DbcultAccessing Vault...
Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
The cinematic landscape, particularly the vast, often-unseen expanse of early 20th-century silent cinema, occasionally yields a rediscovery so potent, so profoundly resonant, that it demands immediate re-evaluation. Such is the case with Las brujas (The Witches), an evocative and unsettling work that, despite its vintage, speaks with an alarming contemporary urgency. This isn't merely a historical curiosity; it's a stark, visceral examination of human frailty, the corrosiveness of fear, and the terrifying ease with which collective delusion can dismantle individual truth. Its narrative, while rooted in a specific historical moment, transcends temporal boundaries, offering a mirror to any society grappling with the specter of the 'other' and the seduction of manufactured scapegoats.
Set against the stark, beautiful backdrop of 17th-century Castilian mountains, Las brujas plunges us into the secluded village of Valdeflores. Here, ancient superstitions are not quaint folklore but the very bedrock of daily life, shaping perceptions and dictating destinies. The film introduces us to Elara, a character of quiet dignity and profound connection to the earth. She is an herbalist, a healer whose intuitive understanding of nature's remedies sets her apart. Her efficacy, however, becomes her curse. In a community where the unexplained is quickly attributed to malevolent forces, Elara's solitary existence and potent concoctions begin to brew a dangerous cocktail of suspicion and awe. This initial portrait of a woman existing on the fringes of societal acceptance immediately establishes a tension that ripples throughout the entire narrative, foreshadowing the inevitable collision between individual autonomy and communal anxiety.
The film’s genius lies in its meticulous build-up, slowly tightening the vise of paranoia around Elara. A harsh winter, a blight on the crops, a mysterious fever afflicting the children – these are not merely environmental misfortunes but omens, interpreted through a lens of fear. The arrival of Father Mateo, portrayed with chilling conviction by Juan de Homs, serves as the accelerant for this simmering dread. De Homs imbues Mateo with an almost hypnotic intensity; his eyes, even in the silent medium, convey a zealous conviction that is both terrifying and tragically misguided. Mateo is not a cartoon villain but a man utterly convinced of his divine mission, a conviction that makes him all the more dangerous. His sermons, delivered with a fervent theatricality, are masterclasses in manipulation, transforming abstract fears into tangible accusations, all directed at Elara. The film implicitly critiques the destructive power of rhetoric, demonstrating how words, when wielded by a charismatic authority figure, can ignite a conflagration of collective hysteria.
Juan de Homs, not only a central figure in the cast but also, one senses, a driving artistic force behind the film, crafts a performance that anchors the entire narrative. As Father Mateo, he embodies the terrifying blend of piety and prejudice. His rigid posture, the way his gaze sweeps across the terrified villagers, his almost performative displays of righteous anger – these are all carefully calibrated to convey a man consumed by his own mission, utterly impervious to reason. The silent film medium often necessitates exaggerated gestures, but de Homs's portrayal is nuanced, suggesting a deep internal conviction rather than mere theatricality. We see the fanaticism, but also, disturbingly, the genuine belief that he is doing God's work, which makes his character so much more complex and disturbing than a simple antagonist.
The direction of Las brujas is remarkably sophisticated for its era. The use of stark contrasts in lighting, from the sun-drenched innocence of Elara’s garden to the shadowy, claustrophobic interiors of the interrogation chambers, visually underscores the narrative's descent into darkness. The camera often lingers on the faces of the villagers, capturing their transition from fearful uncertainty to rabid certainty, a testament to the power of suggestion. There are moments of almost documentary-like realism interspersed with highly stylized sequences that lean into the psychological horror, particularly during Elara's visions or the fevered pronouncements of the 'afflicted' children. This dynamic interplay between realism and expressionism elevates the film beyond a simple historical drama, imbuing it with a timeless, almost allegorical quality.
The absence of spoken dialogue in Las brujas is not a limitation but a profound strength, forcing a reliance on visual storytelling that is both elegant and devastating. Every gesture, every facial expression, every carefully composed shot becomes a crucial narrative beat. The film’s intertitles are sparse and impactful, serving to guide rather than dictate, allowing the emotional weight of the images to resonate unimpeded. This commitment to visual communication creates an immersive experience, drawing the audience into the psychological torment of Elara and the palpable fear of the villagers. The director masterfully uses close-ups to reveal the inner turmoil of its characters – the quiet despair in Elara’s eyes, the cold resolve in Mateo’s, the wide-eyed terror of those caught in the crossfire of accusation. This technique, common in silent film, is elevated here to an art form, making the unspoken profoundly articulate.
