Editorials
I Was a Teenage Monster – Reappraising ‘The New Daughter’ Starring Kevin Costner
Based on its setup, The New Daughter would appear to be a ghost story. A troubled novelist moves his two children into a large and isolated house in rural South Carolina, and immediately they start to experience things that cannot be so readily explained. The audience might soon expect to see spirits of the dead haunting the film’s family, yet the fact is, something else entirely lurks on this cursed property.
Kevin Costner was coming off positive reviews for his villainous role in the psychological thriller Mr. Brooks when he was cast as the father in The New Daughter. Also joining the first directorial feature from REC screenwriter Luis Berdejo was Pan’s Labyrinth star Ivana Baquero. The talent behind this adaptation of author John Connolly’s short story piqued an interest at the time, but upon its release in 2009, critics largely panned the film, singling out the pacing, the lack of originality and the low scares. Somewhat valid as these criticisms may be, this overlooked tale of domestic dread still has its good points as well as a surprising amount of darkness.
Berdejo and screenwriter John Travis considerably reworked the source material for their film, but the bones of Connolly’s story are intact. Now taking place in and around a Deep Southern house — the real-life Wedge Plantation is located near McClellanville, South Carolina — rather than inside an old Irish rectory, The New Daughter has a similar yet different atmosphere. Because of the house’s history, there is a lingering sense of pain in these walls that is only exacerbated by the Jameses’ presence. John (Costner) has recently survived a bad divorce; his ex-wife left him for someone else. The film’s basis adds: the mother saw her children as “a burden that she wished to relinquish.” Between the two of them, Louisa (Baquero) openly wears her emotional scars, whereas younger brother Sam (Gattlin Griffith) puts on a brave face despite his complete awareness.
While American Gothic and haunted-house films were a lot less common to see in the 2000s, An American Haunting, the Amityville Horror remake, The Messengers and The Haunting in Connecticut showed there was still interest in the subgenre. Of course anyone watching The New Daughter will quickly learn how it trades ghosts for something more tangible, despite its vague marketing and ambiguity about what exactly is the story’s “ancient evil.” The film’s unique antagonist is hinted at as early as the opening; the beginning shows what looks to be scenic shots of Mother Nature and her children. A prolonged clip of an active ant bed also alludes to something sinister. Mysterious, muddy footprints on the Jameses’ staircase as well as, and most importantly, grotesque shadows crawling around the house’s exterior all point to this film being a creature-feature, not a haunter.
Moving from Ireland to South Carolina required an adjustment of the story’s mythology. What were once Irish fairy folk or changelings in the original short were now “mound-walkers,” the ghastly inhabitants of what was said to be Native American burial mounds on the Jameses’ property. In either version, the characters are dealing with preternatural mound dwellers. Subterranean fae, trows and their akin entities hail from Irish and Scottish folklore, so the film created its own local analog. Archaeological earthworks, including mound-building, date far back in North American history, but The New Daughter fabricates an alternate history for these curious structures.
On top of Louisa’s growing anger with the divorce and school is a festering plot about adolescence. The daughter’s frustration leads her to explore the new property, and in turn, climb the foreboding mound. This then sets off a kind of maturation that can only be described as monstrous. The transformation is not immediate or overt, but it is enough for Louisa’s father to take notice directly or otherwise. Berdejo limited the use of the color red early on in the film just so he could save it for the exact moment that reality and fantasy come together; John injures his finger at the same time that Louisa is attacked by the mound-walkers. To reinforce the metaphor for Louisa’s change, a creepy straw doll “gives birth” to a spider at one point.
The 2000s saw multiple films on the opposite ends of the horror spectrum; some were graphic, violent and transgressive, and others stayed on the safer side. Most notably there was a trend of PG-13 rated horror films in force, and this practice was primarily a bid to make more money. The New Daughter was indeed rated PG-13, however it is neither light nor safe. In place of the usual spectral possession is a horrifying instance of crossbreeding; the all-male mound-dwellers apparently swarm Louisa when she is lying outside near the house, thus turning her into their “queen.” While this sexual assault is only implied and never explicitly shown — other than the suggestive bite marks seen all over Louisa’s bare back — it is a disturbing moment upon realization. The first of several in this film.
John wants to keep his children close to him after his divorce, so naturally he is anxious when Louisa starts to show signs of growing up. Fearing what he originally believes is the first stage of adolescence, John goes to great lengths to stop the change. This includes tracking down the house’s previous residents, who went through a similar situation. John’s effort is in vain, though, because Louisa is too far gone.
