From its first frame, Robert Eggers and The Lighthouse are taking risks. The aspect ratio and shadowy contrast call up old memories of the expressionist horror and silent tensions of directors like F. W. Murnau and Carl Theodor Dreyer – a style that can be potentially off-putting to some moviegoers. Whether or not we know it, film history is imprinted on our subconscious, making the antiquated presentation of The Lighthouse look and feel familiar regardless of your feelings toward the form. You don’t have to have seen Vampyr (1932) or The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) to internalize their influence. As movie fans, we build these influences into everything we watch. Sometimes it’s obvious, sometimes it’s not, but it’s always there. The Lighthouse is a reminder that movies can, and have been many things in the last 100 years, and that under the right direction, astonishing stories of stunning beauty come in all shapes and sizes, despite current trends.
Literary and folkloric influences are also responsible for the appeal of The Lighthouse. Nautical themes such as mermaids, sirens, and the souls of lost sailors lie heavily embedded in the film’s mythology but so are, in slightly less obvious doses, the works of H. P. Lovecraft. Much of Lovecraft’s Mythos – a loose hierarchy of cosmic beings worshipped by blasphemous human cults – associates itself with the sea. Father Dagon and Mother Hydra, along with their abominable Deep One spawn, are East Coast ocean-dwellers, while the great Cthulhu slumbers in the sunken city of R’Lyeh somewhere in the South Pacific. Eggers, like Lovecraft, hints at human sea-monster interbreeding, leading to a stark loss of humanity and a significant blow to one’s mental state.
Insanity, a staple of any good Lovecraft tale, permeates the inhabitants of The Lighthouse like the fog that blankets the small island. As the desperation and drunkenness increases, the grip on sanity decreases until we’re left with a crisis of both identity and reality. What’s real or not becomes impossible to tell as the two beleaguered and fragile men, both with their own secrets and motivations, succumb to the madness of isolation. Or perhaps, as often is the case with Lovecraft, it’s the influence of other-worldly forces unimaginable to the frail human mind that causes such horrific mental breaks. You be the judge.
If we’re to look at The Lighthouse through an Ingmar Bergman filter, it’s possible that these men (whose names are given, then changed) exist as two sides of the same person. To this end, The Lighthouse takes on the adversarial qualities of Bergman’s Persona (1966) in which two women battle for control over the other’s identity – or possibly a single identity. As with The Lighthouse, we can never say with certainty what really happens, but that’s not really what’s important anyway. What makes the developments so interesting is analyzing them against what you yourself have previously witnessed and coming to terms with your own perceptions about the meaning of truth. Is The Lighthouse about gaslighting and male fragility? Again, you decide.
Eggers paints the landscape of this surreal picture with beautiful black and white cinematography by Jarin Blaschke, then populates it with superb acting by Willem Dafoe and Robert Pattinson, who make it easy to believe the madness. In a rivalry of fabled proportions, these grizzled New England accents and crazed, rugged looks are highlighted by expert lighting that stresses their wide-eyed insanity. Further, the claustrophobia created by the cramped spaces can be smelled and tasted as much as felt. The loud, floor-pounding revelries and bombastic foghorns are offset by quiet moments of flatulent annoyance and bitter disdain. As the tension builds, the confines seem to get smaller and the air thicker until it all comes to a jarring conclusion straight out of a David Lynch or Robert Wiene nightmare.
The Lighthouse will probably delight as many as it repulses, an idea that makes it even more appealing to someone of my particular cinematic sensibilities. My suggestion for those less inclined toward the weird or experimental would be to – as with much of the Lynch or Bergman filmographies, for example – allow the film to wash over you without too much examination. Ground yourself in how the imagery makes you feel (for good or bad) rather than trying to figure out what it means. It will probably still make you squirm in your seat, but getting too bogged down in the “what happened” may steal some thunder from the beauty of this haunting and remarkable film.
James is a writer, skateboarder, record collector, wrestling nerd, and tabletop gamer living with his family in Asheville, North Carolina. He is a member of the Southeastern Film Critics Association, the North Carolina Film Critics Association, and contributes to The Daily Orca, Razorcake Magazine, Mountain Xpress, and Asheville Movies.