The early 1930s were not just a period of raiding classic
literature for horror studios eager to profit from the new booming business in
horror films. Anything that could create profitable terror in the hearts of the
punters was viable material, so when Victor Halpern’s film White Zombie debuted in July 1932, its themes of voodoo witchcraft
and occult possession in far-flung Haiti injected an exotic variant. Though the
film itself is highly-flawed and tame, it was the first to hint at the coming
sub-genre of the zombie movie. How was this mythology begun and why did it
arrive at the time it did? Let’s put it into context by setting sail back
through time to a dark chapter in world history.
THE HISTORY OF VOODOO
There are many misconceptions about Voodoo. The depiction of
colourful practises, especially within the realms of on-screen horror, have
tainted it with entirely negative connotations. We often associate it with an
intoxicating, primitive overload of the senses – the seductive, insistent thump
of primal drumming, lurid imagery of priests gibbering in tongues, black magic
rituals of animal sacrifice, tranced worshippers hurling themselves about in a
rising, orgiastic fervour, pins jammed into dolls transmitting pain to a remote
victim - all presided over by the top-hatted, grinning funster Baron Samedi. There
is tribal excitement, the anticipation of supernatural feats and by the end of
the show one unlucky (or unwilling) contestant may be dead or alive…or
something unnervingly in between.
All of these elements are prurient fun if not taken
seriously, but Voodoo is actually a genuine, sober religion that was forged
under the most appalling conditions to give a beleaguered people a means of
uniting and protecting them. It is condescended to by the mainstream yet forged
with earnest principles and rituals no more fantastical than those held to by
the major faiths. (The resurrection of life as proof of mystical power and
faith? Miracles? These are all strangely familiar).
The English-speaking world was not introduced to the concept
of the zombie, the infantryman of the voodoo world, until 1889 when journalist
Lafcadio Hearn wrote an article for Harper’s
Magazine called ‘The Country of the Comers-Back’ about the phenomenon of
the ‘corps cadavres’ or ‘walking dead’ that he heard rumours about in
Martinique. He was only able to provide a flavour of the superstitious
mutterings. It would take another travel writer, the American William Seabrook,
to plunge whole-heartedly into his research first-hand and bring back the raw
meat of folklore for westerners in the crucial volume The Magic Island.
Seabrook began as a buttoned-down square, following his
college education into journalism then the advertising world before realising
that he had the thrill-junkie soul of a true adventurer to satisfy. Rather than
wait for America to draft him into World War One, he joined the French Army as
an ambulance driver to drive right into the heart of the action. After the war,
he tried to fit himself into the hip arts scene of New York’s Greenwich village
literary set, but the highbrow elitists dismissed him as pandering to
sensationalist supernatural stories and lurid sex crimes. He would ultimately
develop the persona of the risk-taking, globe-trotting reporter who dared to
travel where white men rarely ventured. He thrived on encountering bizarre and
hostile cultures, immersing himself in their ways even to the point of tasting
human flesh when studying cannibals.
Seabrook lived with the Bedouins in Arabia, the jungle tribes
of Africa, and many other places but his greatest impact came from his time in the
Caribbean island of Haiti. On the surface, this conventional-looking chap
blended right in with the other white settlers in the capital, Port-Au-Prince
in 1928 – but what he would transmit to his readers was anything but decent and
restrained. Far from being a critical observer, his prose pulsed with recording
only the direct experiences of unbridled perversion and sexual experimentation
in his new environment (hence the insistence on trying cannibalism for his book
Jungle Ways). He had already
developed a taste for the kinky, reputedly travelling the world equipped with
whips and chains in his luggage, and although this robbed him of objectivity,
who cared when they could vicariously feast on the exciting eye-witness
accounts he brought back?
It was a Haitian farmer, Polynice, who was Seabrook’s
passport into the chilling territory of Caribbean ‘voudoun’. Through him, the
writer understood how the economic culture of slavery first of all created the melting-pot
from which voodoo and its belief system emerged. Thousands of captured slaves had been
imported from Africa to the West Indies to work the enormous French-governed plantations
trading in sugar, coffee and cotton since the 17th century. Indeed,
by the time of the French Revolution in 1789, Haiti (its name meaning
‘mountainous’ in the native Indian tongue) produced over half the world’s
coffee and 40 percent of the sugar for Britain and France, which was the
dominant European nation at that time). As their industrial need for cheap,
illegally-exploited labour grew, the French shipped in thousands more slaves
from West Africa. Gradually, the religions of the native Indians, the white
slave traders and the various African cultures began to merge into a
complicated belief system taking elements of African faiths and Roman
Catholicism. This was the basis of Voodoo.
