The sad truth is that independent films – and even Folk Horror, in general – are, ultimately, not for everyone.
Their stories can be a bit odd at times, never quite feeling as if the storytellers wanted to explore anything greater than a single note, beat, or idea. Though such flicks used to be populated with second tier stars and starlets trying to stretch creatively if not approach something completely different, these projects seem to have fallen on hard times: very few of them see the light of day any more – a sad fact that might be owed to the presence of so many unknown, untried, untested, and unproven talents – or they wind up in the direct-to-DVD video bin at your local big box discount store. Film festivals across the fruited plain still manage to serve them up when given the chance; but even those outlets have fallen into disarray as many organizers just can’t quite seem to muster the funds to see them continued in modern times.
Just as indie features can be a bit hard-to-swallow, Folk Horror can be even more of an ‘acquired taste.’
Bits and pieces of their stories need to be defined in order to be fully grasped and appreciated; and not every viewer who buys a ticket is all that much interested in ‘learning’ as opposed to be sufficiently ‘entertained.’ It’s a unique sub-genre that knows no bounds because its parameters can be expanded to new frontiers so long as the core foundation sticks close to rural settings, superstitions, community or even communal settings, and other related things that go bump in the night. When full-blown Horror can be immensely popular, Folk counterparts tend to be a bit quieter, a bit more reserved, a bit less bloody … and much more thought-provoking.
Thankfully, there are a handful of great distributors out there – like those at Severin Films – who refuse to let experimental and independent cinema die; and they’ve awarded me a fabulously expansive set – All The Haunts Be Ours: A Compendium Of Folk Horror Volume 2 – that I’ve really only begun scratching the surface of.
Today’s fright: 1952’s Finnish-language chiller The White Reindeer weaves the classic web of ‘girl meets boy’ with the added layers of ‘girl might have been born a witch’ and ‘girl resorts to poorly phrased love potion to make boy love her even more.’ Written (in part) and directed by Erik Blomberg (1913-1996), the feature starred the man’s wife and screenwriter partner Mirjami Kuosmanen (1915-1963) who only a short ten years later would pass tragically from a brain hemorrhage. Yet, their screen collaboration here remains one of great distinction: not only was it the recipient of the 1953 Cannes Film Festival prize in the category of ‘Best Fairy Tale Film’ but also it scored three big wins – ‘Best Music,’ ‘Best Cinematography,’ and ‘Best Leading Actress’—at the 1952 Jussi Awards, Finland’s equivalent to the U.S.’s Academy Awards.
Setting aside the accolades, The White Reindeer has some plusses and minuses so far as this reviewer is concerned. Like many pictures of the bygone era, it spends a good amount of screen time invested in narrative sequences that stretch on a bit longer than completely necessary, so much so that I suspect there’s a vastly slimmer cut of the flick that might even sit well with today’s TikTok sensibilities. The performances are good (for what they are), and – to my surprise – there’s so little dialogue one wonders what was truly gained by structuring it almost like a story from the era of silent films.
Their stories can be a bit odd at times, never quite feeling as if the storytellers wanted to explore anything greater than a single note, beat, or idea. Though such flicks used to be populated with second tier stars and starlets trying to stretch creatively if not approach something completely different, these projects seem to have fallen on hard times: very few of them see the light of day any more – a sad fact that might be owed to the presence of so many unknown, untried, untested, and unproven talents – or they wind up in the direct-to-DVD video bin at your local big box discount store. Film festivals across the fruited plain still manage to serve them up when given the chance; but even those outlets have fallen into disarray as many organizers just can’t quite seem to muster the funds to see them continued in modern times.
Just as indie features can be a bit hard-to-swallow, Folk Horror can be even more of an ‘acquired taste.’
Bits and pieces of their stories need to be defined in order to be fully grasped and appreciated; and not every viewer who buys a ticket is all that much interested in ‘learning’ as opposed to be sufficiently ‘entertained.’ It’s a unique sub-genre that knows no bounds because its parameters can be expanded to new frontiers so long as the core foundation sticks close to rural settings, superstitions, community or even communal settings, and other related things that go bump in the night. When full-blown Horror can be immensely popular, Folk counterparts tend to be a bit quieter, a bit more reserved, a bit less bloody … and much more thought-provoking.
Thankfully, there are a handful of great distributors out there – like those at Severin Films – who refuse to let experimental and independent cinema die; and they’ve awarded me a fabulously expansive set – All The Haunts Be Ours: A Compendium Of Folk Horror Volume 2 – that I’ve really only begun scratching the surface of.
Today’s fright: 1952’s Finnish-language chiller The White Reindeer weaves the classic web of ‘girl meets boy’ with the added layers of ‘girl might have been born a witch’ and ‘girl resorts to poorly phrased love potion to make boy love her even more.’ Written (in part) and directed by Erik Blomberg (1913-1996), the feature starred the man’s wife and screenwriter partner Mirjami Kuosmanen (1915-1963) who only a short ten years later would pass tragically from a brain hemorrhage. Yet, their screen collaboration here remains one of great distinction: not only was it the recipient of the 1953 Cannes Film Festival prize in the category of ‘Best Fairy Tale Film’ but also it scored three big wins – ‘Best Music,’ ‘Best Cinematography,’ and ‘Best Leading Actress’—at the 1952 Jussi Awards, Finland’s equivalent to the U.S.’s Academy Awards.
