Spanish Folk Horror：The utilization of horror to confront the political traumas of the past is a global mode of address

Obviously, to define “folk horror” is a complex endeavor. Even more, if we consider that this categorization greatly stems from Mark Gatiss’ documentary series A History of Horror (2010). Thus, its definitions are abundant and multifarious. Dawn Keetley points out that some define folk horror as the conflict between a primitive conceptualization of the universe and modernity. This idea, typically associated with the rural world is based on “the repository of (often orally transmitted) folk traditions and rituals”.

Adam Scovell, for his part, offers a far more complex approach, defining what he calls a “folk horror chain,” that is, a story with three different steps. First, there is “topography,” which must be singular enough to permit a second stage, the “isolation” of the protagonists. These first two steps trigger the “skewed belief systems and morality” in all or some of the protagonists. This latter situation drives the story to the third step: the “happening/summoning” – a typically violent resolution.

Historically, Dawn Keetley establishes two crucial moments in the history of folk horror: 1970s and 2010s. In both eras, Spanish cinema explored this subgenre. In the 1970s, the possibility of utilizing popular legends was a very attractive strategy since filmmakers could hide or, at least, veil their political critique of the dictatorship and escape censorship. In this scenario, Spanish television fiction is particularly significant. In national channel TVE2, the young students of the Escuela Oficial de Cine and their associates would improve their craft in programs such as Cuentos y leyendas (1972–1976). Often, they would adapt authors like Eça de Queiroz’ El tesoro (Jesús Fernández Santos, 1974), or María Zayas’ Inocencia castigada (Alfonso Ungría, 1975).

In the cinematic field, Jesús Franco, León Klimovsky or Armando de Ossorio would tread on similar grounds mixing icons of English-speaking gothic horror and erotism. Even though these films were perhaps less politically engaged than their televisual counterparts, this cinema did express the terror of a seemingly never-ending and inevitable dictatorship in a visceral fashion. In terms of folk horror, the most remarkable filmmaker is Armando de Ossorio with his Blind Dead Tetralogy, which starts with La noche del terror ciego/Tombs of the Blind Dead (Armando de Ossorio, 1972). The film focuses on a group of Knights Templar who, additionally, are zombies.

In the second era specified by Keetley, starting in 2010, folk horror reappears strongly in Spain again. Perhaps, it is due to the influence of English-speaking cinematic trends and cycles. It could also be argued that the abundance of folk horror titles reflects one of the main preoccupations of 21st-century Spain: how to halt the unrelenting process of depopulation in rural areas, the so-called “Empty Spain.” It is also important to remark that the specific idiosyncrasy of the Spanish political scenario favors this kind of production, since filmmakers who focus on local stories, legends and communities can get funding from diverse local and regional institutions. It does not seem accidental that Galicia and the Basque Country are the two regions in which this subgenre has reached the highest popularity.

The ineffable Julio Fernández (Filmax & Fantastic Factory) has been a pioneer in producing films that utilize his native rural Galicia as backdrop. Romasanta: The Werewolf Hunt (Paco Plaza, 2004) is based on a real event. It depicts the life and death of Manuel Blanco Romasanta, El Hombre Lobo de Allariz (the Werewolf of Allariz), considered one of the first serial killers in Spanish history. Previously, in 1968, Pedro Olea had already brought this story to the cinematic screens with El bosque del lobo/The Wolf’s Forest (1970).

The film takes place in 1851, a time when rural Galicia is struggling to embrace modernity. María (Manu Valdivieso), her sister Bárbara (Elsa Pataky) and María’s daughter Teresa (Luna McGill), who is mute, reside in an isolated mountain house. Their tranquility is disrupted by the discovery of brutally dismembered bodies in the vicinity. Meanwhile, the three women yearn to escape their home, with María and Bárbara infatuated with Manuel (Julian Sands), a traveling peddler and scribe who provides his services to the illiterate villagers. Manuel convinces María that science may cure Teresa’s muteness, prompting her to agree to accompany him to Santander to seek treatment, leaving Bárbara behind. Unbeknownst to them, Manuel is the killer responsible for the gruesome murders, and they will never reach their destination.

