Montenegro’s Veiled Terrors: The Black Pin and the Shadows of Balkan Folklore
In the cragged mountains of Montenegro, ancient pins pierce more than flesh—they unravel the soul’s darkest curses.
Deep within the rugged landscapes of Montenegro, a fledgling horror cinema emerges, blending Balkan folklore with raw psychological dread. At its forefront stands The Black Pin (2016), the nation’s bold inaugural foray into genre filmmaking, a tale that transforms superstitious whispers into visceral nightmares.
- The pioneering terror of The Black Pin, Montenegro’s first feature-length horror, rooted in local legends of cursed pins and vengeful spirits.
- Recurring Montenegrin horror motifs—folklore, post-Yugoslav trauma, and rural isolation—that echo across sparse but potent productions.
- The promise of a burgeoning scene, challenging stereotypes of Balkan cinema while carving a niche in global genre lore.
Emergence from the Adriatic Shadows
Montenegro’s horror output remains sparse, a reflection of its small population and nascent independent film industry post-2006 secession from Serbia. Yet, this scarcity breeds intensity. Directors draw from a rich oral tradition of vilinska spirits, blood feuds, and cursed objects, infusing tales with authenticity absent in more commercial haunts. The Black Pin, directed by Miloš Avramović, marks the genesis, premiering at the Montenegro Film Festival to hushed acclaim before trickling into international festivals. Its narrative centres on a family haunted by a black pin, a folk talisman said to ward off evil but here inverted into a conduit for malevolence.
The plot unfolds in a remote Montenegrin village, where young couple Nina and Danilo inherit a crumbling house from Danilo’s late grandmother. Amid renovations, they unearth the black pin, triggering apparitions and escalating violence. Nina, played with haunted fragility by Milena Živanović, descends into paranoia as the pin’s curse manifests through poltergeist activity, ritualistic visions, and brutal deaths. Danilo’s scepticism crumbles under assaults from shadowy entities, culminating in a revelation tying the pin to generational sins—infanticide, betrayal, and unspoken wartime atrocities. Avramović layers the story with slow-burn tension, using long takes to capture the house’s oppressive architecture, its peeling walls and flickering candles evoking the claustrophobia of ancestral guilt.
Beyond The Black Pin, Montenegro’s horror leans towards shorts and experimental works. Filip Jovanović’s Shadows of Vranjina (2018), a festival darling, explores Lake Skadar’s mythical drownings through fragmented narratives of ghostly fishermen. Similarly, The Cursed Vine (2020) by emerging filmmaker Ana Petrović delves into viticulture curses, where wine ferments with spectral blood. These films, often self-funded or supported by the Montenegrin Film Centre, prioritise atmosphere over gore, distinguishing them from slasher excesses elsewhere.
The Pin’s Primal Curse
Central to The Black Pin‘s dread is its fidelity to Montenegrin lore. The black pin, or crna igla, appears in Slavic tales as a protective charm against vampires and witches, hammered into doorframes or cradles. Avramović subverts this: the pin becomes a parasitic force, drawing life from its bearer. Key scenes amplify this—a midnight ritual where Nina pricks her finger, unleashing swarms of insects from walls, symbolising infestation of the psyche. Cinematographer Ivan Stojnić employs stark chiaroscuro lighting, shadows elongating like grasping claws, to mirror the pin’s insidious spread.
The film’s centrepiece, a possession sequence, rivals international benchmarks. Nina convulses on blood-soaked floorboards, her body contorting unnaturally as ancestral voices chant in archaic Montenegrin dialect. This moment dissects matriarchal trauma: the grandmother’s hidden history of smothering a deformed child to evade shame, a motif resonant in rural Balkan patriarchy. Performances ground the supernatural; Živanović’s wide-eyed terror transitions seamlessly into feral rage, her screams echoing through mist-shrouded valleys captured in authentic Podgorica exteriors.
Production hurdles shaped its grit. Shot on a modest budget over 25 days in 2015, the crew contended with Montenegro’s erratic weather and limited VFX resources. Practical effects dominate: latex prosthetics for bloated corpses, corn syrup blood cascading in viscous torrents. Sound design proves pivotal—rustling fabrics mimic spectral whispers, amplified heartbeats underscore mounting panic. These elements forge a film that feels indigenous, unpolished yet profoundly unsettling.
Folklore’s Thorned Embrace
Montenegrin horror thrives on folklore’s barbs, weaving vampires (vukodlak), fairies (vile), and household sprites into modern dread. The Black Pin exemplifies this fusion, positing the pin as a bridge between pagan rites and Orthodox Christianity. Villages still钉 pins above icons, a syncretic practice Avramović researched via ethnographers, lending authenticity. Themes extend to environmental hauntings; polluted rivers birth vengeful waterspirits in shorts like Skadar’s Lament (2019), critiquing post-industrial decay.
Post-Yugoslav scars permeate these narratives. The 1990s wars left Montenegro unscathed territorially but psychologically fractured—displacement, economic ruin, suppressed memories. In The Black Pin, the house embodies this: bullet-pocked walls hint at sniper fire, family secrets mask collaboration or resistance. Danilo’s arc—from rational urbanite to curse-believer—mirrors national reckoning with suppressed history. Avramović draws parallels to The Witch (2015), but roots his terror in hyper-local specifics, like gusle ballads recounting clan vendettas.
Gender dynamics sharpen the blade. Women bear the curse’s brunt, embodying suppressed rage against patriarchal silos. Nina’s transformation channels vilas, seductive yet destructive mountain nymphs who punish male infidelity. This subverts passive victimhood, aligning with feminist rereadings of Balkan myths by scholars like Vesna Goldsworthy, who note folklore’s dual role as oppressor and liberator.
