Robert Eggershas only made three films, but he’s already built the kind of personal brand other directors cultivate over decades. After 2015’sThe Witchand 2019’sThe Lighthouse, the idea of a “Robert Eggers movie” became well-established in the minds of avid filmgoers: atmospheric period pieces, steeped in folklore and brought to life by an obsessive commitment to authenticity. His exacting vision and willingness to do things the hard way has earned him a legion of admirers that transcends genre. It’s telling that, when it was revealed that Eggers’ next movie,The Northman, would be an action-filled historical epic rather than a horror movie, anticipation only grew.
But whileThe WitchandThe Lighthouseare both unmistakably Eggers, the two movies are still wildly different.The Witchis in color,The Lighthouseis in black-and-white.The Witchcenters on a young woman, while the only two characters inThe Lighthouseare men (plus an amorous, possibly nonexistent mermaid.)The Witchis as gloomy and stone-faced as its family of repressed Puritans, whileThe Lighthouseis an unhinged, uproarious dark comedy, complete with moments of unexpected slapstick. And they take two very different approaches when it comes to the question of ambiguity.
Ambiguity is an important weapon in any director’s arsenal, especially horror directors. Ambiguity can create short-term suspense as well as overarching uncertainty; it can leave tantalizing breadcrumbs for the audience, and it can end the movie on a haunting note. When it’s done right, ambiguity can disorient the audience and set their imaginations running wild; when it’s not done right, it can feel like the director expects the audience to finish the movie for them. It’s no surprise that Eggers makes expert use of ambiguity in his first two movies. What’s surprising is that he approaches ambiguity in two very different ways, both of which reveal something insightful about Eggers’ approach to folklore.
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Part of the inspiration forThe Witchcame from Eggers’ research into the life of Puritan colonists, specifically the Salem witch trials. While witch trials are understood today to be the result of paranoia and latent misogyny, it’s worth remembering that, at the time, Puritansgenuinely believedin the danger of witches. To them, witches were not abstract, mythical beings, but an active threat to their way of life. (Even inThe Crucible, the existence of witches is never questioned, only whether these particular women were witches.) There was no separation between folklore and “the real world,” because to the Puritans, folklorewasthe real world.
That is how it is for the family at the center ofThe Witch. Banished from the main settlement due to the ornery nature of father William (Ralph Ineson), they’re established as a deeply pious, superstitious lot, even for Puritans. Witches may not be their first thought when their baby Samuel goes missing – they initially blame it on a wolf – but as more strange happenings occur, they have no trouble believing that dark forces are at work. Eggers doesn’t do much to cast doubt upon them, either: everything is presented at face value, from a pig lactating blood to Thomasin (Anya Taylor-Joy) floating into the night air. While it’s possible to interpret the film as an extended psychotic break (possibly the result of a bad corn harvest), there’s far more evidence to support the presence of the supernatural.
Things are considerably less straightforward inThe Lighthouse. For one thing, the characters don’t uniformly believe in the supernatural, like the family inThe Witch. Thomas Wake (Willem Dafoe) is an old sea dog with superstitions to match, while Ephraim Winslow (Robert Pattinson) comes from the unsentimental world of logging. Wake insists on saying a toast before every meal and outright smacks Winslow when he dismisses his warning not to kill a seagull. Winslow bristles against what he considers “old wives’ tales,” and it contributes to the tension between him and Wake. That said, it’s not clear which of the two is “right”; if, indeed, either of them are.
In fact, there’s not a lot that’s clear inThe Lighthouse. Did Winslow seal their doom when he killed that malevolent seagull in a fit of rage? What’s the significance of the scrimshaw that fascinates Winslow? Is there really “enchantment in the light” that drives them both mad? Is it just the stress of isolation and alcohol-induced psychosis? Were both of them mad to begin with? Or, as Wake suggests to Winslow at the end, is this whole situation just Winslow’s extended hallucination as he freezes to death in the Canadian wilderness? There are all sorts of potent theories and explanations for audiences to puzzle over, and there’s no real right answer.
But in bothThe WitchandThe Lighthouse, “the right answer” is beside the point. The plot would be no less frightening if there was a “mundane” explanation than if it were all supernatural. The Puritan family believes in witches; Wake believes in Neptune and an enchanted lighthouse; Winslow doesn’t believe in anything, at least not at first. But their fates are the same whether they believe in the supernatural or not. The Puritan family’s belief in witches is as useful to them as an umbrella in a hurricane: they all die, except for Thomasin, who joins the coven. Thomas Wake’s adherence to arcane nautical dogma earns him an ax to the head, and Winslow is drawn into the madness towards a fate worse than death.
That’s what makes Eggers’ use of ambiguity so impactful: the folklore may or may not be real in the universe of the movie, but it doesn’t have to be real to be dangerous. Folklore in his films represents a deeper, darker force that’s older than humanity, as natural and unstoppable as a tsunami or a hurricane. It represents things beyond humanity’s control, things that remind the viewer of their ultimate place in the world: small, powerless, and scared, even now.