Setting aside the accolades, The White Reindeer has some plusses and minuses so far as this reviewer is concerned. Like many pictures of the bygone era, it spends a good amount of screen time invested in narrative sequences that stretch on a bit longer than completely necessary, so much so that I suspect there’s a vastly slimmer cut of the flick that might even sit well with today’s TikTok sensibilities. The performances are good (for what they are), and – to my surprise – there’s so little dialogue one wonders what was truly gained by structuring it almost like a story from the era of silent films.
(NOTE: The following review will contain minor spoilers necessary solely for the discussion of plot and/or characters. If you’re the type of reader who prefers a review entirely spoiler-free, then I’d encourage you to skip down to the last few paragraphs for the final assessment. If, however, you’re accepting of a few modest hints at ‘things to come,’ then read on …)
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“A newlywed woman goes to the local shaman to get some help with her love life, but instead she gets turned into a white reindeer vampire.”
A great number of fairy tales have been written exploring the theme of misunderstood or unrequited love; and this is essentially the frozen territory staked out by The White Reindeer, a tragic affair pulled from Finnish mythology and delivered to the silver screen with icy conviction. Wikipedia.org credits the film from Erik Blomberg as his professional debut; and the writer/director definitely delivers the goods in a way that warrants the kind of appreciation given by scholars and academics alike, though it might feel a bit slim if not occasionally bloated cinematographically by mainstream audiences. Those who are fascinated by folklore around the world will probably find a few sequences worthy of note, but even they might find their patience tested with several sequences that stretch languorously longer than they need.
Yes, yes, and yes: one might argue that protracted structures are necessary steps for creating a bit of the requisite atmosphere. The setting is in the deep, deep treacherous frozen tundra where only a handful of men, women, and children might account for the tiniest of villages; and this isolation feeds directly into our heroine’s need to connect both physically, emotionally, and spiritually with her husband. Part witch story and part morality tale – always be careful what you wish for – Reindeer settles easily into the sub-genre of Folk Horror in practically every way possible. Still, I can’t imagine any of its substance or impact being sacrificed had Blomberg clipped 10-to-15 seconds off of his expansive shots of endless snowy plains and the hunters sledding across them. By the final reel, it isn’t as if we haven’t seen such activity before, so it grows tedious.
Pirita (played by Mirjami Kuosmanen) is prophesied at the time of her birth to be part of a growing folk community which celebrates life in song and dance. Once she matures into adulthood, the lovely lady catches the eye of one of the tribe’s hunters – Aslak (Kalervo Nissilä) – and the pair are eventually joined in marriage. However, their life as a couple is hardly what the lady wished for as her man spends so much time away on hunting expeditions, choosing to run with ‘the pack’ of men, dogs, and reindeer. Hoping to lessen her loneliness, Pirita asks the local shaman to cast a spell – one that could make it impossible for a hunter to resist her charms – and as anyone can imagine the wish goes horribly wrong.
Did the lady seriously forget that hunters first and foremost long to chase wild beasts across the wild frontier?
From the film’s IMDB.com page citation:
“A newlywed woman goes to the local shaman to get some help with her love life, but instead she gets turned into a white reindeer vampire.”
A great number of fairy tales have been written exploring the theme of misunderstood or unrequited love; and this is essentially the frozen territory staked out by The White Reindeer, a tragic affair pulled from Finnish mythology and delivered to the silver screen with icy conviction. Wikipedia.org credits the film from Erik Blomberg as his professional debut; and the writer/director definitely delivers the goods in a way that warrants the kind of appreciation given by scholars and academics alike, though it might feel a bit slim if not occasionally bloated cinematographically by mainstream audiences. Those who are fascinated by folklore around the world will probably find a few sequences worthy of note, but even they might find their patience tested with several sequences that stretch languorously longer than they need.
Yes, yes, and yes: one might argue that protracted structures are necessary steps for creating a bit of the requisite atmosphere. The setting is in the deep, deep treacherous frozen tundra where only a handful of men, women, and children might account for the tiniest of villages; and this isolation feeds directly into our heroine’s need to connect both physically, emotionally, and spiritually with her husband. Part witch story and part morality tale – always be careful what you wish for – Reindeer settles easily into the sub-genre of Folk Horror in practically every way possible. Still, I can’t imagine any of its substance or impact being sacrificed had Blomberg clipped 10-to-15 seconds off of his expansive shots of endless snowy plains and the hunters sledding across them. By the final reel, it isn’t as if we haven’t seen such activity before, so it grows tedious.
