By H. Peter Steeves
The title card of Robert Eggers’ 2015 film, The Witch, tells us that what we are about to see is “A New England Folktale.” Moving from a critique of colonialism and capitalism to an analysis of identity politics and trans-philosophy, this essay reads Eggers’ film through a (mostly second-wave) feminist lens and argues that the folktale at work explains how women might free themselves from the bonds of patriarchal society by rejecting the concept of woman and embracing those pre- or uncivilized forces that are considered dark and transgressive by mainstream culture.
Keywords: The Witch; The VVitch; Robert Eggers; witchcraft; Andrea Dworkin; colonialism; feminism; Satan; Christianity; natural law; Brett Kavanaugh; Hillary Clinton; Donald Trump; sacrifice; Sigmund Freud; sexuality; Puritans; philosophy
He is to lay both hands on the head of the live goat and confess over it all the wickedness and rebellion of the Israelites—all their sins—and put them on the goat’s head. He shall send the goat away into the wilderness in
the care of someone appointed for the task. The goat will carry on itself all their sins to a remote place; and the man shall release it in the wilderness.
We are told from the start that The Witch (2015) is “A New England Folktale.” As such, the film is situated within a specific genre, one that traditionally has two important elements: folktales are typically meant to explain to a community something that is otherwise inexplicable, and folktales are typically passed from person to person, generation to generation, orally. Writing, after all, is one of the trappings of civilization, something we leave behind when we take off beyond the town gates as the family at the center of The Witch does in the first few minutes of the film. To write about this movie is thus to risk missing its meaning completely—and to miss the point of the inexplicable’s explanation. We should be talking around a fire in the woods right now, the creatures of the shadow-world just beyond the edge of the firelight leaning in to listen for a bit before making their horrific presence known.
- The Story of The Witch
William and Katherine, along with their daughter Thomasin (~15 years old), son Caleb (~10 years old), and young twins Jonas and Mercy (~4 years old), are Puritans living in early-seventeenth century New England. The film opens with the elders of the Plymouth colony decreeing that William has heretical religious views and that he and his family are thus to be banished to the wilderness. The family leaves the confines of the settlement and, after what we assume is a brief journey of a few days, comes upon a clearing near a wooded area. They decide to stay, building a house and stable for their horse and goats and planting a garden (that will never bear any crops). Time passes—perhaps just under a year—and Thomasin is seen playing peek-a-boo with Samuel, a newborn addition to the family. Her hands covering her eyes during the game for just a moment, Thomasin, upon looking down, discovers that Samuel has vanished. There is no plausible natural explanation. The family imagines that a wolf (apparently an impossibly silent, speedy, efficient, and invisible wolf) might have carried the baby away, though they hold Thomasin accountable for the tragedy—especially Katherine. In a later scene, we see that a witch has abducted the unbaptized Samuel and is using his blood and entrails for magic.
Katherine is inconsolable after the loss of her infant son. The twins, oblivious to the suffering, laugh and play games, annoying Thomasin, who teases them by claiming that she is a witch and can harm them if they do not do as she says. The twins are terrified by this and behave—if only for a short while.
William and Caleb go hunting, using supplies William procured by secretly trading his wife’s fancy silver cup. After an unsuccessful hunt, the family has a meager dinner and Katherine confronts Thomasin about both the disappearance of her cup and her newborn child. William and Caleb, who know the truth about the cup, allow Thomasin to take the blame. That night, William and Katherine discuss “selling” Thomasin to another family back at Plymouth as a servant—a conversation Thomasin and Caleb overhear. Caleb, who is just on the edge of puberty, has been “noticing” his sister. He does not want her to go away. Heading out without permission to hunt on his own early the next morning, Caleb gives in to Thomasin, who insists on coming with him. Once deep in the woods, a creepy rabbit startles the horse and the family dog, Fowler, who has tagged along. Caleb chases the dog and the rabbit, eventually finding Fowler eviscerated. Continuing to follow the trail, the boy encounters what appears to be a beautiful naked woman living in a hut in the woods. As the woman pulls him close and kisses him, her arm is shown to be old and decaying: she is the witch; Caleb is surely lost. Thomasin, who has been unconscious since having been thrown by the horse, is found by her father and taken home. Katherine, now having lost two of her sons while they were with Thomasin, makes it clear that she blames her daughter for everything that has been going wrong.
