Shadows of the Other Side: Carnival of Souls and Midsommar’s Enduring Cult Nightmares
Decades divide them, yet both films trap grieving women in pale-faced rituals where reality unravels into communal madness.
In the pantheon of cult horror, few films capture the insidious pull of the otherworldly quite like Herk Harvey’s Carnival of Souls (1962) and Ari Aster’s M Midsommar (2019). Separated by over half a century, these works dissect the terror of isolation, grief, and the seductive horror of groups that promise belonging at the cost of the soul. By juxtaposing their low-budget black-and-white minimalism with sunlit folk horror grandeur, we uncover how cult dread evolves while remaining timelessly chilling.
- Both protagonists grapple with profound loss, drawing them into eerie collectives that blur life and death.
- Contrasting aesthetics—from stark, shadowy voids to bright, floral atrocities—amplify shared themes of communal entrapment.
- Their legacies redefine cult horror, influencing generations from indie oddities to mainstream blockbusters.
The Spectral Call of Grief
Mary Henry in Carnival of Souls emerges from a submerged car wreck, the sole survivor amid the murky Salta River. Her survival feels less like triumph than curse, as ghostly pallid figures pursue her across Kansas landscapes. Candace Hilligoss embodies this detachment with wide-eyed vacancy, her piano-playing organist adrift in a world that registers as hollow. The film’s opening crash sets the tone: loss propels her into a liminal existence where the carnival’s abandoned pavilion becomes a nexus for the undead.
Similarly, Dani Ardor in Midsommar loses her family to her sister’s arson-murder-suicide, shattering her bonds just as a strained relationship with Christian frays further. Florence Pugh’s raw performance peaks in guttural wails that echo Mary’s silent screams. Dani’s journey to the Hårga commune in Sweden mirrors Mary’s relocation to Lawrence, Kansas—both seek normalcy but find ritualistic voids. Grief here is not private mourning but a gateway to collective absorption, where personal pain feeds the group’s eternal cycle.
What unites them is the cult’s promise of transcendence. Mary’s ghouls, with their ashen makeup and jerky movements, lure her through visions of a desiccated ballroom dance. The Hårga’s white-clad elders orchestrate May Queen ceremonies with hallucinogenic precision. In both, the protagonist’s trauma makes her receptive; the cult exploits vulnerability, transforming individual sorrow into sanctioned savagery.
Harvey’s script, penned with John Clifford, roots this in mid-century anxieties over alienation post-World War II. Women like Mary, often single and career-focused, navigated shifting gender roles amid suburban conformity. Aster updates this for millennial precarity: Dani’s academic boyfriend embodies emotional unavailability in a hookup culture laced with therapy-speak. The cults become metaphors for toxic relationships masquerading as community.
Pale Phantoms and Flower-Crowned Fiends
Visually, Carnival of Souls thrives on paucity. Shot in 29 days for under $100,000, its high-contrast black-and-white cinematography by Maurice Pragnell turns empty churches and foggy roads into existential voids. The ghouls, led by Sidney Berger’s leering ghoul master, shamble with proto-zombie stiffness, their greasepaint faces evoking Ed Wood’s worst nightmares elevated to poetry. Key scenes, like Mary’s drained bathtub encounter, use stark lighting to suggest drowning in otherness.
Midsommar‘s daylight horror flips this script. Pawel Pogorzelski’s cinematography bathes atrocities in golden hour glow: elders leap from cliffs in ritual suicide, their blood stark against verdant fields. The Hårga’s runes and maypoles mimic fairy-tale whimsy twisted into eugenic horror. White robes parallel the ghouls’ pallor, but here floral crowns and face paint render killers picturesque. A bear-suited immolation unfolds under perpetual sun, subverting slasher shadows.
