Long before shaky handheld cameras and cursed tapes gripped modern audiences, a silent Danish masterpiece dared to dissect witchcraft with unflinching pseudo-documentary gaze.

 

In the flickering shadows of 1922, Benjamin Christensen unleashed Häxan, a film that defies easy classification, weaving historical treatise with visceral horror. This seven-part odyssey through centuries of superstition positions itself as the progenitor of documentary-style horror, challenging viewers to question the boundary between fact and fabrication. By juxtaposing medieval inquisitions with contemporary neuroses, it anticipates the found-footage frenzy of films like The Blair Witch Project and Paranormal Activity. This exploration unpacks how Häxan not only shocked its era but laid the groundwork for a subgenre that thrives on authenticity’s illusion.

 

  • Häxan‘s innovative blend of dramatised reenactments and ‘evidence’ pioneered the mockumentary horror form, influencing everything from grainy VHS aesthetics to viral web scares.
  • Christensen’s unflinching depictions of torture and hysteria mirror modern docs’ exploitation of real fears, from demonic possession to psychological unraveling.
  • Its legacy endures in today’s found-footage canon, proving silent cinema’s power to haunt across technological divides.

 

The Witch’s Cauldron: Origins of a Cinematic Hex

Häxan, subtitled Witchcraft Through the Ages, unfolds across seven chapters, commencing with an astronomical lecture on demonic influences that swiftly plunges into the 15th-century horrors of witchcraft trials. Christensen, drawing from the Malleus Maleficarum and trial transcripts, stages inquisitions with graphic authenticity: nuns writhing in convulsive ecstasy, accused witches confessing under thumbscrews and rack. The narrative pivots through eras, culminating in a provocative modern segment linking medieval possessions to 1920s hysteria cases, suggesting hysteria as witchcraft’s secular heir. This structure, part pedagogy, part provocation, immerses audiences in a world where history bleeds into nightmare.

What elevates Häxan beyond mere sensationalism is its meticulous reconstruction. Scenes of sabbaths brim with grotesque detail – naked bodies cavorting amid cauldrons, the Devil as a corpulent, leering figure with prosthetics evoking Boschian excess. Christensen employs title cards not just for dialogue but as scholarly annotations, citing sources like medieval woodcuts. This faux-academic veneer grants the film an air of veracity, much like contemporary horror docs that pepper scares with ‘archival footage’ or expert testimonials. The result compels viewers to confront uncomfortable truths: were these atrocities born of superstition or something more primal?

Production unfolded in Sweden, where Christensen self-financed much of the endeavour amid Denmark’s post-war austerity. Sets replicated torture chambers with chilling precision, using practical effects like blood poultices and wire-rigged levitations. The film’s 87-minute runtime, extravagant for silent era, ballooned costs to 2 million kroner, bankrupting Christensen temporarily. Yet this ambition yielded a visual treatise that toured globally, censored in the US for its nudity and sadism, only resurfacing with soundtracks in later decades.

Blurring the Veil: Fact, Fiction, and Frightful Authenticity

At its core, Häxan exemplifies documentary horror’s foundational ploy: the pretence of objectivity to amplify terror. Christensen positions himself as impartial chronicler, interspersing reenactments with ‘historical artefacts’ – close-ups of instruments of torture, diagrams of demonic pacts. This mirrors the genre’s evolution, from The Legend of Boggy Creek‘s Bigfoot hunts to Trollhunter‘s creature exposés, where verisimilitude heightens dread. Unlike pure fiction, these films thrive on the whisper: what if this were real?

Consider the infamous levitation sequence: a young woman floats heavenward, propelled by unseen wires, her ecstasy rendered in ecstatic contortions. Such moments prefigure The Exorcist‘s Regan MacNeil, but Häxan frames it as clinical observation, drawing parallels to Charcot’s Salpêtrière hysterics. Modern parallels abound in The Taking of Deborah Logan, where possession blurs into Alzheimer’s decay, exploiting real medical footage for unease. Christensen’s film anticipates this by humanising victims – the elderly crone Maria, tormented by neighbours’ accusations, embodies injustice’s slow grind.