Meanwhile, District Attorney Luciano de la Bastida (Gary Piquer) hires Professor Philips (David Gant), an alienist who employs a deductive approach reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes to investigate the killings. The film draws a clear contrast between superstition and science, as the two worldviews compete to solve the enigmatic murders. Philips dismisses the supernatural aspect of the crimes, and Manuel also presents science as the solution to Teresa’s condition.

The film’s conclusion is not just about Manuel’s apprehension; it also shows his trial for the murder of fifteen people. During his trial, Manuel, or Romasanta, claims that he was cursed, but Professor Philips diagnoses him with “lycanthropy.”

As a result, the film does not entirely clarify whether he is mentally ill or the victim of a demonic curse. In the closing intertitles, it is revealed that Queen Elizabeth II commuted Romasanta’s death sentence to life imprisonment after learning about Philips’ diagnosis. This suggests that science was gradually making progress in a rural and traditional environment. The intertitles also reject the film’s fictional ending in which Bárbara, representing the village, executes Romasanta.

Perhaps owing to Romasanta’s infamy or the prevalence of wolves in the Galician wilderness, lycanthropy has been a recurring theme in Galician folk horror. Another illustration of this is Lobos de Arga/Game of Werewolves (Juan Martínez Moreno, 2011). This movie also features a hallmark of Spanish folk horror, namely, the tension between tradition and modernity, albeit in a comedic vein.

Game of Werewolves begins with an animated portrayal of an old legend, depicting a countess who suffers from satyriasis and a traveling gypsy artist. The countess rapes the gypsy man to become pregnant. Vengefully, he curses her. A century later, an unsuccessful writer, Tomás Mariño (Gorka Otxoa), with no prior knowledge of this event, returns to the rural country house where he grew up to receive an homage from his neighbors. However, the whole village has set up a trap. Terrorized and decimated by the presence of werewolves, the villagers believe that only the blood of the last Mariño (Tomás) will stop the centuries-long curse. Tomás then begins a ridiculous journey to save his life in which horror is mixed with comedy and vaudeville, in the style of The Fearless Vampire Killers (Roman Polanski, 1967).

Failing to kill Tomás, the curse extends to the whole village, transferring from werewolves to humans. The film is filled with over-the-top and rather typical comedic elements: jokes about the Guardia Civil (Military Police), the exaggeration of Tomás’ fearful character, the useless amputation of his fingers (devoured by a hungry dog) or his best friend’s zoophilia.

The paradigmatic example of Spanish folk horror is, perhaps, Álex’s de la Iglesia Las brujas de Zugarramurdi/Witching and Bitching (2013), a mix of costumbrismo, folklore and humor. Its storyline epitomizes the definitions and topics outlined earlier.

Within the Spanish imaginary, Zugarramurdi, a Navarrese town in the border between Spain and France, is somewhat like Salem within the English-speaking world. In 1610, 24 people were judged for the celebration of covens in a local cave; 6 of them were burned alive. In fact, even though some argued that Goya’s famous black paintings are linked to the Barahona process, they have also been largely associated with Zugarramurdi. Julio Caro Baroja’s auto-de-fé’s studio would solidify Zugarramurdi’s presence within the popular Spanish imaginary.

The film’s opening credits show several artistic works focused on the representation of women such as the Venus from Dusseldorf or the Dama de Elche, interspersed with images of real people such as film director Leni Riefenshtal, actress Marlene Dietrich, politicians like Margaret Thatcher or Angela Merkel, spies like Mata Hari or the Princess of Eboli, and murderer Myra Hindley. In the opening sequence, the three protagonists (Terele Pávez, Carmen Maura and Carolina Bang), who symbolize three generations of witches, read the Tarot cards and interpret the imminent arrival of the Messiah. Right after, the film radically changes location. A group of inexpert robbers assault a pawn shop in Puerta del Sol, Madrid’s central square – that is, km 0 of the Spanish road system and unofficial center of the country. The trio of male protagonists are formed by thieves José (Hugo Silva), a divorced man who fights for his son’s custody, Tony (Mario Casas), an uneducated man who feels inferior to his girlfriend, who is a lawyer, and Manuel (Jaime Ordóñez) a taxi driver who is obsessed with paranormal activities.

In their wild escape towards France, they end up in Zugarramurdi. Thus, geographically, they travel from the heart of the State and, consequently, modernity, to a rural area where a different kind of knowledge rules. Following Scovell, this location epitomizes the idea of “isolation.”

