New Israeli Horror: Local Cinema, Global Genre 9781978837874

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New Israeli Horror

New Israeli Horror Local Cinema, Global Genre

OLGA GERSHENSON

Rutgers University Press New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey London and Oxford

​ utgers University Press is a department of Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey, one of R the leading public research universities in the nation. By publishing worldwide, it furthers the University’s mission of dedication to excellence in teaching, scholarship, research, and clinical care. Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Gershenson, Olga, 1969–­author. Title: New Israeli horror : local cinema, global genre / Olga Gershenson. Description: New Brunswick, New Jersey : Rutgers University Press, [2024] | Includes   bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023011915 | ISBN 9781978837843 (paperback) | ISBN 9781978837850   (hardback) | ISBN 9781978837867 (epub) | ISBN 9781978837874 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Horror films—­Israel—­History and criticism. | Motion   pictures—­Israel—­History. Classification: LCC PN1995.9.H6 G39 2024 | DDC 791.43/6164—­dc23/eng/20230424 LC rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2023011915 A British Cataloging-­in-­Publication rec­ord for this book is available from the British Library. Copyright © 2024 by Olga Gershenson All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. References to internet websites (URLs) w ­ ere accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Rutgers University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared. The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. rutgersuniversitypress​.­org

​For Aaron

Contents

Acknowl­edgments

ix

Introduction

1

1

The Precursors: From The Angel Was a D ­ evil to Frozen Days

15

Part I  Subversion 2

The First Hebrew Horror: Rabies

35

3

A Korean Revenge Thriller in the Israeli Countryside: Big Bad Wolves

50

Part II  Conversion 4

Horror in the IDF Zombies in the Fatigues: Poisoned and Cannon Fodder Freak Out: “The Final Boy” on the Base The Specters of Vio­lence in The Damned

69 70 86 99

5

The Jewish Super­natural: JeruZalem

118

6

Slasher on the Kibbutz: ­Children of the Fall

135

vii

viii • Contents

Part III  Aversion 7

Escaping Israel: Another World, Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, and The Golem

153



Coda: Is ­There I-­Horror?

177

Notes 183 Index 213

Acknowl­edgments In some ways, I am the last person to write this book. I am not a horror native. I grew up in the Soviet ­Union where horror films ­were neither produced nor shown and then spent my formative years in Israel, another country with no horror tradition. The few horror films that I did see (and loved) I did not even know ­were horror. And yet, when I watched Poisoned at the midnight screening at the 2015 Toronto Jewish Film Festival, it blew me away. It felt like a breath of fresh air, which is a strange ­thing to say about a zombie flick full of guts and gore. It was very funny—­and an astute satire of Israeli militarism. I was hooked. The filmmaker Didi Lubetzky was at the festival to introduce his film. ­A fter the screening, he told me that his is not the only Israeli horror film and urged me to see ­others. I followed his advice, fell in love with other movies, and started writing. Didi remained my guide into the strange world of Israeli horror. He answered, explained, and put me in touch with his fellow filmmakers. Thanks, Didi, and thank you, all the other directors, writers, and cinematographers for your films and for speaking to me: Aharon Keshales, Navot Papushado, Yoav and Doron Paz, Eitan Gafny, Boaz Armoni, Guilhad Emilio Schenker, Danny Lerner, Yevgeny Ruman, and Dan Wolman, as well as Yael Oron, Roni Kedar, Ariel Cohen, Lior Lederman, Yoav Shutan-­Goshen, Ram Shweky, Rotem Yaron, Itzik Rosen, and Michael Mayer. Thanks also to Stuart Hands who invited me to the Toronto festival and dragged me to the midnight screening. The research took a long time. Along the way, I met Uri Aviv, a power­house ­behind Utopia, the one and only genre film festival in Israel. Uri not only spent hours talking to me about the local horror scene but he also allowed me to be a part of it: in 2017 I joined the team of volunteers at the festival and learned how the sausage is made. Thanks, Uri and your amazing team. Through Utopia, I met another key player, Pablo Utin, a film scholar who quickly became a friend and ix

x • Acknowl­edgments

a collaborator. Pablo shared with me not only his published interviews with the filmmakers but also the unpublished ones. Without his generosity and wit, t­ here would have been no book—we spent hours talking movies, and some of the ideas that drove my research emerged in t­ hese conversations. Another colleague who was absolutely indispensable was Avner Shavit, one of the most brilliant Israeli film critics, who generously shared his knowledge and connections. In the course of years of research and writing I could rely on Avner to find an answer to the most arcane question or to put me in touch with the most inaccessible source. I owe enormous gratitude to my friend and colleague Dale Hudson, who showed me the ropes of writing about horror. Dale was my coauthor for my very first article about what I call now New Israeli Horror films. A special shout-­out to Tim Burr, who not only shared with me his enormous knowledge of the horror genre but also came to the rescue when my chapters needed shrinking. Special thanks also goes to Daniel Magilow, who voluntarily (!) read the entire manuscript and gave me notes. Other colleagues and friends who helped along the way and to whom I am thankful are Dorit Naaman, Yael Munk, Tal Ben Zvi, Judah Cohen, Rachel Harris, Dan Chyutin, Boaz Hagin, Ido Rosen, and Raz Yosef. I had the good fortune to receive help from Farzaneh Tajabadi, Mahdi Jalili, Deniz Ozyildiz, Rayan Daud, and Maysoon Hussein, who did the research on circulation of the New Israeli Horror in Farsi, Turkish, and Arabic. Archivists at the film archives at the Tel Aviv University, Tel Aviv Cinematheque, and Jerusalem Cinematheque helped provide access to rare materials. Felix Kiner did magic with the images, and Leo Kiner shared the good cheer. My research was supported by funding from the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture and the University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Amherst. The Warner Fund at the University Seminars at Columbia University helped with publication and production of the website which accompanies this book. I also benefited from my affiliations with the Steve Tisch School of Film and T ­ elevision at Tel Aviv University and with Columbia University during my sabbatical. Th ­ ere, I gave talks at the departmental colloquium in Tel Aviv and at the Cinema and Interdisciplinary Interpretation Faculty Seminar at Columbia: both ­were phenomenal groups of colleagues whose feedback was invaluable. As I was writing this book, real-­life events made horror films seem juvenile in comparison. No amount of zombie outbreaks and on-­screen apocalyptic disasters prepared me for the combined effects of COVID, the climate crisis, and the threats to democracy. Through all of it, my partner Aaron Ring was by my side. He was my inspiration, my sounding board, my system of support, and an editor extraordinaire. This book is for you: thank you.