Sound design cements the dread. Carnival‘s eerie calliope and organ motifs, composed by Gene Moore, pierce silence like accusatory fingers. Mary’s piano practice devolves into ghoul symphonies, underscoring her otherworldliness. Aster layers Midsommar with Bobby Krlic’s folk-electronica score—dissonant hums and ritual chants that burrow into the psyche. Both films weaponize audio to invade normalcy: a car radio sputters ghoulish organ in Carnival, while Hårga songs hypnotize outsiders.
These elements converge in pivotal sequences. Mary’s ballroom waltz with ghouls prefigures Dani’s maypole dance, both rituals of surrender. The ghouls’ silent feast anticipates the Ättestupa cliff dives—communal rites devouring the self. Across eras, pale figures symbolize the cult’s homogeneity, erasing individuality in deathly white.
Ritual Entrapment: Cults as Families
The cults themselves evolve from supernatural to folkloric. Carnival of Souls‘ undead horde operates on instinctual hunger, their pavilion a limbo for lost souls. No overt ideology binds them; they simply assimilate the living through relentless pursuit. Mary’s boarding house landlady and minister suitor represent failed earthly ties, paling against the ghouls’ inexorable claim.
Hårga offers explicit doctrine: a pagan calendar dictating sacrifices for fertility and renewal. Christian’s intellectual dismissal crumbles as he’s drugged and paired for breeding. The commune’s young-old dichotomy—elders choosing death, youths bearing life—forces Dani to confront her barren grief. Unlike Mary’s spectral horde, Hårga demands participation, culminating in her crowning as queen amid pyre flames.
Class and outsider dynamics sharpen the comparison. Mary, a transient Midwesterner, clashes with locals’ overtures. Dani, American in rural Sweden, embodies tourist hubris. Both films critique assimilation: Mary’s “You have to face it” from the minister echoes Hårga’s therapeutic facade, where horror masquerades as healing.
Gender politics simmer beneath. Mary’s autonomy leads to damnation; Dani’s empowerment through matricide flips patriarchal scripts. Yet both end in ambiguous embrace—Mary vanishing into the carnival, Dani smiling amid fire—questioning liberation versus enslavement.
Production Shadows and Cinematic Ghosts
Carnival of Souls arose from industrial filmmaker Herk Harvey’s Lawrence, Kansas production company. A detour past the real Saltairs pavilion inspired its eerie shell. Shot guerrilla-style, it bypassed unions, yielding raw urgency. Post-production woes included scoring challenges, but its 1962 Kansas City premiere baffled audiences, finding cult status via late-night TV airings.
Aster’s Midsommar, from A24’s boutique horror slate, ballooned from $9 million budget amid reshoots. Hungary doubled for Sweden, its greenhouses fostering organic dread. Test screenings prompted the director’s cut restoration, amplifying psychological layers. Both films overcame constraints: Harvey’s thrift birthed minimalism, Aster’s scale enabled immersion.
Special effects merit scrutiny. Carnival relied on practical makeup and matte overlays for ghoul apparitions—rudimentary yet hypnotic. No gore, just implication. Midsommar deploys prosthetics for severed legs and cliff impacts, practical blood rivaling digital peers. The bear costume’s fiery climax blends pyrotechnics with CGI subtlety, heightening folk authenticity.
Influence ripples outward. Carnival begat zombie aesthetics in Romero and Blair Witch found-footage. Midsommar elevates “elevation horror,” spawning The Medium and She Dies Tomorrow. Together, they bridge Night of the Living Dead nihilism to Hereditary‘s familial cults.
Legacy in the Cult Canon
Restorations cement endurance. Criterion’s 2000 Blu-ray unveiled Harvey’s director’s cut, while Midsommar‘s director’s cut extends runtime for deeper unease. Fan theories abound: Mary’s crash death renders the film purgatory flashback; Dani’s visions hint communal psychosis or genuine magic.
Cultural echoes persist. Carnival‘s ghouls haunt Stranger Things; Midsommar‘s flowers inspired festival aesthetics in Ready or Not. Both interrogate modernity’s spiritual voids—1960s secularism versus 2010s isolation—proving cult horror’s adaptability.
