If given the opportunity to give our loved ones the best chance of success and eternal protection, the vast majority of us would not even consider hesitating. The idea of being able to ensure those closest to us achieve everything they desire is very tempting, even if we know it isn’t within our power to actually influence destiny in any realistic way. Yet, this has lent itself to some fascinating works of art over time, in the form of stories that reposition the idea of fate not as something abstract, but rather as a tangible entity that can be manipulated and reshaped by those who possess certain powers. This was the premise behind Burn, Witch, Burn (otherwise known as Night of the Eagle, a far less evocative title), in which director Sidney Hayers sets out to adapt Conjure Wife, a novel by Fritz Leiber, in which they explore the idea of someone having their future shaped without their knowledge. In the film, we are introduced to Professor Normal Taylor, a mild-mannered university lecturer in psychology who has been able to achieve far more than anyone expected in a very short span of time: he’s adored by his students, stands as an expert in his field and is respected by most of his colleagues – or at least those who aren’t growing increasingly bitter by the news that he is being fast-tracked for a major promotion, overtaking his more seasoned peers. It turns out that none of this is an accident, and is instead the handiwork of his dutiful wife Tansy, who has secretly been practising witchcraft behind her husband’s back (knowing that the rational Norman would not approve of such superstitions), ensuring that he continues to thrive. However, he eventually does find out what she’s been doing, and after urging her to stop, he discovers just how much of his recent success has been attributed to her activities, especially when everything around him begins to crumble. A brilliantly offbeat horror parable that is as entertaining as it is chilling, Burn, Witch, Burn is an exceptionally captivating piece of independent filmmaking that challenges and entertains in equal measure, becoming an unexpected gem of a work in a time when the genre was undergoing many intriguing changes.

In a recent interview, Zach Cregger (a wunderkind of the horror genre whose career as an auteur is on the upswing) remarked on his creation of the now-iconic (and Academy Award-winning) character of Aunt Gladys, the witch who serves as the primary antagonist of Weapons, as being conceived as an “colourful old lady from Florida”, a very different kind of depiction of the witch archetype, and one that feels unique. This provoked a bit of thought into how certain stock characters have proven to be far more malleable than we expect, to the point where we can see some very interesting interpretations if we look beyond the obvious. This aligns brilliantly with Burn, Witch, Burn, a film that predates Weapons by over half a century, but has a very similar approach insofar as it presents witches not as maniacal hags shrouded in black robes and hiding in remote caverns while stirring smoking cauldrons, but instead as ordinary women – suburban housewives, university lecturers and office secretaries, possessing the same powers but without the cliched conceptual baggage that we normally associate with these characters. The film examines the idea that witchcraft is not merely some ancient, mystical practice that belonged to another era, but rather has contemporary relevance, whether or not one wants to believe there are any actual results. Perhaps this may not seem particularly innovative from a modern perspective, since we’ve seen a rise in communities that embrace these folk practices, but in 1962, this was still not as widely accepted, so the idea that the women who form the backbone of entire communities could engage in these practices had the potential to be quite controversial. Ultimately, Burn, Witch, Burn is not actually all that interested in moralising about the merits of embracing these practices, but rather investigating the relationship between so-called rational thought and ancient folk practices, using them as the foundation for the central tension in a story that actively embraces more than one perspective (particularly those relating to a slightly more controversial subject) in creative and challenging ways.

