An intimate, loving portrait of Haiti and Vodou, and how their misunderstood beliefs became a global phenomenon
The zombie is the emblem of contemporary horror. In the way that the Universal Gothic monsters defined the genre for Boomers, and the emblematic slashers defined it for Gen X, in the 21st Century the shambling, flesh-eating undead have become the most enduring scary image in Hollywood’s lexicon. But do you know the complicated, messy origins of where the zombie comes from? And do you know how it can be read not only as a symbol of unchecked consumption and corruption, but as one of oppression and subjugation?
Black Zombie, the new documentary from filmmaker Maya Annik Bedward that debuted at SXSW this year, digs deep beneath the surface of where our modern zombie came from. At the center of the documentary is the reclaiming of Vodou, the religious movement with its origins in Haitian traditions. Bedward’s film explores the origin of Vodou, how it was a transfer of indigenous religious traditions the kidnapped Haitians brought with them into slavery, which in turn became coded into forms of cultural Catholicism. But as Haitian slaves eventually rose up and claimed their own independence, through oral tradition passed down through generation, Vodou beliefs returned to prominence on the island.
But what does all this have to do with zombies? The films points to self-claimed adventurer and author W.B. Seabrook’s The Magic Island, a fantastical rendering of his experiences in Haiti where he mentions encountering what he referred to as real zombies: seemingless soulless husks working in the Haitian cane fields who didn’t respond when spoken to. Seabrook in his writing connected the spiritualist beliefs of Vodou with the zombie; as actual Vodou followers and leaders explain in the film, it is not that simple.
Essentially, Vodou is a set of beliefs that believe in a multi-faceted, complicated set of African religions that have congealed into one set of beliefs. But at their core is a love of Africa, within the religion referred to as Guinea. When the soul dies, it is believed to return to Guinea as a reward for a life well lived. But the worst possible scenario is for the soul itself to be drained from the body, leaving behind only a body with none of the spirit that once lived within it. This is what Vodou knows as the zombie, the remains of one who has been denied a return to Guinea.
Of course, Seabrook’s misunderstanding (intentional or accidental) capturing the imagination of white readers, and soon the idea of Voodoo (note the difference) priests ability to transform people into mindless drones became an obsession. From the earliest Hollywood depiction in White Zombie and through the early part of the 20th century, the zombie was a form of racist repositioning of native Haitian religion as something to be feared. As the film lays out, the initial fear of zombie was not that they would kill you, but that you yourself would become on, a mindless slave to an oppressed people. White people feared they would become what they inflicted upon Black people.
The film then explores the complicated morphing of how the zombie changed over time to the version we know today, through Night of the Living Dead to The Walking Dead. In particular George Romero’s place in realigning our understanding of zombie from a blank stare servant to a flesheater is given a lot of real estate, but what is clear is that the zombie went from a popular but somewhat niche sub-genre of horror narratives, to the predominant, malleable America mythology it has become.
Throughout the film, interviews with both scholars and active Vodou practitioners give a very broad corrective to the longterm view of the religion. At the heart of the film is a respect for the Haitian people, both in terms of the hardships they have faced as well as the inspiring resistance and uprising they historically achieved. It also digs into the real world political ramifications of their self-determination, and how it geo-political pressures created an impossible scenario for their own prosperity. Yet they remained resistant always, with Vodou a key part of that resistance.
There is some of the reach of the film’s arguments that are less persuasive; attempting to tie the popularity of the zombie swarm as connected with white anxiety about immigration and assimilation is less convincing. It doesn’t exactly make an especially strong argument against the modern understanding of zombie the same way it draws the clear line between racism and the earliest zombie film, but it does attempt to make draw a clearer line than easily presents itself. In essence, spooky storytellers redefined a misunderstood Haitian belief onto an entirely different type of monster through the 20th century, with a word not completely disconnected from its original context.
For this purpose alone, the documentary is an edifying journey, as well as an empowering one to reclaim a much maligned religion. Perhaps the most powerful part of the film is seeing genuine Vodou practitioners parading in New Orleans past Voodoo trinket shops, the genuine article proudly defying the white bastardization.
Annik Bedward also makes copious use of her own beautifully shot zombie recreations, casting back to the original, dead eyed meaning to reclaim the imagery that was weaponized against a people who dared to desire freedom. But even the subjects of the film state their own apprehension about the process of the film, having seen people misinterpret or misidentify who they truly are too many times to trust that they will be heard honestly.
The final film feels honest, truthful and especially loving of the Haitian people, both their history and their culture. By using the global understanding of the zombie’s today as a doorway, it provides an intimate portrait of that world with care and sensitivity. It is important to know where our stories come from, and to always be skeptical and critical of what parts we might be missing.