Caleb wanders back home the next night in the rain, naked and unable to speak. He is clearly suffering from some great physical and mental illness—perhaps as the result of a curse. The next day he awakens, mysteriously spits up a small apple, suddenly engages in a passionate (and somewhat erotic) soliloquy in which he confesses his love for Christ, and dies. Questioning if this could be the result of witchcraft, Katherine once again turns to blame her daughter. The twins now admit that Thomasin proclaimed herself to be a witch. Thomasin responds by arguing that if anyone is engaged in witchcraft it must be the twins since they hang out with the sinister goat, Black Phillip, so much and she has even heard them having conversations with him. Thomasin further calls into question her father’s ability to provide for his family. As tensions escalate, William’s temporary solution is to imprison all three of his remaining children in the stable. Overnight, the children are visited by the witch, who breaks into the shed where they are being kept, drinks milk straight from the goats, and obviously creates havoc in scenes we are not shown. At the same time, Katherine dreams (or has a waking delusion) that Caleb has returned with Samuel—and her silver cup. She takes the baby to her bosom to breast-feed him, unaware that Samuel is actually a crow pecking violently at her bloody breast.
The next morning William goes outside and discovers Thomasin, unconscious once again and this time covered in blood. All of the goats, apart from Black Phillip, have been slaughtered, the stable is in shambles with a large hole in the roof, and the twins are now nowhere to be seen. Thomasin is the only child that remains. Outraged, befuddled, and defeated, William stands passively overlooking the scene … and is promptly gored by Black Phillip. He considers fighting back with an axe, but gives in to death, muttering, “Corruption, thou art my father,” before being pushed by Black Phillip into a towering stack of firewood that falls and crushes him. Katherine emerges from the house and lets her full fury fly at her daughter. She now claims that Thomasin was trying to seduce her brother and father and is to blame for everyone’s death. She begins beating her daughter, even trying to strangle her. Thomasin fights back, ultimately using a cleaver to kill her mother.
Night comes. Thomasin, it seems, has been in shock most of the day. Black Phillip leads her into the stable and she calmly follows. Thomasin begs Black Phillip to speak to her. The goat, now seen in the shadows to be a man dressed in elegant black clothing—though we only ever catch glimpses of him in passing from the waist down—begins the following exchange with the girl:
Black Phillip: What dost thou want?
Thomasin: What canst thou give?
BP: Wouldst thou like the taste of butter? A pretty dress? Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?
BP: Wouldst thou like to see the world?
T: What will you from me?
BP: Dost thou see a book before thee? Remove thy shift.
T: I cannot write my name.
BP: I will guide thy hand.
Thomasin signs, shift-less and naked, and is soon led into the forest by Black Phillip in goat form. She finds an entire coven of witches there, chanting around a fire. As the witches begin floating up into the sky, Thomasin smiles, welcomed into the group, and rises up into the trees.
- On Colonialism and Cups
It is surely the case that part of what has pushed William beyond the town’s gates, putting the film’s narrative in action, is his disagreement with the church elders about how best to live according to Scripture. This is a problem that really only shows itself when Scripture is written down. When words are on a page, when there is a physical Bible, those words seem to linger, to have a life of their own. You read the words, close the book, open the book back up, and still the words are there—as if they never left, as if they kept on meaning something exact and precise even when you weren’t reading them. When we have written words, we start to worry about literal interpretations and who understands the words the closest to the sense in which they were first written down. This worry is much harder to find in oral cultures. Because words, then, are only there when we use them to talk to each other, it is more clearly the case that words have their meaning in particular moments and contexts, for particular people and times, before evaporating. And because our memories are not without fault, when we retell our stories we do not expect the words to stay the same. Instead, we realize that language does not denote, does not point to some truth beyond itself, but instead is just a way of us getting along, of us being an us by sharing ideas and history. So the problem of the Puritans—and of William, who seems to be too puritanical for even the Puritans—is a problem that is rooted in the written word. The move to the forest is a move to the oral.
When we ask what it is that this folktale is trying to explain, let us then not get caught in the trap of arguing about a literal versus metaphorical interpretation of the film, as if either there really is a talking goat and a witch, or these things are mere symbols representing other things. Both are true and yet neither is sufficient at the same time. There is no such thing as a literal reading—to experience is to interpret—yet not all interpretations are useful or meaningful in the same way.