In the film’s climax, John retrieves Louisa before detonating the mound. Once again, Berdejo cuts away prematurely to avoid confirmation and leave the audience hanging. Without concrete answers to comfort them, however, eternal optimists can only hope John saved his daughter first, then later his son. Of course others will speculate that John had to euthanize his daughter, who was probably well past the point of saving. Was the finale’s big explosion all part of an act of mercy — a bit on the nose considering that the town is called Mercy — or, in a more pitch-black interpretation, was John ensuring he and his daughter never grow apart, and she never leaves him much like his wife did? If Costner’s character did in fact go through with the hardest decision a parent can make, perhaps John also chose to perish with the child who already felt abandoned by one parent.
As if this whole ordeal was not gloomy enough, the film leaves the viewers questioning the status of Sam. The brother is presumably left to fend for himself as surviving mound-dwellers descend on the house and, from the looks of things in that last second, him. The framed family photo Sam clutches, in what might very well be his final moments, shows the reflection of someone (or something) approaching him from the fiery aftermath of the explosion. This open-ended conclusion was foreshadowed by an earlier exchange between father and son; when John marvels at how Sam unpacked his belongings and decorated his bedroom without any help, the boy proudly says, “All by myself.”
Audiences familiar with Berdejo’s past work would argue this was an example of a creative, up-and-coming filmmaker whose wings were clipped when handed a commercial project. On the contrary, his first film is not as sterile as initial reviews suggest. Wringing out attractive cinematography and solid performances, Berdejo manages to raise the value of his folk-horror/creature-feature, not to mention darken the implications and themes of the short story. In some ways this film might have fared better had it been released in this era of horror rather than back then. The director certainly relies on one too many clichés in the process, but once the training wheels are taken off, The New Daughter grows into a bleak example of how broken homes allow demons to come in through the cracks.
Horror contemplates in great detail how young people handle inordinate situations and all of life’s unexpected challenges. While the genre forces characters of every age to face their fears, it is especially interested in how youths might fare in life-or-death scenarios.
The column Young Blood is dedicated to horror stories for and about teenagers, as well as other young folks on the brink of terror.
In December of 1973, two movies that would change the face of horror and the ways it dealt with religion and spirituality were released. One was an instant hit, immediately changing the landscape of the genre forever. The other was severely cut by executives who simply did not understand it and unceremoniously slapped into the B-picture slot on double bills with Don’t Look Now, where it seemed to die a quick death. Over time, it grew from an underground cult discovery to a genre-defining masterpiece. The former is, of course, William Friedkin and William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist, which remains a terrifying and inimitable masterpiece. The latter is Robin Hardy and Anthony Schaffer’s The Wicker Man, a truly remarkable film that became a flashpoint for an emerging subgenre—Folk Horror. Though both films deal in religion, The Exorcist and The Wicker Man could not be more divided in their approach to the subject. Because of this, the two make excellent debate opponents, sparring with one another about the eternal questions that mankind has wrestled with since the beginning of thought.
Despite their differences, the two films have several commonalities as well. Both eschew the traditional tropes and aesthetics of the classic horror movie in favor of a grounded, realistic style. This is typical now but revolutionary, especially for studio-produced horror films, fifty years ago. William Friedkin approached The Exorcist with the same detail-oriented documentarian’s eye that he applied to The French Connection (1971), and would later bring to Sorcerer (1977), Cruising (1980), To Live and Die in L.A. (1985) and other films throughout his career. The Wicker Man takes the visual approach of a travelogue, taking in both the natural beauty and anthropological quirks of Summerisle with curiosity, wonder, and more than a little suspicion.
Some cuts of the film begin with a title card thanking Lord Summerisle (played by Christopher Lee) for his cooperation in the making of the film for added realism. In fact, both films claim connection to real events. Writer William Peter Blatty was inspired to write his novel The Exorcist after learning of a case of supposed demon possession of a young boy while studying at Georgetown University in 1949. Though ostensibly based on the novel Ritual by David Pinner (both Christopher Lee and Robin Hardy have said that almost nothing of the novel made it to screen), The Wicker Man sprang largely from exhaustive research by writer Anthony Shaffer and director Robin Hardy of The Golden Bough, an extensive study of pagan beliefs, rituals, and traditions by James George Frazer.