New Israeli Horror

Introduction A serial killer stalks the woods. Demons rampage through Jerusalem. Zombies ravage an army base. Audiences had seen nothing like this from Israeli filmmakers. ­Whether serious or comedic, art ­house or ­popular entertainment, with or without a ­political agenda, Israeli films had always featured recognizable characters in characteristically Israeli situations. In other words, they w ­ ere largely realistic and inward looking. In the 2010s, the situation changed when the first psycho-­killers, zombies, vampires, ghosts, and other monsters entered the frame. Although ­these figures ­were unpre­ce­dented on Israeli screens, they w ­ ere not novel in and of themselves. What was novel was the way in which ­these iconic figures ­were imported into local realities to find and expose horror within Israeli society or Jewish tradition. The entire cycle of such films that I call New Israeli Horror seemed to have sprouted up overnight. Before 2010, ­there ­were virtually no Israeli horror films. By the end of the ­decade, ­there ­were enough of them to write this book. To be sure, this d­ ecade was not the first time that Israeli cinema had absorbed international influences. Early Israeli films ­were affected by the Soviet avant-­ garde and by Hollywood melodramas and Westerns. Bourekas films, an Israeli cycle of ethnic comedies and melodramas, w ­ ere fashioned a­ fter Egyptian and ­Iranian comedies and melodramas, as well as Yiddish theater and film.1 The New Sensibility filmmakers ­were inspired by the French New Wave.2 More recently, Israeli cinema drew on ­European New Extremism.3 But even in view of ­these diverse sources, the New Israeli Horror films broke new ground. They introduced influences hitherto unseen on Israeli screens, including ­those from American horror, sci-fi, and action, as well as from Spanish, British, Italian, J­ apanese, and Korean genre films. The result was a new cultural phenomenon, a hybrid of local cinema and global genre.

1

2 • New Israeli Horror

This book is about ­these new films, their filmmakers, the emergence of a horror film scene, and what it says about Israeli culture in the first d­ ecades of the new millennium. Film analy­sis might be at the heart of the book, but no less impor­ tant are the voices of the filmmakers and the stories of their films’ production, circulation, and reception. I look closely at the most significant films across horror subgenres: Rabies (2010) and Big Bad Wolves (2013) by Aharon Keshales and Navot Papushado, Poisoned (2011) by Didi Lubetzky, Cannon Fodder (2013) and ­Children of the Fall (2016) by Eitan Gafny, JeruZalem (2015) and The Golem (2018) by Yoav and Doron Paz, Freak Out (2015) by Boaz Armoni, Madame Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club (2017) by Guilhad Emilio Schenker, and The Damned (2018) by Evgeny Ruman. In addition to productions during the 2010s, I include several films from 1970s to the 2000s that I call “precursors”; most significantly, Night Soldier (1984) by Dan Wolman and Frozen Days (2005) by Danny Lerner.4 I also briefly discuss several less significant feature films, some short films, and films that circle the orbit of horror without quite landing ­there. My focus in this book is on film. Although ­there ­were some early Israeli horror ­television series, they did not engage with Israeli culture like New Israeli Horror films do, and they had ­little impact on the current wave. The horror TV series that appeared ­later, in 2010s–2020s followed in the footsteps of New Israeli Horror, testifying to the vitality of the movement.5 Horror is notoriously hard to define, and New Israeli Horror is no exception. In this book, I locate horror at the intersection of three fields: affect (such as fear, repulsion, and eeriness), tropes and formal characteristics (e.g., zombies, vampires, serial killers, or found footage technique), and social consensus (i.e., recognition of a given film as horror by critics and audiences). In some films included h ­ ere, the three fields overlap, making their generic designation clear. In ­others, ­these ele­ments are less obvious, in which case I make an argument for their inclusion based on the film’s production values, circulation—­ and my own taste. All the films discussed in this book participated in horror film festivals and thus ­were recognized as part of the genre by programmers, critics, and audiences alike.

The Films and the Filmmakers: The Social Scene Israeli cinema has long had an uneasy relationship with genre film and, indeed, the idea of film as ­popular entertainment. U ­ ntil the 2010s, t­ here ­were virtually no Israeli horror films. In this regard, Israel was not unique. Other national film industries—­such as French, Turkish, Egyptian, and Eastern ­European cinemas—­ had not developed a sustained horror tradition by then.6 The question is, what triggered the sudden growth spurt of local productions? The answer lies in a combination of ­factors: specific to Israel, the social scene, expansion of the film ­ ere the ­factors. The global f­ actors w ­ ere industry, and the mode of film funding w changes in technology and media environment.

Introduction • 3

The Hamorotheque Club The filmmakers ­behind the horror productions belong to the same generation, born in the years between the mid-1970s and mid-1980s. Most are men of Ashkenazi or ­European descent. In an exaggeration of a pattern of the Israeli film industry in general, this cohort includes few ­women and no Mizrahim (Israeli Jews with roots in Muslim-­majority countries) or Palestinian citizens of Israel. Theirs is the first Israeli generation to grow up in an era of home video and cable (introduced in Israel only in 1993).7 ­These filmmakers came of age with easy access to international genre films and t­elevision, especially American action, sci-fi, and horror.8 They are the first Israeli generation to be both Americanized and globalized due to the availability of Western media and easy international travel. ­ ere growing up, technological They live and breathe pop culture. As they w advancements made it pos­si­ble for them to shoot on video on their ­family cam­ ere the first corders. When they studied film and entered the profession, they w ones to use digital cameras. This technology made production cheaper and simpler, freeing them to experiment with the genres that appealed to them. The core group of t­ hese filmmakers came out of Tel Aviv University (TAU) Film School, where they studied in the early to mid-2000s. What influenced them more than the formal curriculum was the Hamorotheque Film Club, which exposed them to a range of international genre films. Hamorotheque (a portmanteau of the Hebrew word hamor [“donkey” or “mule”] and the word “cinematheque”) was envisioned as an alternative to the high-­brow offerings of the Tel Aviv Cinematheque and the conservative tastes of their professors. Among the ­founders of Hamorotheque was Aharon Keshales (who would l­ ater direct Rabies and Big Bad Wolves), then a p­ opular teaching assistant at the Film School.9 Throughout 2004–2006, students gathered e­ very Monday to watch genre films, many of which ­were horror—­from Zombie Flesh Eaters (1979) and Re-­Animator (1985) to Dog Soldiers (2002) and Oldboy (2003).10 ­These screenings regularly attracted seventy to eighty students hungry for genre films: not just horror but also sci-fi, action, fantasy, and even romantic comedy. What made Hamorotheque particularly attractive to its fans was that the club was unofficial and unsanctioned, with films pirated online and screenings advertised by DIY flyers and by word of mouth (figure I.1).11 Just to watch them was subversive: such films ­were not in the syllabi, and professors treated them as beneath any serious attention. Horror, in par­tic­u­lar, did not fit into the film canon. And yet, horror’s explicit gore, its dark or absurd humor, freedom from realistic tenets, and its sheer exuberance spoke to students. As they watched, they increasingly wanted to make such films in their own language, set in their own culture. The Hamorotheque Club profoundly influenced the culture of the Film School. Beforehand, students ­were expected to make films only in the realistic mode, and t­ hose who wanted to explore sci-fi, fantasy, and especially, horror ­were discouraged from ­doing so. Consequently, they felt alone, pitted against the