Part of the mythology of colonialism is that the colonizer moves from safety, comfort, and civilization to danger, horror, and nature. One way to understand what is going on in the film, then, is to see it through a colonialist lens. Leaving England, so goes the thinking, is leaving safety. The colony is a place in the middle of a dangerous wilderness populated by heathens. To be banished from the colony is thus a double horror: it is to leave England and New England.
We glimpse Native Americans only briefly in The Witch. They look at the wagon as William and his family leave town, and we see them from the perspective of those in the wagon. In other words we take up the viewpoint of the colonizers. Following the gaze of the Native traders, we are forced to remember that it only appears that William and his family are moving out into Indian territory because the truth is that the whole white colony is already on Indian territory. They—we—always already were the interlopers, those who left England for supposed freedom, only to reinscribe the values of empire and intolerance in New England. When the members of William’s family talk about home later in the movie, they mean England, not the Plymouth colony. Katherine dreams of returning; Thomasin has fond memories, surprised that Caleb’s are so dim. The twins would have no memories of that home. And baby Samuel—the only member of the family born here, born outside of England—has already been completely absorbed by the new world, disappearing into it within the first minutes of the film.
Katherine’s silver cup is thus not only a symbol of William’s betrayal, but a remnant of the empire in which they still participate—a link to a culture that exists only by means of its own sort of witchcraft. For how does silver achieve its value if not by some sort of spell cast on everyone within a culture, making them think it has worth, that it can be traded for food, clothing, and other items that actually sustain life? Gold, silver, and money itself have their economic import by means of a mass bewitching—capitalism and empire being the true conjurers that use us up until our bodies turn into the somatic paste of blood, bones, and tears that oils the machinery of civilization. Let us say, then, that one way of looking at the film is as a tale told by a culture—our culture—that knows it has done something horrible but cannot quite come to terms with it. Knows, that is, that the forest, and those who dwell there, deserve to win.
We might also think about the way in which Biblical motifs are at work in the scheme of things. The family’s little homestead seems to be set in an ironic Eden—a natural world where nothing is in balance and all they can do is long for apples to save them. The hunt and the domestic crops have failed. William and Caleb speak of finding apples to take home to eat, saving the family and satiating everyone’s hunger. When Caleb returns from his encounter with the witch and spits up a bloody apple, it is thus both symbolic of a lie he has told for his father earlier, covering for him by not letting Katherine know the true story behind the silver cup, and it is meaningful because everyone is on the verge of starving. But perhaps most importantly it is a reminder of the apple that “Eve” fed him—and with this single scene in the film we are led to remember that our traditions cast Eve as the first witch, bedeviling Adam and corrupting him with sex and knowledge. From the start, what it means to be a woman has been to be a witch.
- Witches, Sex, and God’s Ravagings
That the first woman is also the first witch makes sense in a culture founded on misogyny. As Andrea Dworkin has argued, the figure of the witch has historically been used as a category for women who tempt men to think and act sexually, and since the category of “woman” only exists as a sexual category in the patriarchy, this is to say that all women are witches.
Ecclesiasticus 25:19 tells us that “All wickedness is but little to the wickedness of a woman….” And from a fifteenth century Catholic document entitled “The Witches’ Hammer” (Malleus Maleficarum), we get such glosses as:
When a woman thinks alone, she thinks evil…. [D]evils do…things through the medium of women and not men…. They [i.e., women] have slippery tongues, and are unable to conceal from their fellow-women those things which they know through their evil arts. And since they are weak, they find a secret and easy manner of vindicating themselves by witchcraft…. Since they are feebler both in mind and body, it is not surprising that they should come more under the spell of witchcraft. For as regards intellect, of the understanding of spiritual things, they seem to be of a different nature than men… But the natural reason is that she is more carnal than a man, as is clear from her many carnal abominations. And it should be noted that there was a defect in the formation of the first woman, since she was formed from a bent rib, that is, a rib of the breast, which is bent as it were in a contrary direction to a man. And since through this defect she is an imperfect animal, she always deceives. (Kramer and Sprenger 2000, 43-44)
A couple of centuries and one Reformation later, nothing much has changed.