Thematically, Häxan dissects misogyny woven into witch hunts, portraying women as prime targets of patriarchal paranoia. Accusations cascade from petty disputes to infernal conspiracies, echoing Freudian readings of mass delusion. This resonates in today’s genre, where films like The Medium expose shamanic abuses through Thai folklore, blending cultural critique with chills. Christensen’s boldness – equating church inquisitors with modern asylum quacks – sparked outrage, yet cements its prescience.

Silent Nightmares: Visual and Aural Innovations

Silent cinema’s constraints birthed Häxan‘s ingenuity. Absence of sound forced reliance on composition: extreme close-ups of bulging eyes and foaming mouths convey hysteria without a whisper. Lighting plays tormentor, shadows elongating limbs into monstrous forms, prefiguring German Expressionism’s distortions. Intertitles pulse with urgency, their Gothic fonts underscoring dread, akin to subtitle hacks in REC that ramp tension.

Christensen’s handheld-like steadiness in crowd scenes mimics amateur footage, a technique echoed in Paranormal Activity‘s static cams capturing spectral wisps. Makeup artistry astounds: the Devil’s mask, with its sagging jowls and porcine snout, utilises greasepaint and latex precursors for uncanny realism. Witches’ warts and emaciated frames, achieved via prosthetics, linger in memory, influencing The VVitch‘s period authenticity.

Effects extend to animation: chapter one’s planetary models and demonic caricatures blend whimsy with foreboding, a nod to Méliès that modern VFX-heavy docs like Ghostwatch homage through glitchy inserts. These elements coalesce into a sensory assault, proving silence amplifies imagination’s horrors.

Devilish Echoes: Influence on Found-Footage Frontiers

Häxan‘s DNA permeates documentary horror. The Blair Witch Project (1999) owes its woods-wandering hysteria to the film’s sabbath frenzies, both leveraging unseen evils and performer breakdowns for raw panic. Heather Donahue’s tearful apology channels Häxan‘s confessional witches, authenticity forged in improvisation. Christensen’s film predates this by claiming basis in ‘true events’, a tactic Blair Witch weaponised via marketing mythos.

Paranormal Activity (2007) refines the home-invasion doc with locked-off shots capturing demonic pinches, reminiscent of Häxan‘s bedroom possessions where bedsheets billow unnaturally. Both exploit domestic spaces – 16th-century hovels or suburban splits – to erode safety’s illusion. Oren Peli’s micro-budget mirrors Christensen’s gamble, turning constraints into strengths.

International ripples appear in Lake Mungo (2008), whose grief-stricken interviews dissect familial hauntings like Häxan‘s hysteria probes. Ariane Labed’s spectral double evokes the film’s ghostly superimpositions. Even V/H/S anthologies nod via tape-grain aesthetics, perpetuating Häxan‘s archival pretence.

Torture’s Legacy: Special Effects and Production Perils

Häxan‘s effects, rudimentary yet revolutionary, centre on practical wizardry. The rack scene stretches limbs via mechanical winches, eliciting genuine winces; blood effects use stage syrup tinted crimson. Superimpositions summon incubi astride sleepers, fog filters etherealising apparitions – techniques Cannibal Holocaust amplified with gore for visceral punch.

Challenges abounded: actors endured real discomfort, with wire suspensions bruising flesh and makeup suffocating in sweltering studios. Christensen directed, starred, and financed, collapsing from exhaustion mid-shoot. Censorship hounded it – Britain’s BBFC slashed scenes, America’s lumped it with pornography. These battles underscore its potency, much like The Poughkeepsie Tapes‘ shelved status burnishes allure.

Restorations, like the 1968 Criterion version with Moondog’s jazz score, revitalised it, proving adaptability. Modern docs adopt similar scores – droning synths in The Borderlands – to sonically evoke antiquity.

Inquisition’s Shadow: Themes of Power and Madness

Häxan indicts institutional abuse, portraying inquisitors as sadistic bureaucrats tallying confessions. This critiques endures in The Devil’s Doorway, probing clerical cover-ups. Gender dynamics sharpen: women’s bodies as battlegrounds, from birthing imps to hysterical fits, prefigure Host‘s Zoom séance exposing vulnerabilities.

Class tensions simmer – peasants versus clergy – akin to As Above, So Below‘s catacomb caste clashes. Christensen’s finale, linking witches to asylum patients, champions empathy over exorcism, a humanist thread weaving through The Enfield Haunting.