FIGURE I.1  ​A flyer for the inaugural Hamorotheque screening by Pablo Utin, Aharon

Keshales, Yaniv Berman, and Uri Schori, May 10, 2004. (Courtesy of Pablo Utin.)

Introduction • 5

system. Hamorotheque changed that: the screenings and discussions validated students’ interests and tastes, making it legitimate for them to try their hand at horror and other “low” genres. Suddenly, ­these outliers ­were no longer isolated: ­ ere able to they gained a cohort of peers and they understood each other. They w work together and to show their works in pro­gress at Hamorotheque for feedback.12 The club’s alumni include filmmakers Aharon Keshales, Navot Papushado, Eitan Gafny, Didi Lubetzky, Danny Lerner, Oren Karmi, Shai Scherf, Yaniv Berman, Itzik Rosen, scriptwriter Yael Oron, and cinematographers David Michael-­Shahar and Guy Raz. ­These young filmmakers went on to work not only with each other but with fellow travelers from other schools—­Boaz Armoni (Beit Berl College), Veronica “Roni” Kedar (Beit Berl College), and Ram Schweky (Camera Obscura)—­sharing their ideas and further spreading the gospel. Along with the new generation of filmmakers, a new generation of critics came up as well; they included Avner Shavit, Amir Bogen, Ofer Liebergall, Doron Fishler, ­ ere Hamorotheque attendees. Th ­ ese critics and Oron Shamir, some of them w ­were often friends with the filmmakers and w ­ ere on the same page with them about genre films. They embraced New Israeli Horror and championed the films and the filmmakers in the media.

Utopia Alongside Hamorotheque, another influential institution for New Israeli Horror was Utopia, a sci-fi, fantasy, and horror film festival in Tel Aviv. It evolved from the Israeli sci-fi, fantasy, and role-­playing fan-­based convention called Icon, which was founded in 1998 and added films to its program over the years. At first, Icon screened only classic sci-fi films. In 2001, for the first time, it featured a modest program of short Israeli genre films—­modest ­because ­there ­were so few. In fact, combing over Israeli films made between 1979 and 2001, the programmers succeeded in finding only five. In 2004–2005 an entire film festival took shape, and in 2006 it spotlighted for the first time Israeli feature-­length films (among them Danny Lerner’s Frozen Days), as well as two programs of local shorts. Since then, the festival has boasted a program of feature-­length and short Israeli sci-fi, fantasy, and horror films, thus helping cultivate local talent. Uri Aviv, Utopia’s director, recalls that the initial decision to curate more Israeli productions was influenced not only by the desire to support local filmmakers but also by the availability of government funding. For the festival to qualify for public funding, at least 20 ­percent of the films in its program had to be Israeli.13 This requirement s­ haped the ­future of the festival and, by extension, the genre scene in Israel. By pursuing funding, the festival created an ave­nue for screening local productions. Moreover, in the early 2000s, given the dearth of local genre movies, the festival could not afford to be choosy—it needed to fill one-­fifth of its program slots. That meant that any Israeli film that was not a realistic drama had a good chance of being included. As time went on, ­there ­were more and more local genre submissions. In 2008, the festival started hosting an

6 • New Israeli Horror

Israeli genre film competition, first only for shorts and then ­later for feature films. By 2009, interest in genre films among young filmmakers was so strong that the Israeli Film Fund announced a competition for screenplay development grants in the genres of sci-fi, fantasy, horror, and mystery—an unpre­ce­dented event for a national institution that typically only supported serious realistic dramas.14 The festival initiated the competition and hosted a workshop for interested filmmakers. By 2011, ­these efforts paid off, and local horror films began pouring in. In 2013, the Icon festival rebranded itself as Utopia, the Tel-­Aviv International Festival for Science Fiction and Fantastic Genre Films. Throughout the d­ ecade, each annual festival offered three to four Israeli feature-­length films and dozens of shorts, a significant number of them horror. All the films discussed in this book ­were shown at Utopia. Their screenings w ­ ere accompanied by discussions with filmmakers, writers, and producers; special events; and awards. Some Utopia festivals featured workshops with established filmmakers. ­There ­were programs for young audiences, raising new generations of genre lovers. Utopia became a social scene where like-­minded filmmakers and fans could meet as a community. For filmmakers, the conversations continued through a closed Facebook group that also held in-­person meetings. In conjunction with Utopia, two other initiatives contributed to the early development of horror scene in Israel. The first was a private film fund named ­after Tomer Moria, an aspiring filmmaker killed in a terrorist act. From 2005 to 2012, the years when the Tomer Moria Fund was active, it supported the production of dozens of Israeli short horror, fantasy, and sci-fi films by assistance with production: providing equipment, crew members, and editing studios. But the fund also sponsored competitions with cash prizes ranging from 3,000 NIS to 10,000 NIS, including the 2008 competition for best Israeli film at the Icon/Utopia festival.15 In a crucial period for the emerging horror genre in Israel, the Tomer Moria Fund created an alternative system of support for student films in genres frowned on by local film schools, which partially compensated for the dearth of public funds. While the Tomer Moria Fund incentivized production, a second initiative, the “­Dying to See” (Met Lir’ot) competition, gave aspiring filmmakers an opportunity to showcase their work to a larger audience. The competition was the brainchild of filmmaker Danny Lerner. Lerner, a TAU Film School gradu­ate and Hamorotheque regular, worked as a content editor for the local cable channel HOT-­Prime. In 2007, he initiated a competition of fictitious trailers for ­nonexistent genre films; several of ­these trailers belonged to the horror genre. Two of the films discussed in this book, Rabies and Poisoned, originated from “­Dying to See” trailers.

