Reimagining HBO’s Carnivàle as Folk Horror

For both its detailed mythology building and its relative obscureness among the general viewing public, Carnivàle occupies a unique space among the annals of HBO’s prestige television. The show centers on two seemingly opposite core characters: Ben (Nick Stahl), a healer who travels with a troupe of freak show performers and Brother Justin (Clancy Brown), a Methodist minister who lives with his sister who becomes an overnight radio sensation. Set in America in the mid-1930s, Ben and Brother Justin share a prophetic vision in which good and evil are destined to collide. As their fates interweave in horrific fashion, the line between which characters represent good versus evil blurs significantly.

Although it lasted only two seasons, the show remains notable for its cult like following, its sensory driven visuals, and its complicated, supernatural infused narrative. Specifically, the critically acclaimed season one episodes “Babylon” and “Pick a Number” situate the show squarely within the realm of folk horror by shifting the narrative focus to an isolated landscape which harbors secrets from the past that must eventually be reckoned with in the present. Further, the way in which the episodes play with established folk horror tropes, specifically the arrival of an outsider to the community and the casting of a young woman as a temptress, complicates traditional views on the genre by presenting time as a malleable construct. In most folk horror, the line between what constitutes the past and present is clearly drawn. But in Carnivàle, a show already situated in the not so distant era of the Great Depression, this line is less fixed and the implications on how that impacts folk horror tropes is significant. In his book Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange, Adam Scovell theorizes the Folk Horror Chain, which he argues, has four components: landscape, isolation, skewed moral values, and ritualistic death.  Combined, the presence of these elements enables folk horror to treat “the past as a paranoid, skewed trauma.” Carnivàle leverages the Folk Horror Chain in a way that both reflects and challenges the audience’s historical memory of a bygone era.

Applying the Folk Horror Chain

Throughout the course of its run, the show meets repeatedly Scovell’s tenets of folk horror. It’s difficult to name another show in recent memory that was as dependent upon its landscape for narrative development as Carnivàle. From lingering shots of deserted desert expansiveness as the carnies travel across the Southwestern United States to characters forced to survive the mercurial weather of the Dust Bowl, the landscape becomes not only an obstacle that must be endured by the characters but also a central driver of character decision making.

The landscape also functions to manipulate audience perception of the physical isolation of the carnie characters. Unlike Justin and Iris Crowe (Amy Madigan) who are situated squarely within town life and are shown interacting with other characters such as Justin’s parishioners and their adoptive father, Norman (Ralph Waite), the traveling carnival performers are continually framed as being segregated by and from society. Repeated shots of the carnies setting up camp with not another soul in sight reiterates their separation from the culture and underscores that they are a community both removed from and by the larger society. Their positioning away from the civilized world is further conveyed through images of their tents and caravans contrasted against Justin and Iris’ traditional home.

The idea of a looming yet ambiguous supernatural presence pervades the series from its opening episode in which we see Ben heal a young girl from polio and realize that he and Brother Justin are somehow psychically linked. It is further cemented by unexplained prophetic visions experienced by numerous characters and an underlying narrative mythology that pulls heavily from Masonic lore. In the world of the carnies, especially, ritual and tradition are privileged and it is from this origin that the show’s clearest example of sacrifice emanates.

In the episodes “Babylon” and “Pick a Number,” the Folk Horror Chain is reimagined for American subscription television audiences and reflects a specifically American sensibility. Our initial sense of foreboding comes courtesy of Brother Justin, who, his face semi-concealed by shadows, begins to explain the biblical story of Babylon in which the once-thriving town became a dwelling place for demons. As the story unfolds, the carnival begins its descent into the titular town and panning shots painstakingly illustrate that this is a ghost town with nary another person in sight, save for one lone individual leaving town who greets Samson (Michael J. Anderson), Management’s right hand man. The desolation and “emptiness” of the landscape is remarked upon by the characters and seems a strange location for the carnival to set up shop. The bareness of the environment creates a palpable sense of dread in the performers and forces them to the town’s watering hole where they run into the man from the road who is now serving as barkeep. No other townspeople are present and the camera pans back to the empty, dusty landscape.

The American mythos of the West would suggest that this physical removal from society courtesy of the landscape is a welcome respite from civilization and that the openness of the land is something to celebrate. Consider the ways in which popular culture continually codifies the image of the lone cowboy who seeks solace in his isolation and regards the frontier as synonymous with liberty. But in this iteration, the expansiveness of the landscape reads as more a prison away from civilization. The openness isn’t so much a sign of potential exploration as much as it is a reminder that this is an environment completely devoid of even the illusion of protection. It is a direct challenge to the historical memory of viewers who are used to seeing the West imagined in poetic terms that substantiates the mythology of American exceptionalism.

