During the opening of Ben Wheatley’s pandemic-inspired In The Earth, we follow scientist Martin Lowery (Joel Fry) through the fertile woods surrounding Gantalow Lodge in Bristol, UK. The camera observes him disquietingly behind tree trunks as he staggers on the road. Upon arrival, Martin is greeted by men wearing PPE who spray him with disinfectant. Right away, the indefinite procedures of a cinematic world ravaged by a virus overlap with our own. “No cups provided.” Masks on unless instructed otherwise. Arising from the subdued palette of Nick Gillespie’s photography, a melancholic tone permeates each frame. What was once a thriving holiday location where families could set up camp is now the site of mycorrhizal research for sustainable crops.
Martin’s attempts at connecting with people after months of quarantine are largely met with indifference. The only person who extends any courtesy is Alma (Ellora Torchia), the park ranger tasked with guiding him safely through the woods. Their relationship is initially shaped by debates surrounding the myth of the sinewy creature residing within them known as Parnag Fegg. This ancient entity quickly emerges as the story’s focal point. Its lore primes the viewer for a binding of science with superstition as the woods turn into a beacon for unexplained malice. Without minimizing the effects of a global pandemic, Wheatley wrings this set-up for all the dread it’s worth. By capturing the mundane plunging deeper into hostility, the director seeds our consciousness with a primordial fear which is the foundation of all horror films: being hunted by forces we do not understand.
Part of what draws a viewer into a horror filmmaker’s clutches is the possibility of a satisfying conclusion to who or what is stalking the characters we’ve come to empathize with. In The Earth delays this catharsis and often meets the audience with several non-answers to important questions. The film eschews a moral binary to keep its narrative fluid, leaving us suspended in the unpleasant reality of its ambiguities. Not the ideal move for a pop-horror project, but one that lends itself to a complex understanding of the compulsive search for meaning in a period of uncertainty. The self-reflexive mythology of Parnag Fegg is a wondrous rabbit hole that rewards contemplation. But it is important to note that Wheatley does not abandon the creature in the woods. He merely gives its name to a multitude of interpretations.
While continuing research previously started by Martin’s old flame, Olivia Wendle (Hayley Squires), he and Alma are continuously met with harshness. The pair are abducted and tortured by a lone survivalist named Zach (Reece Shearsmith). He binds and photographs them in poses meant to honor Parnag Fegg through flattery. At first, his disarming temper hides this impassioned need and the terror is interrupted by cutaways to a standing stone with a hole near its peak. Wheatley never pulls back the camera for a reveal of the figure behind this gaze, teasing the creature’s chillingly omniscient perspective. Before long, our leads manage to escape the near-possessed Zach and fall into Olivia’s camp. Her level-headed disposition contrasts the madness, but she steadily becomes unreliable.
Olivia presents Parnag Fegg as a process of communication with the fungus that connects the forest at the root like a neural network. The spirit of the woods is concerned for the environment and they wish to teach humans how to live together harmoniously. To coax the spirits of the woods into engulfing the entire country for its own sake, Olivia melds pulse light feedback with pages from a seminal text in demonology. The trance-inducing loop effects (courtesy of Martin Pavey, sound designer) and trip visuals (created by Cyriak Harris) give her ritual a hypnotic texture. Though lacking the violence in Zach’s piety, both methods seem to be exercises in control. Forcing a dialogue with the spirit is key to accessing sacred knowledge. As we see, nearly every attempt to do so produces volatile results. This is a clear manifestation of the one constant throughout the film: neither the wilderness nor the people in it will allow domination.
In a real-world setting, Olivia’s work shares empirical strands with a data garden that started in 2011. What has since been labeled “Plant Wave” is a means of establishing a language for plants based on metrics readable to humans. The goal is to push the boundaries of communication in a way that can be mutually beneficial. This has its drawbacks, as the article expresses. Deciphering a single plant’s “emotional” responses requires interpretation that humans themselves project onto the data given. Whether it was intended or not, Wheatley’s film traces this concept to a nightmarishly surreal conclusion. In The Earth takes an overall positive ecological stance on waste, shelter, and the curative properties of herbs, but there is a lack of respect between worlds that the spirit of the woods seeks to rectify.
Zach and Olivia’s menacing practices can be directly attributed to zealous readings of the stone’s inscriptions. Thus, Parnag Fegg is mainly conveyed through the grammar of horror although it assumes a neutral position. Eventually, the spirit of the woods communicates on its own terms by releasing a cloud of spores from mushrooms surrounding the camp. A last-ditch effort through the spores leads to a traumatic experience for Alma. As a park ranger, it isn’t the lack of familiarity with her surroundings that causes shock. She is bombarded with arcane imagery as the crevices of her mental landscape are engulfed by psychedelics. Our only glimpse into this return message is neither evil nor gratifying to the senses. Here, a typical villain is eliminated and what we are left with are the dormant emotional responses of a haggard crew.