‘The Wicker Man’
It may seem insignificant, but another notable similarity between the two films is that the name of the writer, rather than the director, appears above the title of both, truly a rarity in the New Hollywood era that had bought wholesale into the auteur theory. But the writing of both films (and frankly most films) is foundational to their success. The key to the lasting effectiveness of The Exorcist is its complete conviction in the way it is told, which all stems from the writing. William Peter Blatty was a true believer—in God, the Devil, and the power of exorcism. He felt that the case that inspired his novel “was tangible evidence of transcendence,” and attempted to convey what he saw as the reality of the supernatural in what he wrote. Though not a person of traditional religious faith himself, William Friedkin was determined to translate this conviction to the screen. In an introduction to the digitally remastered home video release, he summarized this by saying “…it strongly and realistically tries to make the case for spiritual forces in the universe, both good and evil,” believing that it could very well alter perceptions in the process.
The Exorcist’s point of view is clear—God is good, the Devil is bad, and good will ultimately triumph over evil, even if evil wins some victories along the way. The Wicker Man is more cynical and Anthony Shaffer’s views of good and evil, heroes and villains are far more ambiguous. On the surface, Lord Summerisle, aided by the fact that he is played by Christopher Lee, is the villain. After all, he does entrap and condemn an essentially innocent man to death to appease one of his bloodthirsty gods and perhaps save his own skin. Sergeant Howie (Edward Woodward), on the other hand, is no hero either. He is an outsider to Summerisle and from beginning to end judges and condemns their community practices and religious beliefs. He is the embodiment of colonialism invading an unfamiliar land, attempting to bend it to his will and belief systems. When it comes down to it, neither is completely a hero or a villain. The real villain of The Wicker Man is religion itself. In the end, neither Sergeant Howie’s conservative brand of Christianity nor Lord Summerisle’s neo-paganism come out looking good at all. In fact, it seems that writer Anthony Schaffer’s point is that neither Howie’s Christian God nor Summerisle’s nature spirits will answer in the end because, in the film’s point of view, neither exists. The Wicker Man’s conviction is just as strong on this viewpoint as The Exorcist is on its opposing one.
In this respect, more than any other, the two films most clearly define the biggest difference between the cousin subgenres of religious and folk horror, though these differences have begun to blur in more recent films. Religious horror generally deals in good and evil, and religious institutions often come out looking heroic, as in The Omen (1976), The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005), and The Conjuring (2013) despite the results of the acts practitioners of the faith in these films may be involved in. In folk horror, organized religion is folly and often brings oppression, as seen in films like Witchfinder General (1968), Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971), and The Witch (2015). These distinctions are perhaps most clear in The Exorcist and The Wicker Man, a key reason why they are often considered the pinnacles of their respective subgenres.
‘The Exorcist’
The key forces for good in The Exorcist stand at different places along the spectrum of faith but all make the case for the positive effects of religion, even the agnostic Chris MacNeil so expertly and passionately played by Ellen Burstyn. Though she is not a believer herself, she does everything she can to save her daughter Regan (Linda Blair) from the evil that has taken her including bringing her to people of faith. After she has exhausted every avenue she knows, she turns to the priests that inhabit the city where she and Regan temporarily live, sometimes with more faith in their practices then they have themselves. Father Damien Karras (Jason Miller) spends most of the film doubting his faith and tries to talk Chris out of pursuing exorcism for her daughter. The apparent hero of the film, Lankester Merrin (Max von Sydow)—he is even given several heroic shots including the iconic approach to the house in the fog—is a man of unshakable faith having endured an exorcism before, but also one of frail health who dies while attempting to take on the demon by himself. It is a powerful statement of The Exorcist that the doubter, Father Karras, becomes the heroic figure of the film, sacrificing himself for a relative stranger.
Underrated in the dynamic is Father Dyer, played by real-life priest William O’Malley, who like Karras is very human, but also the one who performs the last rights on Karras. Therefore, it is Father Dyer who finally exorcises the demon (named as Pazuzu in the novel) from the last human it inhabited and perhaps most fulfills the titular role of the exorcist. The powerful original ending to the film with Dyer staring down the stairs that his best friends threw himself down reinforces that good continues to shine a light in a very dark world. Feeling that people would think “the Devil won,” Blatty never liked the theatrical ending, and so the closing scene in which Dyer carries on Karras’s friendship with Lieutenant Kinderman (Lee J. Cobb) in his friend’s absence was added to the film in 2000. In the opinion of many, this reinstated ending sullies the power of the film, which thrives on the ambiguity raised by sequences like the original ending.
The Wicker Man has no problems with ambiguity in any of its extant versions and invites each viewer to thoroughly question every element of the film. Both Howie and the islanders see the religious practices of the other as a collection of superstitions. The novelization of Anthony Shaffer’s script by Robin Hardy offers even more shades of grey to Neil Howie and Lord Summerisle, as well as the beliefs they each profess. Howie is far more fascinated by the islanders and their practices, at least at first, than judgmental of them in the novel. He even secretly wishes that he could join them in the sexual escapades he witnesses on his first night on the island. His desire to give into Willow MacGreagor’s (Britt Ekland) seductive song on May Day Eve is palpable in the film but even more so in the novel. This is Howie’s greatest test, his Garden of Gethsemane. By resisting the beautiful, and very willing Willow, he becomes even more the fool in the eyes of the islanders, but for Howie, it proves his fidelity to his fiancée, his morality, and his God.