By 1804, Haiti’s black population had managed to free itself from
slavery for good via revolutions led by Toussaint Louverture and Dessalines,
even repelling a 40,000 strong French force led by Napoleon – to finally
declare itself free with an Act of Independence. However, the freedom-fighting
left a devastated country that had no infrastructure or experience in
self-rule. Into the early twentieth century the country was continually
besieged, particularly by repeated interventions from America, keen to maintain
control of the Panama Canal. By the time of Seabrook’s fact-finding mission,
Haiti had been an unwilling victim of American military and cultural occupation
since 1915.
Under its new masters, the Haitian religion of Voodoo was
prohibited, forcing it underground. Practitioners were forced to worship within
the privacy of mainstream Roman Catholic churches - a co-existence that did not
trouble them, but was not mutually-supported by Catholics. In spite of, and
maybe because of, such opposition, Voodoo established a growing following among
the powerless, inhumanely-treated people in Haitian society.
In Jaime Russell’s comprehensive guide to zombie film
history, Book of the Dead, he zeroes
in on a vital aspect of Voodoo, that of bodily possession by the gods:
“A person is comprised
of two souls, the gros-bon-ange (literally ‘the big good angel’) and the
ti-bon-ange (the little good angel). The first of these is an individual’s life
force, the second is everything that defines them as them. For a god to take
possession of a worshipper, the second of these two souls has to be cast out of
the body. The spirit of the god then takes over the empty shell of flesh.
Later, when the god departs, the ti-bon-ange returns to the body. In voodoo,
much as in Christianity, the soul and the body are considered separate
entities…”
This is crucial in understanding the vulnerability of the
voodoo worshipper to perceived hijacking of their disembodied soul as a zombie
by agents of evil beyond the safety of their rituals:
“According to zombie
legend, such necromancy usually occurred after the sorcerer brought about the
victim’s “death” through a combination of magic and potions… the sorcerer
captured their essential soul and, on the eve of the burial, opened up their
grave and removed the body…then bring(s) this corpse back to “life” as an
obedient, mindless slave that could be put to work on some distant part of the
island…”
To Haitians, the threat of zombification of their dead
relatives was no mere superstition. They took it so seriously that they would
take elaborate precautions to prevent it happening in the afterlife. A wealthy
family could afford the security of a private tomb to prevent access. Poorer
families might bury their loved one under heavy stonework or at a busy
cross-roads (referenced in White Zombie),
or even station a family member to watch over the graveside till the body had
time to decompose. A more extreme measure was to poison the body or shoot it so
it would be of no use to evil sorcerers.
In a culture so barbarically treated by self-imposed
overlords, the Haitians feared the prospect of becoming a zombie far more than
being the victim of one. Death was at least regarded as a heavenly escape from the
earth-bound misery of subjugation, so everything humanly possible was done to
avoid their monstrous servitude being carried over for eternity into the
afterlife.
After Polynice told Seabrook his account of seeing an army of
undead employed by an unscrupulous farmer during the bumper sugar crop of 1918,
he took the writer two hours’ ride away to allegedly witness slave zombies
himself working in the sugar cane fields. True to his creed of reporting only
personal experience, Seabrook got up close and personal: “There was something about them unnatural and strange. They were
plodding like brutes, like automatons…The eyes were the worst…in truth like the
eyes of a dead man, not blind but staring, unfocused, unseeing...”
To an audience back home, reading such lurid accounts of
far-off events not only gave them a vicarious thrill but Seabrook’s journals
were a justification for America’s foreign domination of the territory under
the guise of civilising what was seen as a savage land. With this ghoulish
interest in mind, the eventual co-opting of the material by Hollywood studios
was inevitable, but like Dracula and Frankenstein before it, voodoo mythology
was first presented as American entertainment in the theatre. In February 1932,
producer and writer Kenneth Webb mounted the play Zombie in New York. It was a cheapjack three-act piece that avoided
any of the costly copyright issues that came with translating the previous two horror
juggernauts. The play was crude, racist and exploitative, narrowing not only
its budget but its focus to one room in a Haitian bungalow, wherein the husband
half of a plantation-owning couple dies and then is revived as a zombie by one
of the senior native staff to fulfil his plan for estate control. The wife
solves the mystery with the aid of two American friends, while the rich history
of Haiti is reduced to two black-faced white actors (later replaced with
Haitians to garner publicity goodwill) and a staged walking-dead attack.