Wheatley’s script harnesses a thematic fealty to similar stories about devotion and esoteric struggle to reach out on frequencies beyond its medium. His characters are bound by a sense of duty to each other and to their own curiosities, especially in prior work like A Field In England. In both films, an investigation into horrors beyond comprehension thrusts people to the edge of sanity where they must confront ugly truths. Parnag Fegg is described as a face given to the woods in folk stories passed down through generations. At the heart of this myth is an invitation to look into the abyss no matter the cost. From the way it entices viewers, Wheatley’s film bears the closest resemblance to Paddy Chayefsky and Ken Russell’s Altered States. Theirs is also a story centered on a zealous scientist who searches for meaning from within.
In Altered States, Dr. Eddie Jessup (William Hurt) uses EEG data culled from his time in a sensory deprivation tank to find a physiological pathway into his own consciousness. With the aid of the amanita muscaria, he travels billions of years into the past. His atoms break down and spread across the universe where he witnesses the birth of agony on a mountain of fire and confronts repressed traumas surrounding the death of his father, as well as his inadequacies as a husband to his wife, Emily (Blair Brown). The fervor with which the doctor approaches these experiments regresses him to a lycanthropic form that nearly costs him everything. Finally, he learns that the ultimate terror at the beginning of life is “simple, hideous nothing.” From that last epiphany, Dr. Jessup professes his love to Emily. They break down into particles and ascend.
The desire to be truly alive is hardly less affirming in a cinematic context than through the anguished journey of Dr. Jessup. Each time he pushes the boundaries of his consciousness, the obsession to transcend his body becomes colder and darker. But for a film padded with jargon, it is a thing of beauty to watch the narrative close out by emphasizing the value of genuine human connection. Love seems to be the all-encompassing guide during a crisis of faith and isolation in both this film and In The Earth. Though Wheatley’s film may not be welcoming on the surface, it similarly validates overcoming cosmic apathy via irrational means. The key to defeating solitude is other people. However, danger trails a toxic rekindling.
When Martin tries to appeal to Olivia’s rationality as a scientist, she explains that what has drawn them closer isn’t chance. By this point in the film, Olivia is completely transfixed by the markings on the standing stone. Still, it is too simple to view her as a “mad scientist” type. Her research is based on sound hypotheses and, unlike Dr. Jessup, far from tragically solipsistic. Judging by the fact that Martin has kept her photograph in his diary, he seems overwhelmed by affection when they reunite. This is informed by Martin’s struggles with depression following the loss of his parents to the virus. Being locked indoors without the comfort of loved ones and without confidence that life could progress as normal is devastating. Olivia offers him a way to circumvent this trauma through Parnag Fegg and, to his detriment, Martin partakes in the ritual.
Despite a misdirection at the film’s climax, the clashing of values exemplified by Olivia and Zach drives the conflict in the story. Martin is ensnared by the two, spending much of the runtime in a dissociated state before ultimately assuming his role as a sacrifice. This makes him vulnerable in threatening situations, where his platonic relationship with Alma is a saving grace. They aren’t entangled to the core of their being like Dr. Jessup and Emily, but grow to need each other in spite of that. Martin is unable to break out of his stupor, so his dependence on Alma’s lucidity is critical. Once she is able to see the true nature of the ritual, her sole focus is their well-being. Alma is perhaps the only one of the two primed to receive the messages of the woods, but they are worthless to her without the possibility of survival. She even kills for it when she has to.
What exists between Martin and Alma is a partnership that grows out of necessity but is grounded in emotional intelligence. After the curtain is pulled back, we do not see them make it out alive. At the very least we know they are together. Whatever their fate, their bond has been strengthened under the harshest conditions. This is a reassuring angle to a film that attempts to articulate the crushing loneliness of our time. The dynamic between our leads is depicted in an honest if fiendishly comedic way. Some days you’re the one slouched over half-dead on an ancient rock. Some days you’re crafty in a fight for your life. Regardless, there is no wrong way to orient yourself during an apocalypse.
What In The Earth makes of the current malaise is open-ended. The abrasiveness and somewhat unapproachable nature of the film has certainly led to a polarized reception. But comparing it to other, well-received, pandemic-horror releases is misguided. Wheatley’s creation is a different beast. Untethered by conventional plotting, the script approaches agnosticism and faith with empathy. The intangible is as magnificent as it is frightening. Every scene is crafted with a distinct taste for the wickedly absurd. It is a work of horror first and foremost, though Wheatley does not bask in the misery. He, instead, ascribes meaning to the spiritual practices and communal links we hold dear. The substance is malleable. If one chooses to turn on, tune in, and drop out, they would be wise to leave ample room for the imagination to run wild with the excitement of the unknown.