Film Funding in Israel Israeli cinema is best known for films dealing with social prob­lems, wars, and occupation. To wit, the majority of Israel’s Oscar-­nominated films in the 2000s

Introduction • 7

are about the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict and Israel’s wars.16 They are realistic dramas, conveying the local societal consensus as expressed in key tropes, the central of which is “shooting and crying” (yorim ve-­bokhim). “Shooting and crying” refers to the moral anguish felt by Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) soldiers for their roles as perpetrators, even as they continue with military actions purportedly justified by the greater good.17 This trope engenders an apol­o­getic, self-­ serving portrayal of Israel’s part in its wars, turning the soldier protagonist into a victim or, at least, “an ethical soldier.” ­Political implications aside, “shooting and crying” results in a circumspect repre­sen­ta­tion of vio­lence as befits a serious drama. The new generation had had enough. As one filmmaker said to me, “Enough with the ‘shooting and crying’; onto the ‘slashing and laughing’!”18 Thus, the films of the young horror filmmakers can be read as a collective rebellion against the local cinematic tradition. For them, rebelling against “shooting and crying” meant opting out of a realistic mode and national concerns and embracing genre conventions and ­popular entertainment. This rebellion was also an expression of their cynicism ­toward both Zionist ideology and the left-­wing agenda—­their ­political hopelessness about the Israeli regime. However, the “slashing and laughing” is not as ­simple in the local cultural milieu, even if we disregard the ­political implications. From its inception, the Israeli film industry had a contentious relationship with p­ opular cinema, especially with genre films. In some ways, this relationship was one of internecine competition, each cycle of films jockeying for a lead position and rejecting what came before. The changing patterns of funding reflect this competitive relationship too. Before 1948, film was used for fund­-­rais­ing and promoting Jewish immigration from ­Europe for the Zionist cause in Palestine. In the early years of the state, film became an impor­tant tool of education and socialization—­a means of consolidating national identity and strengthening state institutions. Yet, despite the state agenda, the funding model then practiced—in which the government provided a partial tax rebate on box office revenues—­encouraged the production of p­ opular films.19 Consequently, the most p­ opular films of the 1960s and 1970s ­were not ideologically driven heroic-­nationalist films but bourekas comedies and melodramas, many of them produced by Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus. The ­future heads of Cannon Films ­were responsible for fourteen of twenty box office hits between 1963 and 1980. The biggest hit was the teen sex comedy Lemon Popsicle (Eskimo Limon, 1978, Boaz Davidzon), which sold more than 1.3 million tickets in a country of 3.7 million ­people and then succeeded internationally, yielding sequels and remakes.20 The funding model changed in the late 1970s, when a group of young local filmmakers started campaigning for support for art films ­free of commercial interests. In 1979, answering their call, the Knesset passed legislation establishing the Fund for the Encouragement of Original Quality Films (it was ­later renamed the Israel Film Fund), which was modeled on ­European public film funds. The Fund signified a turn from the ­popular films of 1960s–70s to the

8 • New Israeli Horror

“quality films” of 1980s–90s; from a Hollywood-­inflected mode of film as entertainment to a French mode of film as art. In Israel, the term “quality films” was shorthand for ­political and socially conscious films, which meant—in real terms—­movies about the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict or tensions within Israeli society. The Fund’s establishment was a game changer: as the only ave­nue of public support, it grew to have enormous power over the Israeli film industry. Whereas before local films had been subsidized automatically based on box office proceeds, now the Fund chose which proj­ects to support through a competitive se­lection ­process. That meant that the Fund’s agenda s­ haped local film production. Throughout the 1980s and 90s, i­ndependent production radically diminished, and so did ticket sales.21 Local audiences preferred more entertaining foreign films, especially American blockbusters. Pretty ­Woman (1990), The Lion King (1994), and Titanic (1997) each sold more than a million tickets. An impor­tant change took place in 2000, when the state passed the New Cinema Law to provide more funding for Israeli cinema. This legislation was a culmination of the tremendous changes taking place in Israeli cultural production since the arrival of multichannel ­television in 1993. Cable channels created a demand for original content, which resulted in more job opportunities for young filmmakers and a diversification of genres and styles of local productions. In response to this new market, several film schools opened, ushering in a new era of professionalization for filmmakers. The New Cinema Law tapped into ­these new resources by requiring commercial ­television and cable channels to support domestic film production. Israel also entered coproduction agreements with France, Germany, and other countries. The New Cinema Law marked a time of ­immense growth for Israeli film, with about thirty feature films released each year. The number of publicly funded films doubled,22 and film b­ udgets increased to about $800,000 to $1,200,000 for feature films—­still low by American standards but sizable locally.23 Israeli cinema turned to other local subjects besides war or occupation, such as ultra-­Orthodox Jewish communities. The best Israeli films began to compete in prestigious international film festivals, win awards, and gradually penetrate international markets, primarily in North Amer­i­ca and ­Europe. This growth, though, was not necessarily good news for young genre filmmakers. Despite the changes brought about by the New Cinema Law, the mode of film as art remained dominant, with public funding continuing to delegitimize genre film.24 Production of feature films in Israel is supported by two major public funds—­ the Israel Film Fund and the Yehoshua Ra­bino­vich Foundation for the Arts.25 With no tradition of private funding and few other funding sources, securing support from t­ hese two funds can be a ­matter of life and death for a film proj­ect. Yet even if the funding institutions are trying to support new talent, the odds are stacked against young horror filmmakers: first, the eligibility criteria privilege experienced film production companies and filmmakers with a proven track rec­ ord. Second, the public funds are often interested in supporting so-­called festival

