Dark August

What of the ephemeral horror film experience? That is, the movie we watch knowing we’ll likely only see it once, likely having encountered it by chance, but which is nonetheless memorable? We often think in terms of repeated viewings, given how easy it’s become to see what we want when we want to. We may not be as focused, as present, knowing that someday we’ll be right back here again with the same movie. We’re watching a movie, but the viewing experience itself is different—less full-on, more oblique.

Late-night horror—which is often actually early morning horror—was tantamount to a fertile burial plot for a chance viewing. It still is, allowing that your television isn’t only a conduit for streaming services, but the heyday for these forays predates cable. With fewer options, you were less inclined to switch the channel, especially at 1 a.m. On came a horror film, and if you were going to stay up anyway, you were in for its duration.

Martin Goldman’s 1976 late-summer film, Dark August—which, ironically, was released on September 10—is the sort of surprise the horror-film fan welcomes, even if we’re talking a one-and-done viewing experience, which feels apt for Dark August. J.J. Barry plays Sal Devito, an artist from Manhattan who has relocated to the small-town wilds of Vermont with his girlfriend Jackie (Carolyne Barry). In these ancient New England hills, where it feels like witches have always existed, Sal is involved in a no-fault car accident resulting in the death of a small girl, which is followed by his suspicion, and growing belief, that a curse has been put upon him by the child’s grandfather (William Robertson). Sal’s health suffers; there are visions—or is that “all” they are?—of a hooded figure in the forest, always vanishing within the next belt of trees before a positive ID can be made.

The film is of its time—meaning it’s very 1970s. These movies often have a macho type of hirsute man—back hair is every bit the prerequisite of these affairs as a werewolf picture—who you assume is in his mid-50s until his age happens to be revealed somewhere in the dialogue as 37. This representative of virility and stability will be weakened, which inevitably registers as surprising—it’s akin to seeing your father take a knee in pain while you’re playing catch in the backyard, which at first you think is a joke, until you realize that’s what’s really happening.

This is summer, but it might as well be autumn if you’re a fan of the season and bent on applying the label sooner rather than later as Labor Day approaches. The warm months are themselves bleeding out in Dark August amid the baked colors that are starting to show cracks in their textures like some dried-out canvas that will never be restored. Summer’s heart has begun its agonal rhythm. We stutter-step to change, to next phases as the days show their first signs of shortening; the old sunlight persists, but not for long.