Review by Keri O’Shea
Since cinema’s earliest inception, the presence of the Devil has been ubiquitous – whether Old Scratch appears as a monstrous entity or a cunning outsider, a gentleman magician or a horned miscreant, the silver screen has never been long without him. That is the central thesis of author Nikolas Schreck’s far-reaching (though intentionally not encyclopaedic) study of Satan on celluloid – and, as Schreck notes, considering the close relationship between the Devil and this particular offshoot of the arts, it’s strange that so little had been specifically written on this subject before Schreck did the job. Nikolas Schreck, himself a contentious and well-known figure in modern Satanism (located as he is on one side of a bitter schism from the Church of Satan founded by his wife’s late father, Anton LaVey), has crafted a very educational and interesting book here, travelling at a good pace through an abundance of material and examining along the way anything which intrigues him, be it grindhouse or arthouse. In fact, many of his detractors may just be kicking themselves that this book is as good as it is.
The book begins with the birth of cinema, making the point that the phantasmagoria shows which preceded film were themselves seen as a kind of magic by many; this link between sorcery and cinema was established further by the work of stage magician Georges Méliès, who brought a rendition of the Devil to the screen in a puff of smoke as early as 1896. As soon as the magic of cinema was in operation, black magic was right there with it. As the Silent Era progressed, with its numerous interpretations of the Faust legend, its homunculi and its magicians, Schreck observes that a difference sprang up between European (mainly German) and American cinema; whilst Europe featured Satanic deal makers, America stuck more to using Satan as a way of frightening people into behaving. Special mention is given to the still-remarkable Häxan (1921) and, divertingly, Schreck also picks up on the genuine occult significance of certain scenes in arguably the best known of the proto-horror movies, Nosferatu, thanks to the involvement of one Albin Grau, former Ordo Templi Orientis member and correspondent of Aleister Crowley.
Moving into the 1930s and 40s, Schreck identifies some notable movies in the Satanic tradition and, returning to Crowley, arguably the world’s most famous magician, notes the strange ways in which Crowley influenced film both within his own lifetime and beyond it. For instance, practitioner of the dark arts, Dr. Praetorius of The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), was played with aplomb by another English eccentric, Ernest Thesiger – who was, you’ve guessed it, an associate of Crowley’s. Although Crowley wasn’t a Satanist by any stretch of the imagination, ‘Great Beast’ moniker or otherwise, it’s interesting to see the ways in which a prominent occult scholar such as Crowley could have an important trickle-down effect into cinema – and it’s a point which only reiterates the connection between magic and the movies. Want a less heavy example of that connection? Look at the Satan – or Chernabog, a Slavic deity, by his proper name – who appears during the animated film Fantasia and the ‘Night on Bald Mountain’ sequence by a certain renowned corporation…remind you of anyone? Schreck posits that it was Bela Lugosi who chiefly influenced Chernabog’s appearance…
As the 1950s laboured under the weight of Communist paranoia – with its cinema reflecting this particular fear in its depictions of aliens, or worse, people who looked like us, talked like us, but were Other and mindless – Schreck highlights the beginnings of the career of occult filmmaker Kenneth Anger, a figure who strove to merge genuine ritual with cinema through his sparse, but nonetheless important filmography. The 1960s, with its widespread occult revival, provided far more fertile ground for on-screen devilry, and Schreck’s obvious admiration for Barbara Steele’s performance in Mario Bava’s Black Sunday holds up this film in particular as a shining example of the cinematic expression of this revival. No arguments from me there, or for the praise heaped upon Night of the Eagle and Masque of the Red Death. What Schreck is well-placed to offer here is a keen insider’s eye: the occult movement during the decade was unprecedented, and needs some unpicking to really get to the bottom of why and how it fed into the cinema of the period. Of course, no discussion of 60s occult cinema would be complete without mention of Rosemary’s Baby, a film which acted as a real game-changer, and one which is still influential in the following century.
Rosemary’s legacy stretched on into the 1970s, but now alongside a conservative Christian subtext, most notably within films such as The Exorcist (which gets a deserved beating here) and The Omen. Schreck’s opinions on post-1960s cinema reflect the fact that he sees an unmistakeable dumbing-down in culture in recent years, so the enthusiasm and anecdotal asides which punctuated the earlier chapters of the book become fewer and further between; you can almost hear a sigh of disappointment at the beginning of the final three chapters, which cover the 70s, 80s and 90s. His castigation of Messrs. Lucas and Spielberg, who of course first ventured into filmmaking during this time, for their “safe, unchallenging fantasies of Manichean simplicity” may chafe with film fans who harbour nostalgic impulses towards films such as Star Wars, but his assertion that they promote “a dreary twelve-year-old boy’s vision of the universe where machines are neat, girls are icky, and everything moves really fast and explodes” is certainly a sharp piece of bravura. It’s not all (a lack of) doom and gloom, though. Before signing off, Schreck praises Kenneth Anger’s Lucifer Rising, Hellraiser (“one of the first significant fictional occult worlds since H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos”) and The Ninth Gate, amongst a small number of others, as examples of Satanic filmmaking of significance, even in decades he regards as otherwise rather dry.
It covers a wealth of material spanning approximately one hundred years, but The Satanic Screen is heavily imbued with the decidedness and keenness of a firm film fan. Although it is more studied than conversational in tone, there’s plenty of humour throughout, and that Schreck takes pleasure in playing with language is apparent, as he coins terms and expressions such as ‘Hollywooden’, ‘first cloven steps’, ‘Mephistomania’, ‘Poe-pourri’ and, Heaven forfend, ‘loquacious labia’. As a guide to Sinister cinema, it has to be said – this book really is second to none.
However, agreeing or disagreeing with Schreck’s spin on the films he covers is one thing. Where his enthusiasm wanes, you may differ, but you can be sure that he will honestly describe his issues with the films in question, and you can then take his points on board, or not, as you decide. Less honest is how he deals with his schism with the Church of Satan, a subject which crops up in particular during his discussion of Rosemary’s Baby. Church of Satan founder Anton LaVey always asserted that he appeared in a cameo role as the Devil in this film, and Schreck spends some time scathingly asserting the opposite. That Schreck had personal dealings with LaVey, to say the least, is not mentioned at all during this diatribe – making it the elephant in the room here, because most people aware of Schreck’s name will know of his erstwhile involvement with the Church of Satan, and although his silence on this score doesn’t make his point regarding Rosemary’s Baby untrue (I personally doubt that LaVey did appear in Rosemary’s Baby, for what’s it’s worth), it does makes him appear disingenuous. Showing his hand would have done him no harm here. In fact, registering that personal animosity more openly – without turning the book into a saga, of course – would have helped to explain why Schreck sneers at LaVey for certain things (such as having had a distinctly middle-class following, for example, or for treating Satanism as ‘showbiz’) which he doesn’t criticise at all when it’s equally true of others whom he discusses in positive terms; Méliès, for instance, is described as using ‘novelty and razzle dazzle’, something which Schreck seemingly admires in him, but detests in his late unfather-in-law. These instances come across as pockets of unreason, in an otherwise carefully-reasoned piece of work.
This is one weak link in an otherwise engaging, well-argued and well-structured book, I must stress, and I absolutely still recommend The Satanic Screen. Those interested in magic will find numerous nods to the true nature of the left hand path; those whose interest is purely that of film buff will find a meticulously-researched compendium of films well-known and lesser-known – though it is too witty to be a pure reference guide. If nothing else, though, your wish list will double in size after reading, so this is a book well worth seeking out.