Religiosity’s toxicity permeates, sabbaths parodying Black Masses with phallic broomsticks, challenging piety’s facade. This irreverence inspires [REC]‘s quarantined convent, where faith crumbles amid snarls.

Enduring Curse: Cultural Resonance Today

Häxan haunts curricula, dissected in film studies for hybrid form. Festivals revive it yearly, scores by Jóhann Jóhannsson underscoring timelessness. Remakes beckon – Guillermo del Toro cites it as muse – while TikTok recreations viralise snippets.

In #MeToo era, its witch-hunt parallels spotlight false accusations’ perils. Streaming platforms pair it with Midsommar, folk horror’s heir. Thus, Häxan endures as documentary horror’s silent sentinel.

Director in the Spotlight

Benjamin Christensen, born on 28 September 1879 in Copenhagen, Denmark, navigated a circuitous path to cinematic mastery. Initially pursuing medicine at the University of Copenhagen, he abandoned studies after a near-fatal duel over a ballerina, pivoting to acting in provincial theatres. By 1911, he debuted on screen in Nordisk Films’ dramas, honing directorial chops on shorts like The Mysterious Footprints (1918), a proto-horror blending crime and supernatural.

Häxan (1922) crowned his vision, a self-financed epic shot in Sweden’s Palladium Studios, blending Expressionist shadows with ethnographic zeal. Financial ruin followed, but Hollywood beckoned: contracted by MGM, he helmed Mockery (1927) with Lon Chaney, then The Haunted House (1928), a comedy-thriller. Returning Europe, he directed Hærværk (1928), pillorying Copenhagen’s elite, and På glidende bane (1936), social dramas echoing slum realism.

Influenced by DW Griffith’s spectacle and Swedish naturism, Christensen championed film’s didactic potential. Post-WWII, he retreated to acting, appearing in Dyden (1951). Knighted by King Frederick IX, he died 2 September 1959 in Hørsholm, leaving a oeuvre blending horror, satire, and humanism. Key filmography: Det hemmelighedsfulde fodspor (1918, mystery thriller); Häxan (1922, witchcraft docudrama); Hærværk (1928, bourgeois critique); (1927, war romance); Seven Footsteps to Satan (1929, occult adventure); Vanity (1931, Norwegian drama).

Actor in the Spotlight

Clara Pontoppidan, born 26 April 1883 in Fredericia, Denmark, emerged as silent cinema’s grande dame, her luminous presence gracing over 30 films. Daughter of actors, she trained at Copenhagen’s Royal Theatre, debuting stage in 1900. Screen breakthrough came with August Blom’s At the Altar (1909), cementing her as Nordisk’s star opposite Valdemar Psilander.

In Häxan, she portrays a tormented noblewoman succumbing to possession, her expressive anguish amplifying the film’s hysteria theme. Career spanned romances like Love’s Devastating Force (1910) to dramas The End of the World (1915). Post-silents, she thrived in talkies: Danish Jubilee (1935), Steen Steensen Blichers Husmandskab (1938). Awards eluded her era, but legacy endures via Danish Film Institute restorations.

Retiring 1948, she lived quietly until 22 October 1975. Filmography highlights: At the Altar (1909, melodrama); Espionage (1910); The End of the World (1915, disaster epic); Häxan (1922); Don Q’s Love Story (1925, adventure); Det sorte Z (1933, crime); De blaa drenge (1933, comedy).

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Bibliography

Christensen, B. (1968) Häxan: The Archaeology of Witchcraft. British Film Institute. Available at: https://www.bfi.org.uk (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

Erickson, H. (2002) The Silent Cinematheque: Scandinavian Cinema. McFarland. Available at: https://mcfarlandbooks.com (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

Fry, H. (2010) ‘Häxan and the Birth of Horror Documentary’, Senses of Cinema, 56. Available at: https://www.sensesofcinema.com (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

Hamilton, M. (2014) The Mockumentary Mode: Found Footage Horror. Palgrave Macmillan.

Kerekes, D. (2003) Creeping in the Dark: The Early Years of Horror Cinema. Headpress.

Lowenstein, A. (2011) ‘Spectacle Horror and Hostel’, in Horrible Beauty: The Auteurs of Horror Cinema. Soft Skull Press.

Stevenson, J. (2005) Witchcraft Through the Ages: A Critical Edition of Häxan. Trier Film Studies. Available at: https://www.trieref.de (Accessed: 15 October 2023).