Seamus Laurent and his cronies have a Roma problem. Or, perhaps, the Romas have a Seamus Laurent problem.
For ever so many years, a huge parcel of land has apparently belonged to the Laurent family. Why, Seamus lives in a huge mansion right on it, for goodness’ sake. What more proof do you need?
Plenty, say the Roma (who back in Seamus’ 19th-century time were derisively called gypsies). They actually own the land, they say—or at least a good part of it—and they insist the law backs them up.
Seamus doesn’t want to take the matter to court, naturally. He doesn’t need some slow-working judge to muck about in his affairs Plus, all Seamus’ tenants would prefer the current owners just stay put. What’s a wealthy nobleman to do?
Why, start a-slaughtering, of course. If there’s no one left in the Roma community to press the case, why, case closed!
The mercenaries that Seamus hires make quick work of the Roma settlement: They shoot or burn to death most of them. Two Roma leaders are set aside to be made examples of. One will serve as a living scarecrow, once his hands and feet have been chopped off. The other—an old woman—will be buried alive.
But the Roma have another postmortem appeal to file: a curse.
“We will poison your sleep until you summon the dark one,” the old Roma woman says. “Then you will know what death is.” And as the dirt covers her, she chants words over a strange container that holds something even stranger: a set of jaws sporting silver teeth.
These are not the teeth of a particularly blingy 19th-century rapper. No. These choppers are far more disturbing, as Seamus and those living on his land are soon to discover.
Shortly after the slaughter, the children of the land—from the most modest village waif to Seamus’ own two kids—start having nightmares. They all feature magpies. A scarecrow.
And a strange urge to dig.
You could perhaps read The Cursed as a dark morality tale against stealing other people’s land. But we also meet a couple of people who try to do the right thing—often at great peril.
An intrepid pathologist named John McBride is the first to suspect what the people of the village are up against: They’re facing what we’d call (perhaps imprecisely) a werewolf or two (or more). He does his best to safeguard innocent civilians, and he physically protects Seamus’ wife (Isabelle) and daughter (Charlotte) from danger as he slowly leads them to a place of safety.
But Isabelle might be, ultimately, even more heroic—protecting her son, Edward, when all logic dictates that she should just let him go. And she sacrifices a great deal to preserve and protect her little boy.
The silver teeth, some in the film surmise, were made from the same pieces of silver that Judas was given to betray Jesus. (We see coins being melted down into the teeth, in fact.)
A couple of people hold pages of the Bible as either wards or reminders: One includes the passage about Judas and the 30 pieces, while the other comes from the book of Ezekiel, where chapter 22, verse 22 is underlined. The film paraphrases it a bit, but the original scripture (from the King James Version) reads: “As silver is melted in the midst of the furnace, so shall ye be melted in the midst thereof; and ye shall know that I the LORD have poured out my fury upon you.”
That spiritual backstory is initially unpacked (and one of those Scriptures is given) during a tête-à-tête in the confessional booth at the local church. As the danger rises, McBride suggests that the villagers camp out in the church for safety. During one dark night, Isabelle goes to the altar, prayer beads in hand, and begs God for help and/or guidance. In context, it’s possible that that help is granted. She prays afterward, albeit briefly.
While Christianity itself seems to be a possible source of both comfort and strength in The Cursed, not every Christian display is so positive. A clergyman, for instance, advises Seamus before the massacre, and is far from Christlike in his advice: He tells him that the Roma do have some justification for the land, “but there’s nothing in the legal record that can’t be changed in our favor.” The man of the cloth then advises Seamus to hire mercenaries to “remove” the Roma from the land.
One of those pages of Scripture mentioned earlier proves to be a poor ward against werewolves. And the many crosses that festoon Seamus’ mansion don’t seem to do much good, either. Someone says that the entire village has prayed for someone’s safety. We’re told that the teeth are on “holy ground.”
Seamus walks in on his wife as she prepares to take a bath, and he (and we) see her topless. He walks back out, slightly ruffled, suggesting that the romantic spark has long gone out of their marriage.
We also see a female survivor of a werewolf bite tend to her wounds as she stands in a room, completely naked. We see her exposed rear and a bit of breast in the darkened place. A young teen boy is seen naked from a great distance: Most critical parts are covered, but we do see a bit of his rear.
Let’s begin with the slaughter of the Roma.
Most of the atrocity is shown from a distance: Dozens of people (both men and women) try to run for their lives before they’re shot down by men on horseback. At least one or two die from immolation, and we see their flaming bodies finally fall.