The blending of isolation and landscape becomes more complicated as the episode progresses. The isolation of environment gives way to a sense of isolation from the surrounding community once the carnival opens for business. Though the performers fear no paying guests will arrive, as they still have yet to see a person beyond the barkeep, they find themselves inundated unexpectedly by a crowd of miners who appear from over the horizon. Suggestion that things are not necessarily as they appear comes when Sophie (Clea DuVall), the carnival’s tarot card reader, is unable to see the future of the miner who arrives at her tent. Similarly, when Rita Mae (Cynthia Ettinger), who is looking for a big payday, ignores Samson’s edict to remove the “blow off” event from the cooch show (i.e., striptease), the audience knows immediately that this decision will have consequences. Though the miners now surround the carnival performers, it does little to extend a sense of community. If anything, it only reinforces boundaries of marginalization. In earlier episodes, scenes of the carny performers having to go into town shows their status as less than in the eyes of the town’s God fearing folk. But this episode takes that sense of discomfort and infuses it with a palpable sense of dread because the bodily risk to these performers is so pronounced.

Rita Mae’s insistence that she and her eldest daughter, Dora Mae, perform the blow-off results in the series’ most gaspworthy moment. During the show, the crowd turns rabid and begins to assault Dora Mae. While her father, Stumpy (Toby Huss), is able to remove her from the horde of men, their savagery and relative lack of emotion hint at an otherworldliness that reads to the audience as a premonition of sorts. Here, ritualistic death takes center stage by drawing upon an instantly recognizable legacy of American violence. After getting chewed out by Samson for drinking on the job, Ferris wheel operator Jonesy (Tim DeKay) stumbles off into the woods, where he finds Dora Mae hanging from a tree. As he carries her back to camp, Justin’s voice again reminds us of the story of the harlot in Babylon. Seeing her lynched child, Rita Sue begins screaming as a close-up of Dora Mae’s face reveals “HARLOT” carved into her forehead.

Frontier Justice

The discovery of Dora Mae’s body swaying from a tree in an apparent lynching obviously draws upon two historical moments in American memory. In one sense, the moment evokes the horrors of American slavery and underscores how Dora Mae’s status as a “freak” positions her as an almost sub-human Other in the eyes of the miners. It is a shameful and horrific moment made all the more so for the audience because we recognize the hatred that led to so many lynchings. But this is not the only way the meaning underscoring the means of death of Dora Mae gets transmitted culturally. In frontier narratives, it is not uncommon that “justice” takes the form of hanging and is dispensed by colorful yet sympathetic characters. For example, in Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove, Gus and Woodrow string up a former friend for being a thief with the justification that there is an acceptable code of behavior one must live by in order to be a contributing member of society. This longing for “frontier justice” comes wrapped in a sense of duty and conviction that the hanging is justified for the common good. But whether the objective is lynching or hanging, the visual of a body suspended from a tree is the same. How Dora Mae’s death ultimately reads is contingent upon which perspective the audience adopts. If you believe her work as a prostitute and hustler means her death is somehow justified then the ritualistic aspects of her murder read differently than if she is simply a persecuted innocent. Compounding this difference is the revelation that the miners are actually trapped spirits destined to reside in Babylon forever. They are spirits driven by a desire to make their “community” the most inhabitable it can be no matter the individual cost and really, is that so different from notions of frontier justice continually celebrated in American lore?

Interestingly, the concept of frontier justice is inverted in the follow-up episode “Pick a Number” in which retribution is sought by the carnies for Dora Mae’s murder. Unable to find any of the miners, the carnies capture the barkeep and insist he stand “trial” in a highly ceremonial proceeding. Because the carnies know they can’t trust the justice system of the establishment, they have their own way of dispensing justice. From the characters assembling into a circle without words to the way the gun is handled, it is clear to the viewer that there is a prescribed order for things to be done. The ceremony itself frames Dora Mae’s murder as being more akin to a lynching since the justice being dispensed by the carnies is framed as being earned. Ultimately the bar keep survives the three rounds of Russian roulette but later on, he is killed quietly by Samson who ignores the traditions which necessitate the barkeep’s release and exacts his own revenge. Here, values are skewed in a continuous loop such that what constitutes morality depends upon which character’s worldview you adopt.

While the moment initially creates a space for release for the audience who wants to see Dora Mae’s murder avenged, the feeling is short lived.  As Samson walks away from the murder he has just committed, music starts to play and he sees a naked Dora Mae standing at the window. But just as a brief smile plays out on Samson’s lips, multiple arms grab her and pull her into the darkness. Here, the presence of the supernatural works against the character by denying her a peaceful ending. Instead, Dora Mae will remain in the town to be raped and abused for all eternity. It’s a brutal, soul crushing ending that provides absolutely no catharsis for viewers. Instead of righting a wrong, this moment of frontier justice is a second ritualistic death of sorts for Dora Mae, albeit one predicated on an entirely different set of traditions.

What the United States lacks in history it makes up for in mythology. Carnivàle captures these traditions in such a way that the series deserves its rightful place among other examples of American folk horror such as The Witch (2015) and The Village (2004). Scovell’s Folk Horror Chain provides a meaningful way to engage with these traditions while also considering the ways in which concepts of morality within historical memory are fluid and not fixed.

You can stream HBO’s Carnivale, seasons 1 and 2, on Amazon:

Check out some of our other articles on folk horror: the 2018 Scottish film Calibre as folk horror; Hereditary as folk horror; Eden Lake as folk horror; the resurgence of folk horror; folk horror and grief in The Other Side of the Door and Wake Wood.