Thomasin, whether she knows it or not, is thus always going to be a witch in this culture. When Caleb stares at Thomasin’s breasts, it is thus somehow her fault; she is already in league with Satan when she innocently cradles Caleb to her bosom and Caleb gets excited. When the boy later meets the witch of the woods, he knows he should not be doing what he’s doing—he should not be approaching this stranger in the dark forest—but he “cannot help it.” After all, she’s “hot.”
Explaining away a male’s choice by pretending it is a lack of agency due to his being bewitched in the presence of a female body is a recipe for violence and real-life horror. It is an implicit excuse for assault, part of the same worldview that normalizes violence done to women. As a reminder that nothing has changed, we need only look at the hearings held during the summer of 2018 on Brett Kavanaugh’s potential appointment to the Supreme Court. At the time, multiple women had come forward to say that they had been sexually assaulted by Kavanaugh, but the nominee merely expressed anger at the accusations, claiming that he liked to drink and attend parties but was sure he never did anything wrong; he could not recall any of the incidents about which the women were talking, and thus they were all lying (see above: “She always deceives”). As my wife, Danielle Meijer, brilliantly said to me, “I believe he truly doesn’t remember doing anything to these women. Because if he did it, for him these moments wouldn’t have stood out as anything special, anything different, anything even worth remembering. Rape at a fraternity party is just another Saturday night.” What it means to normalize violence against women is to fail to see acts of violence against women, and to fail to believe women that something has happened. On October 2, 2018, Brett Kavanaugh was sworn in as the 114th Justice of the United States Supreme Court.
One of the things that Eggers does so effectively in this movie is point us toward the complicated relationships the Puritans had to power and sexuality, and thus the complicated political relationships that continue today. We might wonder why Katherine, as a woman, does nothing to help her daughter. In fact, Katherine is probably Thomasin’s greatest enemy. Shortly before Thomasin kills her mother in self-defense, Katherine is screaming at her, “You bewitched thy brother, proud slut! And your father next. Did you not think I saw thy sluttish looks to him, bewitching his eye as any whore?” The patriarchy thrives, in part, because like most successful systems of oppression, it manages to get those who are worst off to turn against each other. The patriarchy has had years of insidious practice in coaxing women to fight each other, thus making them unable to get together and organize the revolution. Katherine has fully defined herself in terms of her relationships to men: as a “shrewish wife” and a “grieving mother” to two lost boys. When the witch shows her what this relationship in part really means—when a raven pecks at Katherine’s breasts until she bleeds—Katherine can only see this as a nurturing act; she can only see herself as mother, and motherhood as sacrifice, and sacrifice (to sons) as being good. As the apparent source of this vision, the witch is doing Katherine a favor, trying to teach her a feminist lesson about the nature of motherhood under a patriarchy. But Katherine is too far-gone to be able to see. Class is in part to blame. Katherine no doubt imagines that her only hope to return to England and a life of “luxury” is to serve her husband and sons well. Thus, the fact that Katherine is just as frightened of Thomasin’s sexuality as the men in the house is no surprise.
Identity politics began with some good intentions and insights: there are experiences that are cut off to me, for instance, because I do not go through life in a body that can get pregnant. I cannot speak in any deep way for someone who can. But on the flip side, being a woman does not necessarily make one a feminist. The larger systems of oppression in which we participate have such incredible power. While in 2020, we currently have an horrific more-or-less self-proclaimed misogynist in the White House in the form of Donald Trump, had Hillary Clinton won the electoral college in 2016, we would still not have had a feminist there. As First Lady, Senator, and Secretary of State, Clinton used her positions of privilege to bomb women and children, support a military coup in Honduras that has (among other horrible things) led the murder rate of LGBTQ Hondurans to increase by a factor of 35, fight against minimum wage increases that would have proportionally helped women around the world, and (in the mid 1990s) help dismantle the U.S. welfare system to the detriment of women (and women of color) especially. When Katherine calls Thomasin a “proud slut” and all but demands her own daughter be burned at the stake, we know that true feminism is not merely about having a biological woman in a position of power.