But the torture and deaths of two are far closer to the camera. One, a man, is tied to a makeshift cross and his head covered with a bag. Men then chop off his hands (much to his distress, naturally) and feet. The cuffs of his shirt and trousers are then stuffed with straw before the cross is raised, turning him into a still-living scarecrow. The woman is thrown in a pit and buried alive at the foot of said cross. Afterward, the folks behind the massacre pose for 19th century cameras with some of the dead bodies strewn around.
But as horrific as that is, the monster cuts a bloody swath through the film that’s even more extreme.
The monster smashes someone’s hand and forearm just by running by: The limb, still dangling from the rest of the arm, looks like a bag of meat. The victim is later killed, and we see the corpse incredibly mutilated—consistent, we’re told, with a wolf attack.
Other victims are mangled in similar and equally grotesque ways. Blood doesn’t spritz as much as splash. Arms are sometimes so badly damaged that they look like hot dogs that have been overcooked in the microwave. Claw marks carve up faces and bodies. Fangs tear through necks and torsos. Many people—dozens, perhaps—die in this way. The werewolves themselves (gray and hairless, actually), are awful to behold.
You likely know this already, but just in case: Once a victim is bitten by a werewolf and survives, that victim is liable to turn into a werewolf, too. And the transformation process seems both painful and disgusting. Things that look like vines or tree roots sprout out of the victim (leaving bloody residue in one case), and one person so infected is actually held underwater by those protrusions and drowned.
The monsters themselves can be killed, after a fashion: One falls into a trap and is skewered by a number of wooden stakes. But the thing inside—a disfigured, nearly demonic version of the human it once was—still lives. As McBride slices the creature open (a very goopy exercise indeed), someone is forced to shoot the doppelganger’s head, and part of its skull is blown off in the process.
The movie is sandwiched between a flash forward to World War I. Dozens of dead or dying soldiers lie in a hospital with terrible wounds; a surgeon works at sawing off hands and feet, which are thrown into nearby baskets. A man has several bullets pulled out of his torso, sans painkiller. (Blood squirts from the holes in his chest as the doctor fishes around with surgical pliers.) A poison gas attack causes several soldiers to cough underneath their makeshift masks, and one man’s uniform begins to smoke from the substance. Horses run while on fire.
A man sets himself on fire. People are shot. Blood covers a lot of surfaces. We hear about a previous attack that killed about 20 people in another town. A cholera epidemic is also raging, and we hear some references to that was well.
Just one obscenity is uttered, but that’s an f-word.
People drink wine during fancy dinners and ale at an inn. One man takes swigs from a flask.
Edward mysteriously disappears. When John McBride comes up to inspect the room, he’s told that the sheets had already been changed. “He’d been … ill,” he’s told, suggesting that the boy had gotten sick (one way or another) in the bed.
“Gentlemen, I must warn you,” McBride cautions a few deputies as he prepares to cut open a dead monster. “This won’t be easy.”
He’s right. And it’s not an easy movie to watch, either. In fact, viewers with a low tolerance for gore should do what most of what Seamus’ tenants should’ve done: Get out while the getting’s good.
The Cursed has some interesting spiritual undertones to it. We’re given a world where faith may be the best protection against the monsters that roam its darkest corners—albeit faith practiced under horrific duress and with a great deal of sacrifice. In this supernatural story, prayer and silver bullets both have a say.
But as you’ve heard in many an argument, It’s not what you say as much as how you say it. And what the movie says is completely drenched in blood, and it features more mutilations and dismemberments per square foot of screen than I can remember. The Cursed sacrifices not just people, but its own creepy atmospherics in exchange for shelves of meat.
The Cursed is aptly named. And, if you could somehow set aside all the gore, it’s not a bad horror flick. But alas, you can’t pretend the body parts aren’t flying. And 20 minutes in, some viewers may be cursing their own judgment.
Paul Asay has been part of the Plugged In staff since 2007, watching and reviewing roughly 15 quintillion movies and television shows. He’s written for a number of other publications, too, including Time, The Washington Post and Christianity Today. The author of several books, Paul loves to find spirituality in unexpected places, including popular entertainment, and he loves all things superhero. His vices include James Bond films, Mountain Dew and terrible B-grade movies. He’s married, has two children and a neurotic dog, runs marathons on occasion and hopes to someday own his own tuxedo. Feel free to follow him on Twitter @AsayPaul.
