In the years since I last watched Don’t Look Now, I had lost two children in a short space of time. Rewatching the film in 2024, with the dark shadow of grief clouded over my face, I must admit, the film hits a little differently. The horror films I love most are often tinged with a little sadness. Horror works better when a particular line of sorrow runs through it. But one of the reasons Nicholas Roeg’s film still strikes a chord, 50 years after its release, is just how well it hits the pain points of grief. Watching Don't Look Now this time around, I found myself stricken by its opening scenes. When John Baxter (Donald Sutherland) pulls his daughter’s body out of the cold muddy water, he emits an ungodly howl. His sobs come from the pit of his stomach. I’m stuck by this because I know those sounds. The resonance with that anguish is all too clear now.
Family turbulence always goes a long way in horror films. The open wounds of a family broken by a traumatic incident are the perfect breeding ground for the supernatural to fester. Much like Roeg’s sophomore feature Walkabout (1971), Don’t Look Now has a family member's death as the catalyst for the story. When their young daughter drowns in the river near their home in England, John and Laura Baxter travel to Venice where John has accepted a commission to restore an ancient church. Saddled with the remorse and grief felt by their negligence that played a part in the tragic accident, Laura’s feelings soon take a turn with a chance meeting involving two elderly sisters. One of the siblings believes she is psychic and claims to have had contact with the Baxter’s daughter from beyond the grave. The readings give Laura hope, however, John stubborn with guilt and wary of a spate of murders occurring in the city, grows frustrated with his wife’s insistence of Christine’s happiness in the afterlife. That said, John also appears touched by the gift of premonition and is soon struck with visions of a small figure dressed in the same outfit Christine wore at the time of her death: A Red Hooded Mack.
For all the talk of visions and apparitions, so much of Don’t Look Now deals with the very human drama of a couple finding each other after a traumatic event. Where Walkabout used its guilt-riddled incident to approach themes of lost innocence and irrevocable change, Don’t Look Now’s tragedy leads towards how grief influences intimacy and romantic connection. Innocence is lost here too. However, Roeg frames this as two flawed human beings who still have a deep love for each other and, importantly, still look for ways to reconnect despite their differing views on tackling their loss.
One can say that travelling to Venice to get over their daughter's drowning is perhaps not the best way to go about overcoming their despair. Moving to a literal floating city surrounded by water ensures that the Baxters cannot get past their trauma. In the original short story by Daphne du Maurier, the death of Christine is caused by meningitis. Roeg and his screenwriters alter this in the film to drowning, a masterstroke. With that substance being the element that took their daughter away, the so-called city of water becomes a haunting presence for both the audience and the Baxters. A crumbling, sinking crypt masquerading as a place of escape. Full of labyrinthine alleyways and dead ends. At one point The Baxter’s find themselves lost in the city. Their disorientation metaphorically highlights the couple's struggle to find a way out of their pain. It becomes important to note that Laura leaves Venice at one point and does so after obtaining clarity from the clairvoyant sisters. For John, who never leaves Italy once the film’s action moves there, the location becomes a catacomb of grief.
The small moment of respite the Baxters obtain in the film is also Don’t Look Now’s controversial sequence. Midway through the film, John and Laura enjoy a moment of passionate lovemaking. The scene is executed in such a way, that the gossipy whisperings that the actors had full sex on film remain to this day. For a British film, the last thing you’d expect to find is sexuality being so unbridled when the culture is often so chaste. So much emphasis is placed on the scene due to the will they, won’t they factor. What becomes more apparent, however, is when we consider how the scene is intercut with the couple getting ready afterwards. There’s a strong emphasis on the normality of it all. For the Baxters it is a small piece of levitation and true pleasure the couple has after the tragedy that’s befallen them. This makes Don’t Look Now one of the only films which observes sexuality in a mature and adult way. The scene seems more erotic because of this. The awkward gait and angles of their body movement give the scene a realism that has not been seen much of before or since. Roeg's assembly of the sequence feels like the shower sequence in Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960). You are led to believe you saw more than you actually did.