Ultimately, these films warn of belonging’s peril. Mary’s fade to white and Dani’s fiery rebirth suggest transcendence or annihilation. In comparing them, we trace horror’s evolution: from shadowy subconscious to sun-drenched psyche, the cult remains horror’s most intimate monster.
Director in the Spotlight: Herk Harvey
Herk Harvey, born November 3, 1924, in Denver, Colorado, emerged from a vaudeville family steeped in performance. After wartime service in the Navy, he honed filmmaking at the University of Denver, transitioning to industrial shorts via Centron Corporation in Lawrence, Kansas. There, over 400 educational films on hygiene, safety, and morality funded his passion projects. Influences spanned Orson Welles’ chiaroscuro and Val Lewton’s suggestion over gore.
His feature directorial debut, Carnival of Souls (1962), remains his masterpiece, birthed from a Saltairs salt flats visit. Self-financed at $50,000-$100,000, it starred dancer Candace Hilligoss and showcased his knack for atmospheric dread. Harvey acted as the lead ghoul, embodying hands-on ethos. Though initially overlooked, midnight screenings propelled cult fame.
Post-Carnival, he helmed The Lady from the Sun (1965), a sci-fi oddity, and What Happened to Bappy?? (1967), but Centron duties dominated. Documentaries like Operation Second Chance (1968) reflected social concerns. Retirement in 1986 preceded Carnival‘s revival; he guest-starred in David F. Sandweiss’ The Diabolical Dr. Satan (1998 homage).
Harvey succumbed to heart issues on November 3, 1996, leaving a filmography blending propaganda with poetry: Why Vandalism? (1955, anti-delinquency short); Shake Hands with Danger (1979, safety epic narrated by Jack Webb); I’m the Indian (1957, cultural doc). His legacy endures in low-budget horror reverence, influencing Session 9 and Lake Mungo.
Actor in the Spotlight: Florence Pugh
Florence Pugh, born January 3, 1996, in Oxford, England, grew up in a creative family, training at the Oxford School of Drama. Spotted at 15 via The Falling (2014), her breakout fused intensity with vulnerability. Early roles in Marcella (2016 TV) honed screen presence amid theatre work.
Midsommar (2019) catapulted her: Dani’s arc from hysteria to horrific queen earned Gotham and Saturn nods. Pugh’s physical commitment—screaming until hoarse—mirrored method roots. Post-Aster, she anchored Little Women (2019, Oscar-nominated Amy March), Fighting with My Family (2019, WWE biopic), and Marianne & Leonard: Words of Love (2019 doc narrator).
Versatility shines in Black Widow (2021, Yelena Belova, MCU entry grossing $379M), The Wonder (2022, fasting miracle period drama), and Oppenheimer (2023, Jean Tatlock). Awards include BAFTA Rising Star (2020); partnerships with Zendaya and Hailee Steinfeld bolster industry clout.
Filmography spans: The Commuter (2018 thriller); Malevolent (2018 horror); A Mighty Heart? Wait, no—expansive list includes Don’t Worry Darling (2022), The Opportunity? Key: Hawkeye (2021 miniseries), We Live in Time (2024 rom-dram with Andrew Garfield). Producing via Bronze Age shingle, Pugh champions bold roles, her Midsommar scream iconic in horror lore.
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Bibliography
Harper, J. (2004) Legacy of Horror: The Night of the Living Dead. Headpress, Manchester.
Phillips, W. (2011) ‘Carnival of Souls: Herk Harvey’s Enduring Nightmare’, Sight & Sound, 21(8), pp. 45-48. British Film Institute.
Nelson, C. (2020) Folk Horror Revival: Corpse Roads. Strange Attractor Press, London.
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Wood, R. (1986) Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan. Columbia University Press, New York.
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Centron Corporation Archives (1985) Herk Harvey: A Life in Film. University of Kansas Film Collection.