This all just gets messier when God is thrown in the mix. Katherine tells us that she was “ravaged” by God when she was Thomasin’s age. It’s an interesting choice of words to describe a young woman entering puberty and desiring a relationship with God—a relationship that she likens to one better than any she could have had with a husband. And when Caleb has his “sexy Jesus” moment before dying in bed, he, too, seems ravaged: panting in short and lusty breaths about God’s sweet kisses and embraces. Overwhelmed by God’s love, he appears to climax, and then dies. And as usual, this is all very much a male conception of sex—sex as necessarily forceful, penetrative, overwhelming, madness inducing, and inherently violent.
- Conclusion: Black Phillip, a Trans Feminist Ally in the Sabbath Above the Trees?
What does a woman want?
– Sigmund Freud in Ernest Jones’ Sigmund Freud: Life and Work
It has become a horror film trope to speak of a virginal “final girl.” In such films as the original Halloween (1978), A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), and Friday the 13th (1980), women who are sexually active die early and gruesomely, apparently paying for their carnal sins, while the “pure” girl is saved. Thomasin is, indeed, saved in The Witch. But not in the normal sense. And here, again, Eggers handles this brilliantly.
One needn’t be Sigmund Freud to see that Caleb and his father going into the woods with a huge phallic gun that ultimately backfires on them is a comment on the fears of failed masculinity. Or that William’s general impotence as a patriarchal man is constantly exhibited in the fact that he cannot hunt or grow food and seems to be good at only one thing: chopping and stacking wood (of course, when Black Philip gores him, William tumbles into the wood and is buried under it—showing us how all the manly work of Man has always been for naught). No, what is truly remarkable is that Eggers ingeniously weaves together a story that is so nuanced and rich in meaning that we have what I would argue is a new point of view on how the patriarchy goes wrong and how women might yet prevail.
Consider the central question of the film: “What dost thou want?” It is, of course, a twist on Freud’s classic question (and admission of his ignorance). It is also the opening in Black Phillip’s dialogue with Thomasin. But it appears one other place in the movie as well. It is what William screams at Katherine when they are arguing about whether or not he’ll go to the village for help. Exasperated with his wife, William yells, rather than whispers, in patriarchal rage, “What dost thou want?!” Katherine really just wants to go back to England. In response to Black Phillip’s phrasing of the question, though, Thomasin wants something else—something more. She wants to live deliciously. She wants all of the things not usually afforded to women, especially women of her class but also women in general. And so she agrees to a bargain. Satan guides her hand, but she signs her name in his book: Thomasin. And in so doing, she gives up her name, signs away her name, and leaves behind the world of men.
But what’s in a name anyway, especially when it is just a marker of male property? “Thomasin” is the female version of “Thomas”—even her name is just a man’s name (with “sin” added!). “Thomas” itself is Aramaic in origin. It means “twin.” Unless you are very up on your Scripture, you might not remember that Jesus originally had two apostles named Judas, so he renamed one “Thomas” to differentiate him from Judas Iscariot. “Thomas,” then, is not even a birth name; it is the marker for a twin to the betrayer of Christ. Why wouldn’t Thomasin wish to sign away her name?
But here’s the real question: can this ultimately be a feminist story if liberation requires a male—if Satan takes the form of a male goat, and then a male human at the end, to whom the woman must make a sacrifice? Without this powerful man, would Thomasin have been freed?
Here’s where Eggers’ work is truly revolutionary.
Such a worry would hold for most stories of satanic pacts. If a man, even in the form of the devil, is the only path to saving women, then it is hard to see how the story can truly be empowering for women. But there is a fascinating way in which the devil in the guise of Black Phillip is different: perhaps a “male ally,” though he, himself, is not even traditionally male in the classic patriarchal sense. For lack of a better word, let us call him trans. After all, he is utterly marginalized; he is part animal; he doesn’t care about adhering to man-made categories; he is pregnant with an almost feminine power to create; he likes hanging out with women but apparently does not have any interest in them sexually. His command for Thomasin to remove her clothing is creepy, but not in a Harvey Weinstein sort of way. It is creepy because he is speaking from the shadows and he is, well, Satan: creepiness is sort of his shtick. And after all, under one reading, Lucifer himself was a victim of the ultimate patriarch, God. Once a beloved angel who loved and was loved by God, Lucifer one day decided that he wanted to share some of the power in heaven and participate in the act of creation, and for that (somewhat reasonable?) demand, was cast into eternal darkness and damnation. Black Phillip, then, has been punished by his father and has fallen as low as one can fall, and so decides to do his own thing rather than play by the rules of the old game. What could be more transgressive?