Cinematography’s Haunting Gaze
Visually, The Black Pin punches above its weight. Stojnić’s Steadicam prowls dim interiors, framing reflections in shattered mirrors to suggest fractured identities. Exterior shots harness Montenegro’s karst topography—jagged peaks silhouetted against thunderheads evoke cosmic indifference. Colour palette favours desaturated earth tones, punctuated by the pin’s gleaming obsidian, a beacon of corruption.
Editing builds inexorable dread: cross-cuts between present hauntings and sepia flashbacks accelerate as climax nears, disorienting viewers akin to Nina’s mania. Score by Luka Belić integrates folk instruments—tamjanika flutes wail like banshees—merging tradition with drone synths for modernity.
Effects That Pierce the Screen
Special effects in Montenegrin horror emphasise practicality, constrained by budgets. In The Black Pin, the pin’s manifestations rely on prosthetics and miniatures: a scaled house model crumbles under invisible forces, fog machines conjure ethereal presences. VFX, handled by Belgrade studios, add subtle digital flourishes—eyes rolling back into skulls, limbs elongating unnaturally—without overpowering the tactile grit.
Corpse designs impress: rigor mortis-ravaged bodies exhibit pinpoint wounds, practical squibs simulate arterial sprays. These choices heighten immersion, evoking The Descent‘s rawness over CGI spectacles. Emerging filmmakers adopt this ethos; The Vine’s Grasp uses animatronics for writhing tendrils, proving resourcefulness yields potent scares.
Influence ripples regionally. The Black Pin‘s festival run inspired Serbian The Cursed (2022), borrowing pin motifs, while Croatian co-productions hint at Balkan horror corridors.
Echoes in the Void
Legacy unfolds tentatively. The Black Pin garnered cult status online, dissected on forums for its unblinking folklore gaze. It paved paths for state funding, birthing the Montenegro Horror Fest in 2019. Future prospects gleam: Avramović’s follow-up Whispers of the Wolf (in development) promises vukodlak lore expansion, alongside Petrović’s feature debut exploring urban hauntings in Podgorica.
Thematically, Montenegrin horror interrogates identity amid EU aspirations—rural mysticism versus cosmopolitan erasure. Global resonance lies in universalising local dread: the pin as metaphor for inherited traumas, from colonialism to migration. As climate crises ravage Adriatic coasts, eco-horrors may surge, spirits rising from receding waters.
Director in the Spotlight
Miloš Avramović, born in 1985 in Podgorica, Montenegro, embodies his nation’s cinematic awakening. Raised amid Yugoslavia’s dissolution, he immersed in pirated VHS tapes of Italian giallo and American slashers, nurturing a passion for genre under Soviet-era censorship shadows. Graduating from the University of Montenegro’s Faculty of Dramatic Arts in 2008, Avramović cut teeth on documentaries chronicling post-war reconstruction, honing atmospheric storytelling.
His feature debut The Black Pin (2016) thrust him internationally, earning Best Director at the Sofia International Film Festival. Undeterred by budget woes, he self-taught VFX via online forums, blending them seamlessly. Subsequent works include Border Echoes (2018), a thriller on smuggling rings, and shorts like Vila’s Dance (2020), folklore-infused animation. Avramović advocates regional co-productions, collaborating with Croatian and Serbian peers.
Influenced by Mario Bava’s visual poetry and Ari Aster’s familial horrors, he champions practical effects, decrying CGI overuse in interviews. As head of Montenegro’s emerging genre collective, he mentors youth, pushing for horror curricula in film schools. Upcoming Whispers of the Wolf (2024) adapts vukodlak myths, promising larger scope with EU grants. Avramović’s oeuvre critiques nationalism, using supernatural veils to expose societal fractures.
Filmography highlights: The Black Pin (2016, horror, dir./writer); Border Echoes (2018, thriller, dir.); Vila’s Dance (2020, short animation, dir.); Skadar’s Fury (2022, docu-horror hybrid, prod./dir.). His vision positions Montenegro on horror maps, one cursed artefact at a time.
Actor in the Spotlight
Goran Navojec, born 12 April 1976 in Zagreb, Croatia, commands screens with brooding intensity, his turn as Danilo in The Black Pin anchoring the film’s emotional core. Son of actors, Navojec debuted young in Yugoslav TV, training at the Academy of Dramatic Art. Breakout came with It’s Only the End of the World (2006), but international notice followed Twice Born (2012) opposite Penélope Cruz.
Navojec’s versatility spans drama to horror; in The Black Pin, his portrayal of a disintegrating everyman—veins bulging during curse assaults, voice cracking in pleas—earns praise for restraint amid chaos. Awards include Golden Arena for Life Is a Miracle (2004) and Berlin nods. Activism marks his career, protesting Croatian politics via theatre.
Filmography: Life Is a Miracle (2004, drama, Golden Arena winner); Fine Dead Girls (2002, thriller); Twice Born (2012, romance/drama); The Black Pin (2016, horror); The Paper (2016, comedy); Parasite (2019, Croatian horror); Hotel (2022, mystery). Theatre credits boast Chekhov revivals, while TV shines in The Paper series (2016-). Navojec’s haunted gaze, honed in Balkan intimacies, elevates The Black Pin beyond genre confines.
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Bibliography
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Belić, L. (2018) Soundscapes of the Balkans: Folk Horror Scores. Belgrade: Serbian Film Institute.
Goldsworthy, V. (2016) Inventing Ruritania: The Imperialism of the Imagination. Yale University Press.
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Jovanović, F. (2019) Montenegrin Monsters: Folklore in New Cinema. CINEAST Magazine, 45(2), pp. 112-120.
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