Pirita (played by Mirjami Kuosmanen) is prophesied at the time of her birth to be part of a growing folk community which celebrates life in song and dance. Once she matures into adulthood, the lovely lady catches the eye of one of the tribe’s hunters – Aslak (Kalervo Nissilä) – and the pair are eventually joined in marriage. However, their life as a couple is hardly what the lady wished for as her man spends so much time away on hunting expeditions, choosing to run with ‘the pack’ of men, dogs, and reindeer. Hoping to lessen her loneliness, Pirita asks the local shaman to cast a spell – one that could make it impossible for a hunter to resist her charms – and as anyone can imagine the wish goes horribly wrong.
Did the lady seriously forget that hunters first and foremost long to chase wild beasts across the wild frontier?
Eventually, she finds she can transform into the white reindeer (of the title), a caribou that’s revered in local legend for bringing tragedy and suffering in its wake. Naturally, this is what happens as the sightings of Pirita in animal form bring out the local hunters who are hell bent on seeing the things killed only to, one by one, fall victim to the lady’s treachery. Eventually, husband and wife collide on the battlefield – well, hunting grounds, anyway – and Aslak emerges aghast once his triumph turns to tragedy with the realization that it was his beloved he struck down in the closing moments.
As this is reported to be Blomberg’s first film, I’m willing to chalk up some of the visual bloat to being a bit of a beginner. Again, it isn’t as if there’s a great deal of waste here cinematically: my point is that once a point is made then I’m looking for the story to move along, and that doesn’t always happen. It’s all captured in stark black-and-white, and the man uses both shadows and some old school camera trickery to accomplish vastly more than others have done, so there’s no denying the noirish charm to what he brings to the feature. Also, he alternates comfortably between some tight, closed in housing to some reasonably expansive frontiers, a technique that helps underscore the fact that even wide-open spaces might offer little reprieve for a woman who wants little more than her husband’s arms around her.
But, wow, Kuosmanen is a big-time star here.
Whether she is batting her eyelashes at the local revelry or staring sternly into Blomberg’s camera, she commands a great deal of attention to her plight when it’s needed. Much like a siren from the aforementioned silent era, she renders her emotions with a mastery of expression, never leaving any doubt as to what she’s thinking or expecting in any of her close-ups. Who knows what her career in film might’ve amounted to had she lived longer as it’s her time in the lens that gives this Reindeer so much of its visual punch.
The White Reindeer (1952) was produced by Junior-Filmi. DVD distribution (for this particular release) has been coordinated by the film folks at Severin Films. As for the technical specifications? While I’m no trained video expert, I found the provided sights-and-sounds to be exceptional across the flick’s 74-minute running time. (There are some very slow fades to black that, too, could’ve been restored a bit better, but it is what it is.) If you’re looking for special features? The disc boasts a few short films along with a commentary-like experience from a podcast called The Projection Booth that’s good but only occasionally a bit too chatty.
Recommended.
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Severin Films provided me with a complimentary Blu-ray of The White Reindeer (1952) – as part of their All The Haunts Be Ours: A Compendium Of Folk Horror Vol. 2 – by request for the purpose of completing this review. Their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.
-- EZ
As this is reported to be Blomberg’s first film, I’m willing to chalk up some of the visual bloat to being a bit of a beginner. Again, it isn’t as if there’s a great deal of waste here cinematically: my point is that once a point is made then I’m looking for the story to move along, and that doesn’t always happen. It’s all captured in stark black-and-white, and the man uses both shadows and some old school camera trickery to accomplish vastly more than others have done, so there’s no denying the noirish charm to what he brings to the feature. Also, he alternates comfortably between some tight, closed in housing to some reasonably expansive frontiers, a technique that helps underscore the fact that even wide-open spaces might offer little reprieve for a woman who wants little more than her husband’s arms around her.
But, wow, Kuosmanen is a big-time star here.
Whether she is batting her eyelashes at the local revelry or staring sternly into Blomberg’s camera, she commands a great deal of attention to her plight when it’s needed. Much like a siren from the aforementioned silent era, she renders her emotions with a mastery of expression, never leaving any doubt as to what she’s thinking or expecting in any of her close-ups. Who knows what her career in film might’ve amounted to had she lived longer as it’s her time in the lens that gives this Reindeer so much of its visual punch.
The White Reindeer (1952) was produced by Junior-Filmi. DVD distribution (for this particular release) has been coordinated by the film folks at Severin Films. As for the technical specifications? While I’m no trained video expert, I found the provided sights-and-sounds to be exceptional across the flick’s 74-minute running time. (There are some very slow fades to black that, too, could’ve been restored a bit better, but it is what it is.) If you’re looking for special features? The disc boasts a few short films along with a commentary-like experience from a podcast called The Projection Booth that’s good but only occasionally a bit too chatty.
Recommended.
In the interests of fairness, I’m pleased to disclose that the fine folks at Severin Films provided me with a complimentary Blu-ray of The White Reindeer (1952) – as part of their All The Haunts Be Ours: A Compendium Of Folk Horror Vol. 2 – by request for the purpose of completing this review. Their contribution to me in no way, shape, or form influenced my opinion of it.
-- EZ
Purchase your copy of All The Haunts Be Ours: A Compendium Of Folk Horror Vol. 2 right here:
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