THE WITCH'S MIRROR

Once allowed freedom to explore the corruptness, brutality, and excess of the human spirit, Mexican horror offered its sensation-starved audiences both escape and social commentary. Investing fantastical elements with social commentary, many of these fright features, particularly in the Golden Age of the 1960's, interwove elements of oral folklore and cultural tradition with heartfelt criticisms of culture and identity, softening the thematic impact with supernatural symbolism. In the Grand Gothic sensations of occult, monster, and horror movies, Mexican film fans found various surface images with which they could recognize, face, and reflect on both supernatural possibilities around them and the hardships/evils of everyday life. They also had one hell of a good time, losing themselves in tales of terror and titillation that, despite their occasional slap-dashery, spoke to the mind every bit as much as they thrilled the senses, specializing in decadent moon-lit shots of crumbling castles, mist-laden cemeteries, and surprisingly graphic violence.

Supernatural horror and exploitation films were considered dangerous by public moral watchdogs and self-appointed culture warriors, which thought films should do little more than explore pre-approved portraits of governmental prosperity, a happy working class, and the glories of the often inhuman Catholic Church. The horror movie was equally distrusted in conservative circles, detested for its ability to question the beliefs and practices of the status quo -- a mechanism which externally celebrates authority (and a rigid ideal of morality) while privately indulging in the same vices which it warns against. Small wonder, then, that Mexican artists found such creative freedom and philosophical fervor in the supernatural, and that Mexico grew red with blood. Peeling back the boils of hypocritical respectability and politically motivated morality -- both of which had long influenced native cinema -- Mexican horror made the impossible probable.

Native fear-fests like The Witch's Mirror were later brought across the border, re-cut and dubbed by such exploitation mavericks as K. Gordan Murray. While these badly edited and dubbed films provoked laughter and disdain just as often as they elicited shudders, the unarguable love with which they were crafted, and their sensuous atmosphere, make even those versions of historical and aesthetic worth. Seen in their unedited, unhampered form, these Mexican masterworks of the macabre are truly memorable, boasting surprisingly complex storylines, evocative settings, and atmosphere that practically drips from the screen. Love them or hate them, you simply can't ignore them! Full of spectacle and drama, these films are also effective as decidedly serious suspense vehicles, combining thoughtful examinations of our human condition with primal titillation. Reaching viewers both subconsciously and on a surface level, these films unify the dim, haunted past with contemporary struggles. To our delight, they are just as quick to laugh at themselves as to celebrate images of witchcraft, the unseen, and the monstrous.

Combining sensationalism with traditional cultural values/fears, The Witch's Mirror is a story as seeped in the tragedy of common people facing everyday miseries as it is a lyrical poem to perversity. A modern fable excelling in atmosphere, this dark dedication to the unknown submerges viewers into a world where sin and redemption come from Death's skeletal hand. Peering into her scrying mirror, Sara (Isabela Corona), a housekeeper (and witch) in the Ramos household, discovers that Eduardo Ramos (Armando Calvo), the matriarch husband of the story, is intent on murdering his wife, Elena (Sadina de Marco), her god-daughter. Warned by Lucifer himself not to interfere with the dictates of Fate, Sarah stands by while the naïve Elena is poisoned. Watching from beyond the dark void of the grave, Elena waits until Eduardo marries Deborah and brings her home to terrify her wayward husband. Communicating from beyond the grave with Sara, who has stayed on, vowing to revenge her past mistress, Elena's vengeful spirit tricks Eduardo in to throw flaming oil at Deborah's face. Soon local women's bodies began to disappear from the morgue, Eduardo is engaging in facial reconstructive surgery, and supernatural vengeance is at hand . . .

This adult faerie tale combines the traditional chills of folklore with the sordid escapist pleasures of modern exploitation. The physical and the ethereal go hand in hand in The Witch's Mirror, and the plot combines psychological horror with the fantastical in a heady stew of shadow-drenched lyricism. The director, favoring beautiful gothic imagery, unleashes wild, untamed passions with admirable restraint, never allowing the occult elements to overshadow the human drama at the heart of the story. A daring hybrid of the mad-medical thriller, supernatural horror, and revenge tragedy, The Witch's Mirror evokes both awe and fear, offering catharsis in its dream-like structure. We are encouraged to suspend disbelief because the fantastique is rooted in the context of the very real, very recognizable dimensions of character's lusts, fear, and rage. Providing alert viewers with a barrage of cinematic references to folk legend, other films, and Mexican culture in general, this vintage slice of spooky goodness is as valuable as a historical document of genre as it is a simply enjoyable spook-show. While period pieces occasionally estrange modern audiences, demanding an acceptance of older technology and morals, the period detail of this feature works in its favor, lending the story greater atmosphere and authenticity.

More impressive, especially for a film of this period, is the disturbing moral ambiguity evident in the plot. Whereas traditional Mexican horror cinema (and the genre worldwide) initially followed a conservative recipe wherein only the sinful, guilty, or immoral were punished by the supernatural, The Witch's Mirror is intellectually and visually daring enough to depict in second wife Deborah an innocent tormented for no discernible reason. She is tormented not as a result of any wrongdoing on her part, but simply by her association with the villain Eduardo. An innocent, Deborah is nevertheless emotionally, physically, and spiritually tortured. In allowing this victimization of such a likeable character to occur, the story is suggesting the amorality of the universe, disturbing precisely because good intentions and an honest heart are revealed to be no protective talisman against the evils of either this world or the next. In this amorality the film is ahead of its time, and becomes genuinely horrific.

Revitalizing several sub-genres through a Mexican sieve, genre conventions are honored at the very time that they're lent unique symbolism. Burrowing imagery and themes from the writings of Poe (ex: "The Premature Burial") and the shadow-drenched atmosphere of Noir cinema, everything from the gorgeous black-and-white photography to the gloom laden exterior shots of the gloom-haunted yet elegant household contribute to a general air of malignance. Impressive lighting techniques and simplistic if effective special effects lend a retrospective story further believability. How wonderful, to see a movie that achieves impressive emotional results with natural makeup ingredients and subtle tricks of hand in an age where cgi technology is king, and FX eats up financing that would better be spent on solid writing. Chano Urueta's inspired, sure direction glues these elements into a cohesive whole, making The Witch's Mirror one of the most imaginative horror films of its era.

An unrepentant return to, and celebration of, traditional horror, this hearty helping of shock-and-shlock has been preserved with both dedication and respect by newcomers CasaNegra, which, with this debut, impress. The full frame black & white transfer is simply gorgeous, sporting a clear picture with incredible detail. No grain or scratches are evident. Audio is presented in original mono Spanish language (with optional English subtitles) and an English dubbed track, free from distortion that one would expect from such a rare title.

Extras are just as commendable, and again, show the sincerity with which CasaNegra approaches the genre. Besides bilingual menus in English and Spanish, the disk features an informative audio commentary by Frank Coleman, wherein he discusses in a self-effacing, personable manner the cast and crew, the director, and, of especial interest, a bit about K. Gordon Murray. Balancing enthusiasm with honesty, Coleman is an intriguing subject, showing a delightful sense of humor when discussing his career. Next comes the well written essay "Chanovision: The Films of Mexican Cult Moviemaker, Chano Urueto," by David Wilt, followed by cast and crew biographies. A tasteful gallery of posters and stills, a reversible cover, and a CasaNegra game card round out this impressive DVD package.

Review by William P. Simmons