Introduction • 9

films—­prestige proj­ects that can compete at renowned film festivals in Cannes or Venice. As a result, t­ hese public foundations often end up giving large grants to a small number of films. Fi­nally, the funds recruit proposal reviewers from among ­senior filmmakers, who are often committed to the old-­school “quality films” approach and are not necessarily open to what they perceive as “low” genres. Even though the government mandates “encouraging creation in genres that are not sufficiently expressed in Israeli cinema, such as horror,” this is not enforced in practice.26 Given ­these ­factors, it is all but impossible for young horror filmmakers to obtain public funding. As a result, the filmmakers spend years in limbo, submitting and resubmitting proposals (each proposal can only be submitted three times). ­Others do not even apply, relying instead on their own funds or experimenting with private investors. Only a very few are lucky to work with a major production com­pany that has the power to push a proj­ect through and secure substantial public financial support. Most end up producing films on shoestring ­budgets. To the extent their films get any public funding, it is through small grants for script development or distribution. Out of necessity, horror filmmakers are forced into making ­independent, no-­budget productions. They cover expenses with modest development or post-­ production grants, making each shekel go a long way. They work with teams of committed friends prepared to donate their time and talents b­ ecause they believe in the proj­ect. ­Family members are often recruited for logistical (and emotional) support, including feeding the crew members. Digital cameras and editing software do make productions pos­si­ble even u­ nder ­these difficult conditions; yet, even with ­these new technologies, working with a ­limited or ­nonexistent ­budget means that the production can stretch over months and even years. This mode of production and funding (or rather lack thereof) became so widespread that it has been institutionalized. The Israel Film Fund now offers the so-­called guerrilla track, which supports low-­budget ­independent films with about $50,000 (in contrast, the Fund may invest as much as $550,000 in a main track film). Each film made in this way is a product of love and, in some ways, a miracle; each filmmaker is a hero.

The Horror and Film Market in Israel Israelis love to go to the movies. Israel is a collectivistic society, and ­people enjoy ­going to theaters in large groups. In contrast to the global trend, t­ here was a continuous increase in ticket sales in Israel from 2009 to 2017. In a country of about nine million ­people, between twelve and ­eighteen million tickets ­were sold annually throughout the 2010s.27 The most ­popular films ­were comedies. Recent box office hits also included animated films for the w ­ hole ­family and action flicks to see with a group of friends.28 Horror films, even Hollywood productions, have never been among the blockbusters. Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, only American horror classics, such

10 • New Israeli Horror

as Psycho (1960, Alfred Hitchcock), Rosemary’s Baby (1968, Roman Polanski), The Exorcist (1973, William Friedkin), Jaws (1975, Steven Spielberg), and Halloween (1978, John Carpenter) played theatrically in Israel and only on a few screens.29 It did not help that the Israeli censorship body, the Board for Film Review, occasionally banned horror films.30 Moreover, horror films ­were not marketed as “thrillers” (seret metakh), illustrating a general discomfort with horror as a genre. It was not u­ ntil the 1980s that they become identified as a seret eimim (“film of horrors”) and, ultimately, as horror films (seret eima), parallel to the ­English term. ­ ere distributed on video, their popularity In the 1980s, many more such films w showing distributors the commercial potential of horror. For instance, the first films of the Nightmare on Elm Street (1984, Wes Craven) franchise became so ­popular on video that A Nightmare on Elm Street 4 (1988, Renny Harlin) and 5 (1989, Stephen Hopkins) played widely theatrically. Since then, major international horror films have been distributed in Israel in theaters. Horror, however, remains a niche market.31 Overall, American movies dominate the Israeli film market. Domestic productions account for only about 10 ­percent of box office revenue.32 For instance, in 2017, of 17 million tickets, 1.7 million tickets ­were sold to see Israeli movies. But the number of tickets sold for each movie varies widely: an average Israeli film is seen by 10,000–15,000 ­people, while a ­couple of Israeli mega-­hits (usually ethnic comedies and feel-­good movies) split the rest. To continue with the 2017 example, Maktub (2017, Oded Raz) sold 600,000 tickets and The ­Woman’s Balcony (Ismach Hatani, 2016, Emil Ben-­Shimon) 300,000. In this context, a theatrical audience of 100,000 is a huge success, whereas 20,000–40,000 is a strong ­performance. However, in the con­temporary media environment, national ticket sales no longer give a full picture of a film’s audience. Domestically, films are watched on ­television, video on demand (VOD), and online (both on official platforms and through pirating), where it is difficult to account for the number of eyeballs. Some Israeli films also circulate in international markets, including major film festivals, streaming ­services, and ­limited theatrical releases, mostly in the United States and ­Europe. According to some assessments, Israeli cinema t­ oday is one of the most ­popular minor cinemas in the world,33 although ­actual numbers are hard to obtain. With Israeli horror films, the picture is even less clear. ­There have been no domestic horror box office hits. However, t­ hese films are oriented not only t­ oward local audiences but t­ oward genre fans beyond Israel. As such, they enter new markets and circulate through new channels of distribution. Instead of Cannes or Venice, the New Israeli Horror films participate in international horror, sci-fi, and fantasy festivals, such as Sitges in Spain or Fantaspoa in Brazil. From t­ here, they are sold to new markets, unpre­ce­dented for Israeli films, such as the Philippines or Cambodia. ­These films, tap into the commercial potential of the horror genre, especially with world-­wide, straight-­to-­digital releases. Through pirating, Israeli

Introduction • 11

horror films are also watched by audiences in the Arab world that is generally hostile to anything Israeli. Although it is impossible to obtain viewership data, it is evident that the New Israeli Horror films thrive in international markets in a way that is exceptional even for the current moment of relative popularity of Israeli cinema globally. To speak both to local and international audiences, filmmakers have adapted the transnational horror genre to Israeli culture and translated Israeli culture into the horror idiom.