The “skewed belief systems and morality” in Zugarramurdi is established by witches, who control the place and have kept alive pagan cult practices. Characterizing the witches and their followers, De la Iglesia makes them interact with all kinds of objects and animals that belong to the iconographic tradition of Spanish witchcraft, immortalized by Goya: brooms, toads, snakes, dunce hats, cow bells or all of them at once, in characters identified as zanpantzar, a Basque carnival character. The witches await the end of male hegemony through the advent of the kingdom of Goddess Mari of Earth. To invoke her, it is necessary to sacrifice several humans; the key component of this ritual is a child.

Ultimately, the story takes us to the “happening/summoning,” a spectacular next-to-last sequence in which Goddess Mari – Mother Earth – a gigantic monster that resembles a Paleolithic Venus tries to devour José’s son: a necessary step to begin the witches’ rule. In this sequence, de la Iglesia reproduced with utmost fidelity the scale and specific characteristics of Zugarramurdi’s cave, where the 1610 covens took place.

Witching and Bitching was nominated for ten Goya Awards, winning eight, most of them in technical categories. Internationally, for the most part, the film was well received. The Village Voice compared it to Sam Raimi’s and Peter Jackson’s early films. Dissolve linked it to Quentin Tarantino’s and Robert Rodriguez’s works, defining it us “gloriously gory civil war”. In Spain, de la Iglesia’s representation of witches was deemed shocking, at a time when the portrayal of females is increasingly Scherstuhl, 2014 more complex and far more politically correct. Consequently, the feminist magazine Pikara labeled the film’s depiction of women “masculinist, sexist and misogynist”.

As a producer, de la Iglesia is also behind another film that mobilizes the aesthetics and common places of folk horror: Errementari, el herrero y el diablo/The Blacksmith and the Devil.

The film is an adaptation of a popular Basque legend and is shot in Euskera. It starts with a firing squad executing prisoners in 1835, during the first Carlista War, a founding moment of Basque nationalism. Surprisingly, Patxi (Kandido Uranga), who was about to be executed by Pro-Elizabeth soldiers, survives. Eight years later, Alfredo Ortiz (Ramón Agirre), a Province official and, therefore, on the war’s winning side, arrives in the small town and tries to enter Patxi’s house, who lives in reclusion after his miraculous survival.

Locals, following faithfully the canons of folk horror, do not welcome Alfredo, since they suspect that he wants to seize a secret treasure, donated by Russia’s Tzar, in favor of the Carlista cause. Rather unambiguously, the local priest epitomizes the resistance to modernity. For example, in a sermon he proclaims his total rejection of “dirty liberal ideas” and “bourgeois fornicators.” This pejorative view of the village is only a mirage. Soon thereafter, it becomes clear that Patxi is a hero that has trapped a devil called Sartael, to whom he promised his soul if he saved his life in the execution that opens the film. Everything is revealed when a group of people led by Ortiz enter the smithy to execute Patxi. It is then when Ortiz true nature is also unveiled: he is Alastor, a powerful and wicked devil. The story’s resolution allows for the town people to expiate their guilty and demonstrate their good heart.

Along with the aforementioned films, there is a recent folk horror movie that is also worth mentioning. Titled Infiesto (2023) and directed by Patxi Azmecua, the film is set in a small town in Asturias, known for its sanctuary. The story unfolds during the first week of the COVID-19 lockdown, when a young woman is found disoriented in the middle of a local road. She is carrying a straw doll and wears a necklace with a scarified rune. Two police detectives (Iria del Río and Isak Férriz) investigate the case and link it to the disappearance of several young people. Initially, they suspect a disturbed serial killer is responsible for the events, but as they dig deeper, they uncover a cult to the Celtic God Taranis, which is kidnapping and sacrificing young people.

Taranis’ followers have revived a series of Druidic rituals and are led by The Prophet, who dresses in animal skin. They kidnap young people every three months according to the different solstices and equinoxes and keep them in a rural area until their ultimate sacrifice. According to the cult members, the pandemic has confirmed their beliefs that the world is coming to an end. Infiesto blends an apocalyptic worldview, fitting for the current pandemic era, with elements of Celtic folk horror, which is rather atypical in Spanish cinema. This unprecedented hybridization makes Azmecua’s film a unique and fascinating work.