Consider the scene where Elara is apprehended. It’s not just an act of physical capture; it’s a symbolic stripping away of her freedom, her dignity, her very identity. The framing emphasizes her isolation against a surging tide of accusatory faces. The use of shadow and light during her interrogation is particularly striking, often casting her in a vulnerable, almost ethereal glow, contrasting sharply with the harsh, unforgiving light that illuminates her accusers. This visual rhetoric transforms a simple plot point into a deeply moving and disturbing tableau, reminding one of the stark, moral clarity found in works like The Christian, which also explored the individual's struggle against overwhelming societal pressures and moral corruption, though in a more overtly melodramatic fashion. Both films, despite their differing scales and narrative approaches, tap into a universal human experience of persecution and faith.
At its core, Las brujas is a chilling exploration of paranoia and the societal construction of the 'other.' Elara is not inherently evil; her 'otherness' is defined by her independence, her knowledge, and her refusal to conform to the narrow strictures of her community. The film brilliantly illustrates how fear, when unchecked, coalesces around those who stand apart. This theme resonates with the anxieties present in The Golem and the Dancing Girl, which, though comedic, also plays with the idea of an outsider figure disrupting established social norms and inciting both wonder and fear. However, Las brujas delves into the tragic, brutal consequences of such fear, offering no comedic relief, only a relentless march towards injustice.
The trial sequence is a masterclass in cinematic tension. It is a spectacle of accusation, not evidence. The director uses rapid cuts between the 'afflicted' girl's convulsive accusations and Elara's stoic, bewildered face, creating a disorienting sense of injustice. The villagers, once individuals, become a singular, terrifying mob, their faces contorted by fear and bloodlust. This depiction of mob mentality is profoundly disturbing, reminiscent of the societal anxieties that fueled films like Rasputin, the Black Monk, where a charismatic figure manipulates the masses, albeit for different ends. Here, the manipulation is not just by an individual but by the pervasive, insidious power of collective belief. The film suggests that the real 'witchcraft' is not Elara’s herbalism, but the psychological contagion of fear itself, turning neighbor against neighbor, reason against superstition.
The film eschews a simplistic resolution, opting instead for a haunting ambiguity that lingers long after the credits roll. Elara's condemnation is not met with a dramatic, last-minute rescue or a clear vindication. Instead, she performs a final, poignant gesture – not of magic, but of profound humanity and connection to the earth. This act, subtle yet powerful, serves as a silent rebuke to her accusers, subtly challenging the very foundations of their fear-driven beliefs. It's a moment that resonates with the quiet despair and internal struggle seen in performances like Lon Chaney's in He Who Gets Slapped, where characters endure profound suffering and humiliation, finding solace or defiance in unexpected, often tragic, ways. Both films explore the depths of human endurance in the face of overwhelming societal cruelty.
The final shots of Las brujas are particularly impactful, leaving the audience to ponder the devastating power of unreason and the enduring fragility of truth in the face of manufactured terror. There's no triumphant justice, no clear-cut moral victory. Instead, there's a profound sense of loss, a lament for what is sacrificed when humanity succumbs to its darkest impulses. This lack of easy closure is precisely what elevates the film to a work of art, forcing introspection rather than offering facile answers. It compels us to confront uncomfortable truths about human nature, about the cyclical nature of persecution, and about the ever-present danger of allowing fear to dictate our collective conscience. It suggests that even in the most fervent pursuit of 'purity,' a society can become its own greatest tormentor.
Despite being a product of its time, Las brujas remains chillingly relevant. Its exploration of mass hysteria, the weaponization of fear, and the scapegoating of marginalized individuals echoes through history, from the Salem witch trials to modern-day political demagoguery. The film serves as a potent reminder of the dangers of unchecked authority, the insidious nature of propaganda, and the fragility of individual rights when confronted by a unified, misguided populace. It's a testament to the power of cinema that a film from nearly a century ago can still evoke such visceral reactions and provoke such profound contemplation on the human condition.
The artistry of Las brujas lies not just in its compelling narrative or the striking performances, but in its ability to transcend its historical setting and speak to universal anxieties. It's a film that demands to be seen, not just as a piece of cinematic history, but as a cautionary tale for all times. Its silent frames scream volumes about the human capacity for both profound cruelty and unwavering resilience. It reminds us that the fight against ignorance and prejudice is an ongoing one, and that the 'witches' of any era are often merely those who dare to be different, those who challenge the status quo, and those whose truth is inconvenient to the prevailing narrative. A truly remarkable cinematic achievement that deserves its place among the most thought-provoking films of its era, and indeed, of any era.
IMDb —
1919
Community
Log in to comment.