In the end, it is the norm in the West that stories are about men and male values. The hero’s journey, the self-discovery narrative, the earning of honor, the protagonist who must be redeemed or saved—these are boys’ stories about boys’ worries. From Homer to Shakespeare to Hemingway to Joyce, what we think of as real literature is usually about what happens to men, and how we need to root for them or feel sorry for them—or both. As in a patriarchal family, where the fate of everyone is decided by the fate of the father, so in a patriarchal society the fate of everyone is decided by the fate of these men. At the start of The Witch, William’s religious beliefs don’t just get him cast out of the town; they get the whole family banished. And William’s inability to hunt and grow food leads to everyone being on the verge of starvation. And so, on a first viewing, we might expect that the film’s narrative will continue this way—as countless narratives in the past have done—with everyone’s fate decided by whether or not William can succeed and be redeemed. Think about everyone dead on the stage-floor at the end of “Hamlet,” all because a brooding boy has dead-daddy issues. Think about Beauty and the Beast (1991), where every single person in the castle is cursed because the Beast alone was a jerk, and how they will only be set free if this one man can be redeemed—which means that some woman will have to see past all of his faults and still love him, blah blah blah. At most, a woman’s place in these stories is to bear the burden of loving a man, to care for men even when they are immature and violent and self-centered and full of hubris. The lesson is: only then, when these poor, flawed, but ultimately redeemable and glorious men are okay, will everyone else be okay.
How revolutionary is it when Eggers doesn’t give us this story? How revolutionary is it when Thomasin calls out her father’s faults with disdain rather than lovingly follow him to their mutual tragic end? How revolutionary is it that Thomasin will learn to thrive without her father thriving—that she’ll achieve her loftiest position only when he is dead on the ground?
Early in the film, the witch is seen covering herself and her broom in the blood of baby Samuel. A broomstick-staff is the ultimate phallus: put it between your legs and you have power. And the witch—covering hers in blood, the castration image plain and clear—has thus ripped apart the patriarchy’s source of control. The manipulation of a broom is, furthermore, the woman taking a powerful image of her domestic work and turning it into something even more powerful that frees her from the home.
The ability to fly is not only a sign of a woman’s identification with Nature, but also an overcoming of the male-founded laws of Nature. From now on, the witch will make her own way in the world, unencumbered by Man’s enforcing of law and order. This is, after all, the era of the European Enlightenment. At the same time the events in the film are taking place in New England, Galileo is being found guilty of heresy by the Inquisition in Europe, forced into house arrest for suggesting, in essence, that rational laws (rather than the will of God) rule the cosmos. The Enlightenment is just getting off the ground, although it will always be tethered down by laws of one sort or another. The ultimate patriarch is still in charge; he will soon be dethroned by the equally patriarchal scientists who are emerging. In both cases, women fare the same, their way of being-in-the-world considered unlawful by the men in control. Thus, whether gravity be governed by God’s will or an equation reasoned out by Isaac Newton and other men of his kind, to think that one might be able to violate such a law is to think that one might not be subject to the rule of the patriarchs. These, then, are the ultimate laws to overcome, their destruction the ultimate symbol of female revolution. Above the trees, gone are not only the political laws inscribed by men that held women down for ages, but so, too, the natural laws of the absolute patriarch that held women down on the ground literally.
But there is no “literally” anymore, even if there is a newfound conception of good and bad, right and wrong. And it is thus that Thomasin achieves her truly lofty and transformative position. She removes her shift: civilization, the patriarchy, the nuclear family, and adherence to the moral, legal, and natural laws of Man—all are stripped away. She teams up with the other women of the woods. She smiles for the first time in earnest. And there, above the trees, she floats.
 See especially, Intercourse.
A Nightmare on Elm Street. Directed by Wes Craven, New Line Cinema, 1984.
Beauty and the Beast. Directed by Gary Trousdale and Kirk Wise, Walt Disney Pictures,1991.
Dworkin, Andrea. Intercourse. Basic Books, 2006.
Friday the 13th. Directed by Sean S. Cunningham, Georgetown Productions, 1980.
Halloween. Directed by John Carpenter, Compass International Pictures, 1978.
Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger. Malleus Maleficarum. Book Tree, 2000.
The Witch. Directed by Robert Eggers, A24, 2015.