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Religious extremism is as old as religion itself. A belief in sorcery and witchcraft as some ungodly source has always been present when it comes to Christian fundamentalism – most often resulting in witchhunts and senseless deaths by hanging, burning at the stake, or drowning. It’s the fear of the unknown that has caused innocent lives to be stricken down, and it’s always efforts done in the name of God. That it is their duty to cleanse the world of perceived evil before it spreads and consumes all they know and love.
Where 1922’s Häxan sketches a broader narrative about witches and witchhunts from the Middle Ages to the then-present day in Denmark, Witchhammer stages its story amidst the Northern Moravia witch trials in the mid- to late 1600s. Both films take great care to dig into the accused’s humanity – that they were just normal people going about their lives when fearmongering arrived on their doorstep.
In Häxan, a mix of documentary and fiction, director Benjamin Christensen (who also stars as the Devil) uses various illustrations to craft his story around human thought and faith. He first explores the beliefs in galaxies and earth, particularly in how the land was structured, before moving into religion and the way it sculpted human interaction. He peppers in depictions of a so-called witch in 1488, showing her creating a love potion for a friend seeking to woo a pious gentleman.
The images wouldn’t be complete without a portrayal of a horned Devil with a flapping tongue and long claw-like fingers. It is the Christians’ belief that witches are in cahoots with satanic powers, offering up sacrifices and literally kissing the Devil’s behind, as often seen in drawings and paintings of the time. “During the witchcraft era, it was dangerous to be old and ugly, but it was not safe to be young and pretty either,” reads one of the caption cards. To be accused was to be fated to death through inhuman measures, no matter the cost.
‘Häxan’
The bulk of the film follows a beggar woman named Maria the Weaver (Maren Pedersen), the accused who undergoes physical and mental torture by local inquisitors. She’s put through such an excruciating procedure that she eventually confesses to witchcraft – claiming she birthed Satan’s offspring and was smeared with witch ointment, among other things – and then names several others in the coven, including those who initially accused her. They are subsequently arrested and tested through the same means, and all but two in the household pay a heavy price. “Each witch gives 10 others away,” reads another caption card, demonstrating the vicious cycles of witch hunts through the ages. When the inquisitors are done, they ride off to another village, and the hunt begins anew.
In another part of the world, in the present-day Czech Republic, 1970’s Witchhammer details what has become known as the Northern Moravia witch trials. Set in the 1600s, sometime between 1622 and 1696, during which the trials took place, the Otakar Vávra-directed feature similarly delves into poisoned religion, abuse of power, and the subservience of women in a patriarchal society. “A woman’s womb is a gateway to hell,” the narrator says in an uncomfortable close-up at the start of the film. The monologue, which also includes phrases like “woman is sin,” sets a grim tone for what can best be described as an excruciating and frustrating watch.
Vávra sets up the story – based upon the novel “Kladivo na čarodějnice” by Václav Kaplický – as one might expect. A beggar woman named Maryna (Lola Skrbková) kneels at an altar during communion in a local church. Instead of swallowing the Eucharist, the body of Christ, she spits it out into white cloth for safekeeping. An altar boy tattles on her to a priest, and she’s dragged away back into the rectory where she’s interrogated and accused of practicing witchcraft. Inquisitors claim she ventured out to Peter’s Rock, where witches are said to commune, and participated in perverse sexual acts, flew on brooms, and the like.
After suffering thumb screws and severe questioning, the woman points the finger at a midwife Dorota (Jiřina Štěpničková) and several others, setting off a series of trials under the cruel hand of a respected inquisitor Boblig of Edelstadt (Vladimír Šmeral). Boblig uses any manner of torture contraptions, from shin crushers to the rack, to get a confession. He piles up more accusations. No one is safe from his merciless gaze. “He’s capable of turning the clock back 100 years,” laments clergyman and Tribunal member Dean Lautner (Elo Romančík).
‘Witchhammer’
As the trials drag on, Maryna, Dorota, and a third woman are burned alive at the stake. Their cries mingle with the crackle of fire, a chilling, terribly graphic scene that hammers home exactly how women, in particular, were treated. One Tribunal judge has a change of heart, proclaiming he saw their innocence flash across their faces in the final moments. He later pleads with God for forgiveness upon the altar in the church. But nothing could possibly wash away his vile sins.
Lautner remains a voice of dissent. He continues to speak out on the cruelty of Boblig’s ways, but his outcries soon make him a target of 36 accusations. Boblig and the other inquisitors capture Zuzana (Sona Valentová), with whom Lautner once had an affair, and torture her into confessing that she too partook in satanic rituals and orgies at Peter’s Rock. Zuzana also names Lautner among those she witnessed there, and thus his fate is sealed. Boblig has him arrested and tortured so mercilessly that he soon wrongly confesses that he practiced witchcraft and fornicated with the Devil in the woods.
In both cases, Häxan and Witchhammer tear through human flesh with the precision of a scalpel. That is to say, each profoundly and terrifyingly depicts the terrible state of human nature when it comes to persecuting the other. The films, possessing similar threads and styles, are two sides to the exact same coin. Witch trials have taken place all over the world; it doesn’t matter what the culture is or who the people are. There’s real fear in the unknown, especially when “the other” is perceived as a threat (no matter how misguided) to one’s way of life and beliefs.
Where Häxan presents witch hunts through a historical perspective, as well as a fictional retelling, Witchhammer allows the audience to witness a jarring reenactment of a real-life witch hunt unfold. On their own, the films make for an uncomfortable watch – Häxan also possesses some legitimately frightening imagery (namely the tongue-lapping Devil) – but together, they’re a stunning portrait of the slimy underbelly of existence.
“Praise the Lord,” one parishioner proclaims in Witchhammer. With that simple line, the entire crux of both films comes into clear focus. The use of religion to exact unsubstantiated punishment is a tale as old as time itself. We saw it hundreds of years ago, and we see it today. Of course, witch hunts look very different these days. Instead of burning people at the stake, sweeping anti-trans and anti-LGBTQ+ legislation has been passed to cause bodily harm to the marginalized. It’s a death sentence. Much like the witches of yore, the other frightens those in power, resulting in witch hunts that have taken on the guise of “protecting the children.” Making for a helluva double feature, Häxan and Witchhammer have never been more timely.
‘Witchhammer’
Double Trouble is a recurring column that pairs up two horror films, past or present, based on theme, style, or story.