Strategies of Adapting Horror Genre to Israeli Culture How do filmmakers adapt horror conventions to local settings? H ­ ere, I suggest a model of adaptation based on how the filmmakers combine global horror tropes—­character types, narrative conceits, and formal characteristics—­with local cultural signifiers, creating a diegetic world corresponding with recognizable Israeli institutions and characteristics. Depending on the combination of global and local, I envision four distinct, if not necessarily mutually exclusive, possibilities of adaptation (see the model shown in figure I.2). When a film combines genre conventions with the local setting while keeping both intact, the strategy is conversion. A film that combines genre conventions with the local setting in a way that disrupts both is using the strategy of subversion. When a film follows the horror tropes but eschews the local setting, then the strategy is aversion. A film that radically departs from the established horror tropes while retaining its cultural specificity uses the strategy of inversion. Israeli horror filmmakers rely only on the first three strategies. Not a single Israeli film has used inversion— in contrast, for instance, to Indonesian cinema that produces its own, unique horror figures drawn from local tradition34—­which suggests the overall global orientation of Israeli horror. ­These preferences, as chapter 1 shows, ­were already evident in films that I see as precursors to the 2010s wave. At times Israeli horror filmmakers use more than one strategy in a film, though one is usually dominant. In this book, I concentrate on each film’s dominant strategy.

Local culture signifiers

Global horror tropes YES

NO

YES

Conversion

(Inversion)

NO

Aversion

Subversion

FIGURE I.2  ​Adaptation strategies.

12 • New Israeli Horror

Subversion is the most sophisticated of the three strategies ­because it entails familiarity with genre conventions on the part of both the filmmakers and the audience. The subversion films violate—or subvert—­genre conventions by bringing them into an encounter with Israeli sensibilities. Chapters 2 and 3 show how this strategy is applied respectively in Rabies (2010) and Big Bad Wolves (2013). Rabies (2010) deconstructs the slasher genre, invoking narratives and tropes familiar to us from Halloween, Friday the 13th (1980, Sean S. Cunningham), and Cabin Fever (2002, Eli Roth). However, in the Israeli context t­ hese tropes fall apart. The psycho-­killer is shot with a tranquilizer at the very beginning of the film and sleeps peacefully throughout. But the vio­lence continues without him, leaving every­one but him dead. In the narrative logic of the film, Israeli society itself is the source of the vio­lence—­a recurring motif in Israeli horror ever since. Whereas Rabies is a subversion of a slasher, Big Bad Wolves is a take on a South Korean revenge thriller, itself a pastiche of horror, dark comedy, and drama that undergoes further transformation in the Israeli context. While subversion deconstructs genre conventions and local signifiers, the second strategy, conversion, takes horror narratives and tropes as they are and transplants them—or converts them—to Israeli real­ity. In films following this strategy, familiar zombie, monster, or slasher plots unfold in paradigmatic Israeli settings, such as an IDF base or a kibbutz. Such films draw both on global horror and on Israeli cinema. As chapter  4 shows, the most common setting of Israeli horror is the IDF. Thus, Poisoned follows in the footsteps of con­temporary horror comedies like Shaun of the Dead (2004, Edgar Wright) but it sets a zombie outbreak on a local military base. At the same time, the film is indebted to Israeli army comedies. In a similar vein, Freak Out pays tribute to American sci-fi and horror films, including Wes Craven’s A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) and Scream (1996), Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: Space Odyssey (1968), and John Carpenter’s The ­Thing (1982), as well as to the local bourekas cycle. The Damned uses a more somber tone to tell a ghost story, influenced by The Blair Witch Proj­ect (1999, Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sánchez) and Ringu (1998, Hideo Nakata) but speaking to the local issue of suppressed Palestinian trauma. ­Whether comedic or serious, t­ hese films depict the Israeli army as a self-­destructive perpetra­ ese tor, turning on itself in an endless reproduction of violent masculinity. Th themes echo in other films discussed in this book. Chapter 5 shows how JeruZalem reimagines found-­footage horror in the style of Cloverfield (2008, Matt Reeves) and [REC] (2007, Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plazaand) by setting its apocalyptic plot in the Old City of Jerusalem, the foundational site for Judaism and Israel. Chapter 6 focuses on ­Children of the Fall, a slasher set on a kibbutz on the eve of the 1973War. Whereas the strategy of subversion undermines both global genre and local sensibilities, and the strategy of conversion combines the local and the global, the aversion strategy disavows the local ele­ment completely. Films following this strategy are attempts at “universal” horror films: t­ hose that could be made

Introduction • 13

anywhere and therefore could presumably appeal to audiences everywhere. This is the case with Another World, a zombie scenario set in an undefined location, shot in ­English with an international cast. Chapter 7 shows that this is the most-­fraught strategy. When a film eschews the local environment, it often fails to arrive at the global genre; instead, it ends in a vacuum. Its attempt to talk to every­one makes it too generic to appeal to anyone. Conversely, when a film fueled by aversion works, the strategy itself is compromised, resulting in an ambivalent aversion that cannot escape Israeli context. Two films are noteworthy as cases of ambivalent aversion: Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club and The Golem. Ironically both are adaptations of iconic Jewish texts. Both feature a distinctly un-­Israeli look and unusual subjects. But thematically, they join other Israeli horror films by dramatizing vio­lence that turns inward. Monsters in Israeli films, be they zombies, serial killers, or demons, come from within the body of the Israeli Jewish nation and attack it from the inside. In that sense, despite their best efforts to walk away from the local, both films end up speaking to Israeli issues. As the horror genre adapts to Israel, it transforms the local cinema. In many ways, the Israeli cinema has been a cinema of social consensus.35 Even films critical of Israeli society fundamentally avoid rocking the boat. The discourse of “shooting and crying” allows Israeli films to elicit sympathy for soldiers by casting them as “victims of the same system that victimizes ­others” and equating them with ­actual victims.36 It ensures that in mainstream films Israel can at the same time be portrayed as “conquering hero and impotent victim.”37 New Israeli Horror films depart from this repre­sen­ta­tional pattern, transforming local cinema. In ­these films, Israelis are unquestionably aggressors; moreover, the very source of the horror is located within Israeli society and its core institutions: the army, the police, the collective, or Jewish tradition. Curiously, horror filmmakers did not set out to engage in ­political critique. All they wanted was “slashing and laughing”—to make their own adaptations of horror and to have fun with it. However, the horror genre turned out to have a power of its own. As young filmmakers ­were adapting horror tropes, the horror tropes adapted them and affected their work. Paradoxically, the seemingly apo­liti­cal agenda of “slashing and laughing” challenges the national consensus on Israel’s victimhood by acknowledging the country’s position of power. New Israeli Horror films also highlight the degree to which t­ hese par­tic­u­lar Israeli adaptations of the horror genre align with global cinema. T ­ hese films appeared in Israel around the same time that other national film industries with no horror traditions w ­ ere making inroads into the genre. The same ­factors—generational change, technological developments, and new media markets—­were at play. French, Turkish, ­Russian, ­Iranian, Egyptian, and other Arabic-­language horror films began to appear in greater numbers from the mid2000s on.38 For global markets hungry for endless permutations of the genre,

14 • New Israeli Horror

Israeli and other national horror films provided an exotic backdrop with local flavor. At the same time, t­ hese films’ engagement with global tropes ensured their accessibility to a global audience. In terms of the time of their appearance, their range of influence, and the filmmakers’ motivations, Israeli horror films fit squarely with global trends. Thus, looking closely at New Israeli Horror changes our understanding of Israeli cinema. Traditionally, Israeli film scholarship narrowly focused on the national cinema paradigm and was ­limited to the par­tic­u­lar Israeli conversations.39 Considering New Israeli Horror within the transnational context broadens this focus, showing how the genre adaptations have transformed both local films and the global genre.

