Muristek
A witch discovers life, love and death via the bodies of others in a beautifully made and moving treatise on what it it means to be human
In 19th century Macedonia, a witch roams the hills. She’s a ghoulish cautionary tale told to children, referred to as the wolf-eateress. But one day, to a new mother in an isolated house, she’s suddenly very real, hovering above the baby, thirsty for fresh blood. The woman pleads, begs for a deal. If the witch returns when her daughter is 16, she can take her then. The witch agrees but as a sign of their bargain cuts the baby’s tongue, rendering her incapable of speech.
It’s a bold, attention-securing first scene, writer-director Goran Stolevski taking one of many big swings in a one-of-a-kind debut, arresting not just because of its horrific act of violence against a baby (it is mercifully not explicit) but of its calm, matter-of-fact nature. In Stolevski’s vividly wrought world, the supernatural is an accepted part of life. It’s feared and demonised, yes, but whenever it crashes into scene, it’s not met with great shock, more an inevitable sigh. It comes for us all.
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