Reading the plot, Zombie
suggests a poor attempt at a single-set, Agatha Christie whodunnit with voodoo
elements tacked on. Unsurprisingly it failed in the theatre, but the
possibilities for the basic ingredients were not lost on brothers Victor and
Edward Halperin (director and producer respectively). They believed that in
more talented hands, a voodoo-related story could capitalise on the new wave of
cinema horror and set about proving this, much to Webb’s initial excitement and
then despair when he realised that they had no need of clearing any rights or
recompense for him. (Webb naively thought that somehow he had a claim on anyone
using voodoo and its living dead concepts in their story). The Halperins’
commissioned film script wasn’t based on his material, so his law suit was groundless.
The brothers Halperin were taking a mighty gamble with their
proposed ‘zombie movie’ as they did not have a major studio to bankroll them.
The only form of insurance they could take out was to head-line the film with a
recognised star, and this they did by asking Bela Lugosi. He jumped at the
chance of the lead role of the suave, mesmeric Murder Legendre soon after
finishing the film of Dracula. This
was largely due to his dire need to generate income since his contract for the
aforementioned smash hit only paid him $500 a week – he’d been low-balled by
Universal all too easily when they saw how desperately he wanted to transfer
his stage success in the part to the film version. Also, his high-handedness in
turning down the role of the Frankenstein monster placed him in temporary
disfavour with them, increasing his concerns about where else he could gain
employment. This poor bargaining position in the Halperins’ favour attached him
to their movie, White Zombie, for
$800 a week over just 11 days. Sadly, this repeat of his Dracula exploitation went further when the film turned a $62,500 budget
into a surprising $8m box-office take, probably indicative of the public’s burgeoning
taste for horror chills.
White Zombie is essentially a love-triangle
co-opting voodoo practises and Lugosi’s now crystallised screen persona into a
tale with only scant connection to the modern zombie film. A young American couple,
Neil and Madeleine Parker - Madge Bellamy and John Harron - are reunited in
Haiti and plan to wed. On their coach-drive to the home of plantation owner
Charles Beaumont, played by Robert Frazer, they encounter bodies being buried
at a crossroads. Their frightened black driver explains the lore we explored
earlier about protecting the dead from after-life servitude. We are also
introduced to Lugosi with two impactful close-ups of his fiercely staring eyes
before he speaks, thus conveying his malevolent hypnotic influence. (At least
in this film, charges of racist portrayals are mitigated by having the evil
machinations perpetrated by the westerners rather than the ‘natives’).
Lugosi’s Legendre is a dark colleague of Beaumont, who it
transpires has designs upon the lovely Madeleine and enlists his occult friend
to poison her so that after the funeral he can revive her as a zombified life
companion. This of course soon pales when he realises that he can have her
pallid presence but never the soul and life she had when alive. After Neil is
plagued by nightmares of his dead bride-to-be, he finds her tomb empty and
teams up with missionary Dr Bruner (Joseph Cawthorn) who follows the clues to
Legendre’s cliff-top castle. Madeleine is ordered by Legendre to kill Neil but
Bruner prevents her. Neil and Bruner battle a motley crew of zombies Legendre
has converted out of his sworn enemies - a witch doctor, a Captain of the
Gendarmerie, A Minister of the Interior who resembles a Disney Pirate and an oddly
grimacing High Executioner, before breaking the spell held over Madeleine by
temporarily knocking out the voodoo maestro. The zombies are dispatched over
the edge of the cliff, and the regretful Beaumont, who’d pleaded with Legendre
to undo his handiwork, is poisoned into fellow undead slavery, but on being
freed from his master joins him in a header over the cliff edge into oblivion.
Madeleine is restored to life and the lovers are once again reunited.
In spite of its limitations that make the horror elements
feel applied to the film rather than an organic part of the story, White Zombie is not without interest. An
early scene showing Legendre’s sugar mill business populated by an army of zombie
labourers is atmospheric and amplified by the harsh industrial sound effects of
the machinery. Victor Halperin’s use of shadows has drawn comparison in later
decades with the work of Val Lewton. Lugosi in the role of Legendre had by now already
developed a Svengali showman ‘type’ that Hollywood had been recycling as an
evil plot catalyst since The Cabinet of
Dr Caligari. It is an easy gig for him as the evening-dressed, suave,
glowering subjugator of impressionable minds he had already essayed in Dracula and also in 1932’s Murders in the Rue Morgue but it was
work and arguably a recognisable niche for him, not yet an imprisonment as
Count Dracula would later become. He gives this part a novel touch in the recurring
hypnotic reinforcement gesture of touching the finger-tips of both hands together
and then rolling the fingers around in a spiralling clasp – a move lovingly emulated
by Martin Landau in his portrayal of Lugosi in Ed Wood.
Ultimately White Zombie
is mostly of interest for what it heralds in zombie cinema rather than what
it contains. Over the next decades the offspring of voodoo rites (and not
forgetting bad science) would stir, shamble inexorably forward then break into
hair-raising speed into the new millennium…
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