1

The Precursors From The Angel Was a D ­ evil to Frozen Days

The Ed Woods of Israeli Cinema Rabies, the first Israeli production marketed explic­itly as a horror film, premiered in 2010. But the first forays into the genre date back at least forty years, to the 1970s, when three unusual films w ­ ere produced in Israel: The Angel Was a D ­ evil, An American Hippie in Israel, and Adam. All three ­were made by one-­off filmmakers outside the local filmmaking community. All three ­were envisioned as psychological thrillers, a rare genre in Israeli cinema even ­today. All three included visual and narrative ele­ments of horror. And each can claim the title of the “first Israeli horror film.” ­ evil (Ha-­malakh Haya Satan) was made by a self-­taught filmThe Angel Was a D maker Moshe Guez. The plot revolves around Edith (Ophelia Shtruhl, who would ­later star in Cannon Films’ Lemon Popsicle), a ­woman pursued by a mysterious man who is suspected of being a serial killer. As Edith tries to escape, another man (played by Moshe Guez) abducts and rapes her. In a final twist, Edith herself is revealed to be a serial killer, her m ­ ental illness triggered by the trauma of losing her child. Guez’s flawed filmmaking diminishes the effect of the gruesome vio­ lence: the story lacks narrative coherence, characters appear and dis­appear from the frame with no logic, and the dialogue is out of sync with lip movements.

15

16 • New Israeli Horror

Guez (b. 1941) is an unusual character in Israeli cinema. Born in Tunisia, he was obsessed with movies from childhood. ­After his ­family immigrated to Israel, he grew up in the abysmal conditions of a maabara—­i mmigrant transit camp—­without much chance to pursue his passion.1 This was a time when Mizrahim, Jews from North Africa and the Arab world, ­were disenfranchised in Israel. For someone with Guez’s background, joining the closed ranks of the Israeli film establishment was out of the question. To make The Angel Was a ­Devil, he had to be writer, director, cinematographer, editor, and the rest of the crew all at the same time, assisted only by his ­family and friends. Guez shot his film in 1971 but took five years to finish it. Released in 1976, The Angel failed with both critics and the audience.2 It played in theaters for only three days, crushing Guez’s hopes to continue making films.3 The film’s story, however, was not over. Almost twenty years a­ fter its release, film critic Meir Schnitzer designated The Angel “the worst Israeli film ever.”4 Following this designation, a journalist Lisa Peretz then o­ rganized a screening of Guez’s film, dubbing him “the Israeli Ed Wood.”5 Guez did not attend the event. He had been living in the United States for some time, ­running a successful small business. However, he never abandoned The Angel, editing and reediting it for many years.6 In 2016, a “director’s cut” was screened in Israel to a very dif­fer­ent response. Although critics still noted the film’s poor production values, they now saw it as a daring attempt at horror.7 Uri Klein, a film critic in Haaretz, urged that the film be recognized for its place in the history of Israeli ­independent production.8 Although it is debatable ­whether The Angel can be considered a horror film, it remains impor­tant for an understanding of genre filmmaking in Israel. Guez was clear about his goal of making a p­ opular, entertaining film, “an Israeli version of a Hitchcock thriller.”9 His disavowing the Israeli realistic tradition in ­favor of following an international genre master is a recognizable pattern with some New Israeli Horror films years ­later: Guez may have been the first Israeli filmmaker to choose what I call a strategy of conversion. An American Hippie in Israel (Ha-­trempist, 1972) offers strong competition to The Angel for the status of worst Israeli film.10 “Ed Wood does Zabriskie Point,” quipped a ­later commentator, invoking Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1970 film about youth counterculture in the United States.11 Indeed, the film does invoke Zabriskie Point both visually and thematically. The story follows Mike (Asher Tzarfati), an American Vietnam War veteran who travels to Israel. ­There he meets local hippies and decides to begin life afresh with them on a deserted island, away from the world’s corruption and vio­lence. Before they can leave, however, the film takes a turn t­ oward horror, when two top-­hat–­wearing mimes armed with assault weapons attack the group. Mike and his friends escape and arrive at an island. Its yellow dunes resemble the desert in Antonioni’s film. At first, the characters frolic naked in their new Eden, but soon their supplies run out, and murderous sharks lurk in the ­water. The utopia fails: the friends become violent and attack each other like animals. Across the bay, the mimes look on with satisfaction. The

