Probably the best film to sink its exploitative claws into the world of 18th century witch-hunters and their ghastly torture methods. Vampires aren’t real and neither are zombies, but people in more superstitious times who screamed witchcraft accusations at anyone whom they wanted to see burned alive or have their tongue ripped out were as real as the Starbucks down the street, which makes this Austrian shock flick more disturbing than most. The production values are half-decent and there are some clever ideas (I love the moment where a guy is stabbed in the eye and then director Michael Armstrong cuts to a quick montage of psychedelic color designs to communicate the sensation), but it’s still a grimy film, which is all the better. There might not be a polite way to tell this story. Voluptuous leading lady Olivera Vuco spends the whole movie bursting out of bodices that are ready to be ripped by prune-faced local witch-hunter Reggie Nalder, who seems to think that any attractive woman who resists his clammy advances is a bride of Satan. Meanwhile, director Armstrong lets his camera linger over bloody torture scenes in fine freak show fashion.
It’s more titillation than education, but this slimy little thing ends up making a point that resonates today. It’s simple: People who are fixated on the punishment of others (in this case, the torture and execution of suspected witches) are often into it because it turns them on sexually. Justice stops and sadism begins when you start having fun. When you’ve got an erection, you’re really far gone. The angry impotent man though is a true wild card. Back in the 1700s, they thought a toothache was the devil’s work; a dick that won’t get hard just had to be witchcraft!
All of this still applies today. The only differences are that our heretics are redefined and we don’t need to see blood anymore (though, if it’s there, we’ll take it).
The torturers and spectators of public executions, after all, are not an alien race that landed on Earth centuries ago. They were people, just regular people. They were us.
And that’s the scariest thing about Mark of the Devil.