The Bare Witch Project

Rating: 10/10 (29 February 2016)

I approached this particular witch with caution. At first glance it appeared to be sharing DNA similar to that spooned from the same misfiring cauldron as two of my least favourite sub-genre outings of the past 15 years: M Night Shymalan's The Village and Ben Wheatley's A Field In England. The Buzz generated from early reviews & trailers promised the visual aesthetics of the former and theatrical bombastic lingo of the latter and I braced myself for another hyperbolic disappointment.
But I needn't have worried, as writer/director Robert Eggers debut effort delivers full on its promise with a slow burning historical tale of external evil manipulating internalised religious fervour to its ultimate sticky end.
The story involves a puritan family of seven ousted from the safety of their colony into a life of corn-crunching hardship in the fertile land of New England's past. But deep in the forest lurks an unspeakably malevolent force that wastes no time instigating a plan of destruction for its unsuspecting neighbours, and it isn't too long before finger pointing accusations of witchcraft begin and the ship of dread sets sail toward its unknowable, terrifying destination...
With more than a passing nod to lurid 70's classic Blood On Satan's Claw, Eggers' wicked 17th Century yarn is alarmingly brought to life by his informed ear for the period dialect and the remarkable DP work of his cameraman Janin Blaschke, whose lighting skills drain just enough colour from the landscape to make you believe we're right slap-back bang in the middle of pre-creature comforts 1630.
There's no shirking from the harsh day-to- day realities & tensions of these new/olde' puritans existence, but Eggers' screenplay never loses focus on their humanity as a real living, loving family unit either. As the dogmatic hubris of ingrained faith begins to tear them apart from within, the dynamics of the story stubbornly refuses to make snide, self-righteous judgements at their expense, so we always care about their survival even when it looks like things are heading to the point of no return.
Any whiff of archaic restraints imploding on the usage of Eggers' authentic dialogue is expertly staved off by a first-rate cast who deliver it with unforced conviction. Ralph Inesen and Kate Dickie as parents William and Katherine (respectively) are very fine indeed, but it's their brethren of offspring that steal the show with Harvey Scrimshaw's Caleb and star player Anya Taylor-Joy as Thomasin making the biggest splash via two of the most original and, not to mention, rudest sexual awakenings ever committed to a horror film.
And yes, The Witch is very much a horror film. Brooding atmosphere and disquieting menace take precedence over the urge to indulge the usual tired genre tropes, and the more conventionally minded patron seeking a roller-coaster broomstick ride might be put off by Eggers' steady, deliberate pacing. But when it's ready to get its hands dirty, out come the teeth and claws to reward your patience, not least by landing a jump scare I guarantee you will not see coming, but boy, will you feel it! This one isn't called The Witch for nothing.
Eggers' draws everything to a close via an orgasmic flash of perfectly timed delirium that, intentional or otherwise, hits a key visual beat from Logan's Run. The reference points don't stop there either as the eerier aspects of the iconic soundtracks for 2001 and The Shining are gleefully aped by composer Mark Korven's score. His music enhances the outlandish finale to such a spine tingling degree, you almost feel as though you've snuck a peek behind the magic curtain to witness one of the world's best kept secrets.
Voices of dissent have called out this ending as a step too far. But for me it's further proof of the movies balls and insurance against a branding from the dreaded 'Psychological Thriller' iron too.
The Witch is lean, mean and when it chooses to be, damn right nasty. By stepping back in time to the darkness of our past, Eggers' has sneaked the genre creeping and cackling into the 21st century with an entry to make you think twice about picnicking in the woods anytime soon. And to that, I raise a glass of bloody goat's milk. Cheers Phillip!