‘The Wicker Man’
The novel reveals that Howie and Lord Summerisle’s differences are not only religious, but political. As a socialist, Howie is deeply offended by the aristocratic Summerisle and the capitalist machinations of his island community, but the officer greatly admires him as a professional. The novel also is more nuanced in depicting how people of various faiths often misunderstand each other. For example, the islanders interpret the Christian practice of Communion as symbolic cannibalism, where Howie sees it as an act of remembrance of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. The novel draws several more comparisons between the islander’s faith and Christianity than the film does, specifically in a subplot involving the character Beech (which if it was shot was cut from all versions of the film), and discussions of death, resurrection, and sacrifice.
Beech, who adheres to his duty of guarding the “sacred grove” with a claymore sword, is seen as a crazy old man by most of the islanders, including Lord Summerisle himself. The comparison here is that Beech’s form of worshipping the old gods is different from most of the inhabitants of the island, highlighting the different sects and denominations of various religions including Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, and many others. Though not organized in the same way as these, the religion of Summerisle has factioned in similar ways. As for death and resurrection, the schoolteacher, Miss Rose (Diane Cilento), both in the film and the novel, tells Howie as he is being guided to his fate, “you will undergo death and rebirth. Resurrection if you like. The rebirth, sadly, will not be yours, but that of our crops.” Howie responds with, “I am a Christian and as a Christian I hope for resurrection, and even if you kill me now it is I who will live again, not your damned apples!” Earlier in the film, she tells Howie that reincarnation is much easier for children to grasp than all those rotting bodies being resurrected. In the novel, Howie secretly agrees with this assessment.
But the ultimate focus of both films is the nature of sacrifice and the significance it may or may not have on the lives of others. In The Exorcist, both Father Merrin and Father Karras make the ultimate sacrifice by giving their lives to save Regan, as Chris no doubt would do herself if it came to it. In the Christian view, sacrifice is a willing act. In the more everyday sense, the giving of time, talents, and treasure to serve other people. In the ultimate sense, the laying down of one’s life for another person as exemplified by Jesus Christ himself who gave up his life to save the world from sin. This is the view of sacrifice shared by Sergeant Howie, who seems very puzzled by the words of May Morrison (Irene Sunters), the woman whose missing daughter he is searching for, when she says, “you will never know the true meaning of sacrifice.”
‘The Exorcist’
Here, however, Howie’s sacrifice is unwilling, a coercion that leads to his ultimate demise. Shaffer and Hardy keep the final verdict up to interpretation and speculation, allowing each viewer the opportunity to extrapolate their own conclusions about what awaits Howie and Summerisle after the Wicker Man and its contents crumble to ash. The novel retains the cynical tone of the film with its final line: “And as for Howie, it would be good to think that all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.” Perhaps this is the case, and he is afforded the rewards of the martyr’s death that Summerisle has “gifted” him. Perhaps a bounteous harvest awaits the inhabitants of the island. Or perhaps it is all for naught and all that awaits Howie is eternal silence, the crops fail once again, and Lord Summerisle is doomed to endure the Wicker Man the following May Day.
The dialogue between The Exorcist and The Wicker Man will no doubt continue. In recent years similar discussion points along with deconstructions and variations on the debate can be found in Saint Maud and Midsommar (2019), Midnight Mass (2021), Consecration and The Pope’s Exorcist (2023), and from this year Immaculate, Late Night with the Devil, and The First Omen along with other films that represent the largest wave in religious-themed horror since these two seminal masterpieces were released over fifty years ago. In the debate we find a deep longing for answers to the ultimate questions about ourselves and our place in the universe. Is there good and evil beyond what is found in the hearts of humans? If so, is there a singular god, or gods, or some kind of forces for good and evil? And maybe what we want to know most of all, if there is a god or gods, do they give a shit about us?
The Exorcist seems to answer all these questions in the affirmative. In that, many find hope. The answer to good and evil is not up to us but will be finally and fully solved by a power greater than ourselves. We can find comfort in that. The Wicker Man seems to say “no” to these questions, but there is a kind of hope in that as well. If nothing outside of us determines good or evil, it is up to us to solve the problem of evil, to eradicate it from ourselves and replace it with good. We can find comfort in that too.
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