Small-scale horror films are not normally considered fertile ground for great acting. In most cases, an actor will be cast under the impression that they will simply be there to move the plot along, rather than being expected to deliver a generation-defining performance (the fact that many actors do take the opportunity to experiment a bit, and in the process end up doing some very interesting work, is just anecdotal), which is entirely understandable. Having said that, we do find that Burn, Witch, Burn is unexpectedly strong as far as its cast goes, enlisting some very talented actors to bring this story to life. In this case, the film is led by Peter Wyngarde, a very gifted actor who is not remembered as fondly as he should, often being noted as a dashing and handsome leading man from the period, but not one with much cultural cache. He does what is required of him for the most part, playing a man teetering dangerously close to a breakdown, which becomes more likely with every new revelation. His wife is played by singer-turned-actor Janet Blair, who takes a relatively thankless role of the mild-mannered housewife and turns her into a far more interesting character, while the film’s villain comes in the form of the despicably underrated Margaret Johnston, a truly extraordinary performer who proves to be a dynamic antagonist, chewing every ounce of the scenery but yet still feeling so quietly sinister, playing to the cheap seats in a way that feels measured and logical, rather than just flinging every technique across the screen. It’s a marvellous cast, one that is far more nuanced than we would imagine, with everyone seemingly following the same guidelines to create a film that is enticing and endearing without being too heavy-handed, knowing the moments when it is appropriate to up the ante, or when some restraint should be shown, a balance that ultimately does benefit the film immensely.

Burn, Witch, Burn is the kind of horror film that tends to hide some of its more intriguing ideas in unexpected places, leading us to be genuinely surprised when it goes in certain directions. What makes this film so captivating is not only the strong story (which is undeniably very effective), but also the manner in which these elements snuck up on the viewer. Stepping into the film, we are led to believe it will be a run-of-the-mill work, a competently-made independent horror film about witchcraft and the role it can play in the lives of ordinary people, using this as a metaphor for something much deeper. This is indeed part of it, but it’s far from the only element that is worth discussing, since there is a lot more to the film that we would expect at a cursory glance, particularly in how it is made. Hayers is not a household name, but there’s a reason he is held to such esteem within groups of critics who study this particular era in British cinema – he was a fascinating filmmaker, possessing the best qualities of a journeyman director and an auteur, blending them together to produce some terrific works. He understood something that many horror filmmakers throughout history has overlooked: terror is not about frights, but atmosphere, and Burn, Witch, Burn is shrouded in a very particular mood that contributes to the overall experience. It’s not at all scary, but rather depends on a gradually building tension that enshrouds the viewer and puts us in the same state of frenzy as the protagonist. It’s an early forerunner of modern psychological horror, with some impressive setpieces and narrative arcs (the climactic scenes are some of the best of the decade), and shows remarkable precision for something that is mostly viewed as a minor footnote in an era where the genre was going in some fascinating directions, this being one of the clearest examples of quiet but meaningful stylistic innovation.

One of the great joys of older films being made more accessible to broader audiences is that a work like Burn, Witch, Burn doesn’t need to simmer away in obscurity forever. It’s not going to become some overnight sensation, nor is it going to be considered a work that redefined the genre in a way that immediately propels it to the canon of mistreated films. However, it is still ripe for rediscovery, especially since it is the kind of film that will appeal to audiences who can enjoy a story that doesn’t follow conventions, but still has a clear structure, enough that it doesn’t feel overblown in its efforts to be original, depending instead on the smallest and most subtle cues, which is where the most intriguing elements reside. At a glance, it doesn’t seem like a major work by any means – a well-crafted horror film that is less invested in scaring the viewer and more focused on creating a very intense atmosphere of inescapable dread, using realistic ideas that are combined with more abstract themes to create a blend of the familiar and fantastical and using this to tell a captivating story that feels far more modern than a lot of the celebrated entries into the genre from this era. It’s a tremendously captivating work, a simple and effective piece of filmmaking that is sure to enthral anyone with a taste for the slightly surreal. It is difficult to know how much this film influenced later horror films, since it is the sort of work that we can easily see being a formative text for auteurs who may have seen it by chance and found themselves being influenced by its peculiar perspective and unique style of exploring the human condition through unorthodox methods. It’s a tremendous work, and earns every bit of our affection and admiration through its pursuit of something deeply compelling through the use of simple, familiar cues that resonate far deeper than we would initially expect from such a seemingly straightforward work, proving that the most effective pieces of cinema are those which we stumble upon almost by chance.