But this moment of intimacy doesn’t wash away the deep-seated pain that looms over the couple. The sex hints at the connection of love the Baxter’s once had. But their feelings on how to approach grief now show a vast rift between them. And that the disconnect is affecting. Anyone who has experienced anything similar knows how fleeting the feeling of normalcy is. So much of their location is used as a destabilising effect. The spate of murders lingers in the background. The priest John is working with seems blasé about the work taking place, and even the God he proclaims to believe in. Midway through the film, a detective is introduced to investigate the spate of murders occurring in the background. Roeg purposely casts an Italian actor whose command of English isn’t as strong as others. Pushing the isolation the couple feel even further. But the key ingredient to much of Don’t Look Now is the mosaic-like editing. 50 years on, Don’t Look Now is put together in a way that feels fresher than films released 6 months ago. So many films of the modern era appear incapable of utilising the language of cinema in such an expressive way. With so many elements of composition and editing being viewed as more of a means to an end. Roeg’s powerful use of cutting ensures the Baxters are unstuck in time. Reliving their pain in both past, present and future. Essentially experiencing grief as a Mobius strip. An unbreakable loop of anguish.
At one point a character describes Venice as “A city in aspic, left over from a dinner party, and all the guests are dead and gone.” When you think about it, you wonder: Why bring your trauma to such a place? It is a city which leaves its characters unmoored in many ways. John tries to throw himself into work, but either appears unfocused or in peril. Heather’s unstableness is displayed in just how easily susceptible she is to these strange sisters who claim to see into the beyond. For many the scariest thing in the world is our fragile mortality. The death of Christine becomes a huge metaphor for this. Her passing disturbs John and Laura in all three tenses. Leaving them unprepared and uncertain. For Laura (impeccably played by Julie Christie), the sisters help her regain some emotional footing but leave her vulnerable. For the sceptic John, his reluctance only ramps up his anxiety and fear of the unknown. When you lose a child, even if you have the good fortune to have another, or the child has a sibling, that small piece of the puzzle of a person’s life will forever be missing. It becomes difficult to feel like the complete picture again. It becomes obvious to see what the Baxters are doing to try and break the loop.
Don’t Look Now isn’t one for typical scare tactics. Save for one moment, the gore is scarce. The type of Lewton Bus scares which litter many horror films are also omitted. But what makes Don’t Look Now so unsettling is its sense of existential dread hanging around the edges of the frame. Noticeable in the symbolic decaying city of Venice but also in how the film hops across its fractured timeline almost at a whim. Having the audience occupy the same frame of mind as its protagonists. John suffers from the curse of premonition early. Experiencing moments of foreshadowing that could change the fate of characters if they could just understand what’s happening to them. It’s a disorientating and unsettling effect. Being led to see more of the future than one can comprehend. Through their grief, the senses of the Baxters are now heightened in a way that others are not due to their perception being dulled. Roeg encapsulates a profound anxiety: a fear of the known unknown.
Watching Don’t Look Now this time after experiencing a similar tragedy, the core relationship between the Baxters hits harder now than previously. From the quiet moments of intimacy to the unsaid things which lie amongst the small talk, all creeps under the skin. At the same time, the film’s infamous climax is just as heart-wrenching as it is unsettling. Perhaps because after experiencing something so painful, it’s easy to see oneself fall into the same trappings as John. Wary of a hesitant future, all the while being too stubborn to see what may be in front of you. The loss of innocence does indeed bring about existential dread. It also pulls intimacy into sharp focus. One of the scariest things for me in rewatching Don’t Look Now is how tragedy can alter one’s sense of perception. Even now, when watching the film again, a small part of me still cries out for its ending to differ. For John to regain some of his innocence. For him to absorb a little more of that intimacy over his grief. Something to have him refrain from stumbling around dilapidated alleys. Sleepwalking towards more misfortune.
In the time it took for me to collate some thoughts on this film, Donald Sutherland had died. His son Kiefer announced on Twitter that his father’s life was well lived. Be it M*A*S*H, Klute, or Six Degrees of Separation. Sutherland’s ability to bring pathos to whatever role he played was astonishing. I feel that John Baxter is amongst his best performances. A father whose grave trauma has rocked his foundations to the core. In a piece celebrating the film for Inverse magazine, Kayleigh Donaldson remarks: “It’s not simply that you cannot escape death; it’s that it’s everywhere, quietly reminding you of its arrival in your life.” In rewatching his performance here, I found a strange amount of solace within my two losses. A salve through observing grief on a Moebius strip. I was rewatching Death on a loop. In real life. On celluloid. Melded together in the same mosaic way Nicolas Roeg constructs his film. Yet despite the film’s melancholy, through Donald’s performance now comes his son’s words. We may not be able to escape death, but we can live life well before its arrival. I look forward. With an attempt to live well for my wife and son. The two of us looking for where we can rebuild our bonds and provide a new piece of the puzzle to reframe ourselves.
