Halloween Horror: Black Sunday (1960)

Usually considered Mario Bava’s debut feature, Black Sunday combines arthouse style and B-movie horror conventions to strong effect. While it could be viewed as a little staid in this day and age, its contributions to horror cinema shouldn’t be overlooked. The film takes 19th century Russian author Nikolai Gogol’s story of a demonic monster plaguing travellers in Eastern Europe and morphs it into a tale of witchcraft set in the northern Romanian region of Moldavia (known for its illuminated churches and thick forests). It relies on deep shadows, stark black and white cinematography, and haunted house theatrics to conjure its strong atmosphere and creepy moments.

The film begins in the early 17th century as we witness the execution of a witch in Moldavia. A group of inquisitors adorned in robes pronounce judgement on a young woman tied to a stake. Already, Bava is using iconography against us, as we assume the beautiful young woman is a victim of the brutal witch trials of the period. But the woman, Asa Vajda (Barbara Steele), is truly a witch, vowing revenge on her executors before they take a hideous metal mask with spikes on the inside and hammer it onto her face, adorning her corpse with the “mask of Satan”—which was the alternate, English-language title of the film upon release.

The film then flashes-forward to the late 19th century and joins two doctors (John Richardson and Andrea Checchi) on the road to St. Petersburg for a conference. As they pass through the accursed forest where the witch was buried centuries before, their carriage breaks down and they wander into some ruins, not knowing they’re entering a crypt. They realize their mistake when they come across the tomb of Asa Vajda, where a stone cross watches over her and supposedly ensures that she stays dead in her tomb. But the older of the two doctors cuts himself while fighting off a bat and smashes the stone cross to pieces. He flees, but not before doing irreversible damage, awakening the witch that has lain longing for her revenge.

From there, the doctors fall in with a beautiful princess from the region (also played by Barbara Steele) and come under the spell of the witch, who awakens her lover and seeks to take over the body of her modern-day double. There are extended sequences set in the massive royal castle of the region and other moments in dirty taverns and spooky churchyards. The setting of Bava’s film doesn’t skimp on atmosphere and Bava takes advantage of every wizened branch and shadowy corner of the castle to full effect.

Unlike some of Bava’s films to follow, Black Sunday doesn’t rely on shock tactics to deliver its scares. It favours stylized cinematography (also by Bava) and patient scene construction to create its atmosphere of dread. Coming out in the seminal horror year of 1960 (when both Alfred Hitchcok’s Psycho and Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom were released, as well as the French film Eyes Without a Face by Georges Franju), the film draws on arthouse style to fuel much of its effect. 

Unlike the contemporary pictures of Roger Corman and Vincent Price coming out of America at the same time, Black Sunday doesn’t capitulate to the supposed campiness of the horror genre. (Although it was billed alongside these films in the US, paired with The Little Shop of Horrors as a double feature.) Yes, there are preposterous moments of dramatic excess, but the sets and characters’ costumes are well-constructed and the film doesn’t sit back and let the period setting, embellished acting, and garish score do the heavy lifting. 

Instead, Bava seems to take inspiration from the medieval-set films of Ingmar Bergman in his stylistic approach (especially The Seventh Seal), using deep shadows and shot reverse-shot constructions to carry scenes. He doesn’t rely on long takes, instead using the editing to heighten the emotional tenor of the scene, favouring close-ups to withhold visual information on screen or allowing insert cutaways to build suspense before horrific reveals. The black and white cinematography is striking, especially in the scenes in the royal castle, where the witch’s servant appears suddenly out of corners and characters seem overwhelmed by the empty spaces of the castle.

The performances are curious, however. As with most Italian films of the time, Black Sunday was shot without sound and dubbed later. There was an English version and an Italian version, for the domestic and international markets, respectively. The actors are the same in both versions, so that the dubbing mostly matches up, but there’s a detachment that doesn’t help with the emotional tenor of some heightened moments. Thus, while much of the style of Black Sunday is stunning, the story progresses at a remove, where what could be an intense emotional crisis comes across as more muted and intellectual.

None of this is to say that Black Sunday is somehow ruined by this production practice of the time. It’s perfectly comprehensible and not even that muddled as far as Italian films of the time go. But the performances and dubbing don’t match the high standard of the shot construction and editing. 

Thus, Black Sunday is only halfway beyond the B-movie conventions of Corman and Price (and I don’t mean to denigrate these horror icons, as I admire many of their works) and the more artsy fare to come in the following decade or so, such as Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby and William Friedkin’s The Exorcist. It bears similarity to the earlier work of Jacques Tourneur in its favouring of style and pacing over brasher thrills and violence (although the violence is fairly shocking for the time). It’s more than an oddity, but slightly less than a classic of the horror genre.

7 out of 10

Directed by Mario Bava; written by Ennio De Concini and Mario Serandrei, English translations by George Higgins III, uncredited additions by Mario Bava, Marcello Coscia, and Dino De Palma, based on Viy by Nikolai Gogol; starring Barbara Steele, John Richardson, Andrea Checchi, Ivo Garrani, Arturo Dominici, Enrico Olivieri.

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