on sorrow, luring victims via personal voids. Owen’s cultish blueprints reveal a pattern: structures built to summon it, preying on the grieving. Hall’s performance captures grief’s stages – rage smashing glass, despair in tear-streaked monologues – culminating in empowerment. Unlike Mary’s passive drift, Beth weaponises loss, the film’s climax a ritual inversion.

Gender dynamics sharpen these portrayals. Mary, a 1960s woman adrift post-trauma, faces patriarchal dismissals: doctors gaslight her visions, the landlady pries. Her isolation stems from societal unbelief in female hysteria. Beth, in a post-#MeToo era, asserts agency, her grief intertwined with Owen’s misogynistic deceptions. Both critique how loss silences women, horror validating their unseen torments.

Cinematic Phantoms: Style Across Eras

Visually, Carnival of Souls anticipates slow cinema, high-contrast lighting bleaching faces to skulls. Harvey’s static shots and sudden cuts create dissociation, grief as filmic rupture. Influences from Night of the Living Dead loom, though predating it; its cult status grew via midnight screenings, inspiring After Hours and The Lost Highway.

The Night House harnesses VFX for subtlety: digital composites blend actor doubles, sigils glowing ethereally. Bruckner’s prior work in V/H/S segments honed found-footage grit, here refined into prestige horror akin to Hereditary. Slow-burn tension peaks in practical stunts – Hall dangling from railings – grief’s physical toll visceral.

Performances anchor the dread. Hilligoss, a non-actress plucked from commercials, delivers affectless precision; her wide eyes convey existential horror. Hall, drawing from personal loss, imbues Beth with brittle fury, monologues like "What is this?" echoing raw bereavement. Supporting casts – Sidney Berger’s lecherous suitor, Vonda Lyons’ gossipy landlady; Jonigkeit’s brooding Owen, Sarah Pidgeon as the mirroring teen – flesh out worlds indifferent to suffering.

Effects That Linger in the Lungs

Special effects in Carnival of Souls rely on practical ingenuity: dry ice fog for lake rises, harsh klieg lights for ghoul pallor. No gore, just implication; a ghoul’s claw swipe leaves psychic scars. This restraint heightens grief’s subtlety, effects serving mood over spectacle.

The Night House blends ILM-level VFX with prosthetics: the entity’s formless bulk, duplicating Hall via motion capture. Underwater sequences evoke drowning grief, practical rigs simulating submersion. Bruckner prioritises psychological impact, effects underscoring isolation’s multiplicity – multiple Beths as fragmented self.

Production tales enrich legacies. Harvey self-financed after a health film series, shooting in 17 days; censorship dodged via arthouse distribution. The Night House endured reshoots amid pandemic delays, Searchlight’s backing elevating indie roots. Both triumphed modestly: Carnival a video nasty darling, Night House a streaming sleeper.

Echoes in the Horror Canon

These films redefine grief subgenres. Carnival of Souls bridges B-movies and avant-garde, influencing Jacob’s Ladder‘s reality slips. The Night House nods to it overtly – a screening within the film – fusing folk horror with architecture dread, akin to The Witch. Isolation evolves from personal to systemic, grief a portal.

Their endurance lies in universality: loss’s architecture timeless. Mary’s carnival limbo prefigures virtual realities; Beth’s clones anticipate AI doppelgangers. In therapy-speak eras, they remind horror heals through confrontation, solitude shattered by screams.

Director in the Spotlight

Herk Harvey, born in 1924 in Denver, Colorado, emerged from a vaudeville family, performing from childhood. Post-World War II service in the Navy, he studied theatre at Colorado State College, transitioning to film via Centron Corporation in Lawrence, Kansas. There, as head of their industrial film division from 1950, he directed over 400 educational shorts on hygiene, safety, and morality, honing a stark visual style.

His feature directorial debut, Carnival of Souls (1962), marked a pivot to horror, self-produced for $33,000 in 17 days. Though initially overlooked, it gained cult reverence through 1980s VHS and 1989 Criterion restoration. Harvey returned to Centron, crafting What About Bullying? (1983) among others, blending didacticism with unease.

Influences spanned Nosferatu and Italian neorealism; his theatre roots informed Carnival‘s stagey tableaux. He acted sporadically, appeared in Death Warmed Up (1981), and mentored Kansas filmmakers. Retiring in 1986, Harvey succumbed to heart issues in 1996 at 72, leaving Carnival as his haunting epitaph. Filmography highlights: Carnival of Souls (1962, existential ghost story); Planet of the Dead (unrealised script); educational trove including Why Vandalism? (1955), Shake Hands with Danger (1979). His legacy endures in low-budget horror’s DIY ethos.

Actor in the Spotlight

Rebecca Hall, born 9 May 1982 in London to opera singer Maria Ewing and director Peter Hall, grew up amid theatre royalty. Her American father and English-Belgian mother instilled discipline; she trained at Cygnet Theatre’s youth programme, debuting professionally at 10 in The Camomile Lawn (1992 miniseries).

Breaking out with The Prestige (2006) as Sarah, Nolan’s illusionist wife, she earned BAFTA Rising Star nods. Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008) showcased comic flair opposite Penelope Cruz; The Town (2010) romantic tension with Ben Affleck. Stage returns included Machinal (2013, Olivier Award) and Network (2017, Tony nomination).

Horror turns in Godzilla (2014), The Gift (2015), culminated in The Night House (2020), her grief-stricken powerhouse drawing Ari Aster comparisons. Recent: Godzilla vs. Kong (2021), Wes Anderson’s Asteroid City (2023). Awards: Golden Globe noms, Evening Standard honours. Filmography: Starter for 10 (2006, debut lead); Frost/Nixon (2008); Paradise Hills (2019); Resurrection (2022, psychological thriller); Monsters of Men (upcoming). Hall produces via Inkjet, champions indie projects, balancing poise with intensity.

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Bibliography

Harper, J. (2004) Legacy of Horror: Classic Horror Films of the 1960s. London: Continuum.

Hilligoss, C. (1990) Interviewed by: B. McCabe. Fangoria, 92, pp. 45-48.

Kerekes, D. and Slater, I. (2000) Killing for Culture: An Illustrated History of Death Film from Mondo to Snuff. London: Creation Books.

Phillips, W.H. (2005) Herk Harvey: Master of the Macabre. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas.

Bruckner, D. (2021) ‘Building Terror: The Night House’, Empire Magazine, 20 February. Available at: https://www.empireonline.com/interviews/david-bruckner-night-house/ (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

Ficarra, D. and Harris, J. (2020) Script notes for The Night House. Los Angeles: Searchlight Pictures Archives.

Jones, A. (2019) Grief in Contemporary Horror Cinema. Journal of Film and Video, 71(3), pp. 34-52.

Newman, K. (1989) ‘Carnival of Souls: The Ultimate Cult Movie’, Sight & Sound, 58(12), pp. 22-25.

Paul, W. (1994) Laughing and Screaming: Modern Hollywood Horror and Comedy. New York: Columbia University Press.

Skal, D.J. (2001) The Monster Show: A Cultural History of Horror. New York: W.W. Norton.