‘The Severed Sun’ Fantastic Fest 2024 Review: A Vicious Slice of Folk Horror

THE SEVERED SUN

In folk horror, a film’s tension is often centered on whether or not they’ll succumb to devilish influence. Yet while writer/director Dean Puckett’s The Severed Sun features the staples of the genre (dark woodlands, cults, grisly deaths by various cleavers, etc.), it quickly establishes that for this demonic tale, there will be no seduction or struggle. Rather, those haunted by the supernatural have willingly embraced these forces and glee comes from witnessing the ways those most vulnerable (in the film’s case, women and children) get to exact their (un)holy vengeance with Satanic aid. The result is a blood-soaked tale of comeuppance whose thrills are rooted in seeing the powerful finally get haunted for a change. 

Set in an unnamed area of the rural British countryside, The Severed Sun follows a small, tight-knit religious community governed by an unnamed pastor (a menacing Toby Stephans). The Pastor has beaten members of the community into submission through his fire and brimstone rhetoric, frequently reminding congregants that they all have been conceived in sin. Stephans plays the character with hypocritical aplomb, as one who sincerely believes those around him are vile but that his sins are a bit tidier. Shame is the galvanizing force for the community, any fear and trembling having long calcified to a begrudging acceptance of the pastor’s iron-clad rule.

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This smothering peace is shattered when the pastor’s defiant daughter, Magpie (Emma Appleton in a standout role) kills her abusive husband. Not long after, a mysterious creature begins killing members of the community. Quickly, a connection is made between the creature and Magpie, which leads to a witch hunt for the Pastor’s child. 

The story hinges on Appleton’s defiant performance, and watching her temerarious and iconoclastic Magpie adds a gratifying twist to the usual witch hunt trope. Though it’s not initially clear whether Magpie is either haunted by or working with the monster, Appleton plays her as someone more than happy to let themselves be possessed and receive aid from up above (or down below). It’s evident that she’s no damsel in distress; she’s the damsel causing (righteous) distress.

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When a woman, Andrea (Jodhi May) tells her that she shouldn’t speak ill of her deceased husband, Magpie shoots back “What about the living? Can we speak ill of the living before it’s too late?” When Andrea’s husband then goes to confront her for her disrespect, blade in hand, she scoffs “You need that to come and talk to a woman?” Her paucity of tolerance for misogyny and abuse makes her stand out (and makes her the target of envy for other women). It’s refreshing to see a character so defiant in the face of forces that seek to break her down. The fact that she’s a pastor’s kid and flaunts her rebellion so openly also adds another layer of humor (and might be relatable for anyone who may have received extra scrutiny if their parents were members of the clergy). 

While bloody thrills and kills abound, Puckett finds ways to use Magpie’s treatment as a way to comment not only on the dangers of religious fanaticism but also on how intimate communities can use proximity to cause great harm. The Pastor is less concerned about the abuse against his daughter and instead worried about how her insubordination might be an inspiration. He seeks to harness the fear of the malevolent and otherworldly to keep the community under his thumb.

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Likewise, in one harrowing scene, Magpie berates Andrea for not stepping in to help her family when they are being abused. “You saw us in service week in, week out, bruised and broken, and you said nothing,” she rasps. What makes moments like these effective is that they all underscore the reality that this community has been marked for judgment. Magpie’s anguish is not an invitation for reconciliation, but a warning that callous acts of avoidance will not be overlooked. There’s a cost to disassociation and the creature “seems to have a taste for foul men,” she declares. 

Equally as impressive is the way cinematographer Ian Forbes manages to imbue dread amidst the beauty of the countryside. Between bursts of monstrous violence and verbal abuse, we are treated to stunning landscapes. Forbes’ lens is almost ravenous in the ways it captures and moves through everywhere the light touches. The land he depicts is one of the green pastures, still waters, and abundant life. Yet the irony lies in that such moments underscore the reality that the wickedness at the heart of this community (and the monster that torments them) hides in plain sight. Abuse towards women and children happens in broad daylight without consequence; there’s no need to hide in the shadows. The vast shots of the landscape then are recontextualized not as peace but a resignation; evil feels no need to lurk or hide here. 

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Ultimately, there’s a liturgical rhythm to The Severed Sun that is dually engrossing and predictable. Once the monster begins its killing, there’s little doubt as to how the story might end, and watching the film feels like a prophecy manifest in real-time, as community members are picked off one by one. Apart from one trippy sequence where a character hallucinates (it’s shot like a found footage film, The Blair Witch Project lighting and all), the film’s visual style doesn’t deviate from the pragmatic. But Appleton’s ferocity, especially in how she takes the hits and stabs with a bloody, full-toothed grin and the delight she has in giving herself over to work with the monster that’s afflicting her people, holds enough novelty. Her performance makes The Severed Sun a vicious slice of folk horror that’s not afraid to revel in what happens when evil gets to play in the open. 

3.5

Summary

The Severed Sun is a vicious slice of folk horror that’s not afraid to revel in what happens when evil gets to play in the open. 

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