Devils and debauchery: why we love to be scared by folk horror
It’s this kind of dangerous, atavistic fantasy that folk horror takes to task; indeed, much of the “horror” is predicated on the willingness of seemingly ordinary people to believe these claims. In The Wicker Man, Sergeant Howie’s investigation into a girl’s disappearance is frustrated because he is battling against the will of an entire community, and for all his bluster about their pagan beliefs, he is conscious that the islanders live by a common and unshakeable faith in their practices. In Midsommar, it’s the appearance of communal unity that seemingly appeals to Dani when she arrives at Hårga for the festival. Strange though the place is, the very fact the community is celebrating something that’s part of a larger natural cycle is evidence of a consistency and stability lacking in her life. There’s a philosophy that underpins everything. Everyone has a role to play. Power is localised and tangible. And so to live in a community where the individual is not only able to grasp that power, but is an inherent part of its potency, is an attractive proposition in an era of relativist truths, fractured democracy, global environmental threats and a society in which the spheres of influence are ineffably remote.