The Precursors • 17

point is that it is society itself that turns p­ eople, even good-­willing ones, to vio­lence. An American Hippie in Israel is the only feature by Amos Sefer (1937–2007), an Israeli actor and director who was fresh out of film school in London when he wrote, directed, and raised funds for the film. Setting his sights on international distribution, he made the film predominantly in ­English, which was unpre­ ce­dented in 1970s Israel. The E ­ nglish dialogue, an American protagonist, and the un-­Israeli look of the film indicate that Sefer chose what I call a strategy of aversion. An American Hippie did not have a chance in 1972 Israel and, in fact, was not even released in theaters. The hope for international distribution d­ idn’t pan out ­either. For ­decades the film was not just forgotten but also entirely unknown. It is profoundly flawed, with unmotivated action, wooden dialogue, and random camera movements. Its vivid imagery and psychedelic aesthetics, however, give it the hallmarks of a cult film. Indeed, An American Hippie was rescued from obscurity in 2007, when a local cinephile found a 35 mm copy of the film and initiated midnight screenings in Tel Aviv.12 Soon ­after, a Hollywood-­based distribution com­pany specializing in exploitation films released it on Blu-­ray and DVD.13 An American Hippie became an international cult sensation, with Glenn Kenny of RogerEbert​.­com affirming, “It’s ‘a ­great movie if y­ ou’re high.’ ”14 A year ­after An American Hippie another unusual film was made in Israel: Adam by Yona Day. Compared to the unhinged r­ ide of The Angel or the trippy quality of An American Hippie, Adam looks subdued. Set in ultramodern interiors and stark landscapes, the film’s cold, abstract look was uncommon on Israeli screens at the time. The plot hinges on the toxic competition between a surgeon named Adam (Shmulik Kraus) and a psychiatrist, Avisar (Ilan Dar). Adam is on a mission to demonstrate to Avisar that h ­ uman nature is inherently violent. To prove his point, Adam terrorizes Avisar’s wife and tries to provoke Avisar to murder him out of revenge. Adam’s themes and settings echo A Clockwork Orange (1971, Stanley Kubrick), another film that thematizes toxic masculinity and vio­ lence. With its unsympathetic characters and distinctly un-­Israeli look, Adam, like The Angel and An American Hippie, was completely out of place among the Israeli films of the time. Like Guez and Sefer, Yona Day (b. 1939) was an outsider in Israeli cinema. The son of Persian Jews, he was a successful businessman with no background in film.15 His one tenuous connection to the industry was as an ­owner of Café Noga in Tel Aviv, a p­ opular showbiz hangout, where he hobnobbed with customers. Day wrote, produced, and directed his film using his own funds—­ reportedly one million Israeli pounds, a respectable ­budget for the time. He hired an excellent cinematographer (Emil Knebel) and a celebrity cast, including the Israeli rock and pop star Shmulik Kraus and the model Iris Davidesco. In a move unusual for Israeli film at the time, Day invested in production design, costumes, and locations. He strove to make his film both Israeli and universal; intellectual

18 • New Israeli Horror

and commercially successful.16 Planning for international distribution, he shot ­English and Hebrew versions si­mul­ta ­neously.17 ­These choices indicate the strategy I call aversion. Day’s ambitious plans did not pan out. He took his film to the Cannes Film Festival market, where it attracted l­ ittle interest. Adam also fizzled in Israel, where it was released in 1974. The review in the daily Davar sums up its reception: although it praises Day as a “fascinating phenomenon of Israeli cinema,” it calls Adam “a superficial and ridicu­lous movie, a strange film that is beyond the pale of good and bad.” Most importantly, the reviewer recommends that Day “forget about abstract dreams and concentrate on real­ity.”18 This advice reflects expectations for Israeli films to be thematic, topical, and realistic. Th ­ ese expectations would in many ways carry over into the reception of New Israeli Horror in the 2010s, despite the changed cultural and ­political context. Although Adam has not developed a cult following, a 2008 DVD release did lead to renewed interest in it and a revisionist reading. Shmulik Duvdevani of Yediot Aharonot suggested that Adam is among the earliest Israeli films to explore societal vio­lence in the post-1967 era.19 Nirit Anderman, a film critic with Haaretz, went further, considering Adam the first horror film ever made in Israel. “At the core of the horror,” she argued, “is a psychopath who undermines the life of an Israeli f­ amily.” It is significant that “Day directed a horror movie—­ precisely in the period between the Six-­Day War and the Yom Kippur War—­ about the raucous vio­lence beneath carefully crafted bourgeois appearance.”20 Unlike in the 1970s, ­these critics read the film po­liti­cally, highlighting its theme of societal vio­lence—­the same theme that would define ­later Israeli horror films. I begin with t­ hese three “Israeli Ed Woods” to illustrate that, four d­ ecades before the New Israeli Horror, t­ hese early pre­ce­dents set patterns for genre film production and reception in Israel. All three stray from the norms of Israeli cinema, veering from the tradition of realistic, topical films. All three thematize vio­lence outside the common Israeli context of war or national strug­gle. The vio­ lence in t­hese films is between fellow citizens, often unmotivated or unprovoked. The horror cycle of the 2010s would echo ­these characteristics.

Night Soldier: The First Israeli Slasher? The next Israeli horror precursor, Night Soldier (Hayal Ha-­laila, Dan Wolman), arrived on screens in 1984 during a very dif­fer­ent historical and cultural moment. Socially conscious horror had been introduced by George A. Romero in his groundbreaking films, Night of the Living Dead (1968) and Dawn of the Dead (1978), which satirized an American society plagued by capitalism and militarism. The period of the 1970s to early 1980s also saw the global popularity of slasher films, especially the Halloween, Friday the 13th, and Nightmare on Elm Street franchises. ­These films reflected the changing cultural politics of the 1970s, including challenges to traditional masculinity and the power of the patriarchy.

The Precursors • 19

During the same era, watershed events took place in Israel: in the mid-1970s, the country was still reeling from the failures of the 1973 War, which eroded public trust in government and the military. The next Israeli war, the 1982 Lebanon campaign, which was fought without governmental and social consensus, further depleted trust in the military and undermined the image of the IDF as a moral and humane army. It is fitting then that Night Soldier sets its narrative in a military context. In that, the film thematically constitutes a precursor to the New Israeli Horror. The protagonist Zeev (Zeev Shimshoni) is a modest salesclerk by day and a serial killer by night. His victims are Israeli soldiers. To kill them, he dons a military uniform. Wolman (b. 1941) told me that the film grew out of his concern with what he saw as an increase in vio­lence and militarism in Israeli society.21 By the time he started working on Night Soldier, he had already established his name with the influential dramas My Michael (Mikhael sheli, 1974) and Hide and Seek (Makhboim, 1980) and was a sought-­after director for commercial proj­ects. He understood, however, that a film about murdering soldiers would not be an easy fit for Israeli public funding and that he would have to work in­de­pen­dently. Wolman started shooting in 1981, with only a brief treatment and no b­ udget. He worked with a small crew, developing the script as he moved along. They shot for a few days at a time and then moved to a dif­fer­ent location, a challenge that Wolman used to develop the film’s main character: “We ­couldn’t go back to the apartment where we shot an initial scene. But I figured out that if Zeev was ascetic, he’d have no furniture, just a mattress on the floor, so we could film anywhere, in any room.”22 The production p­ rocess stretched over four years. Wolman finished shooting in 1984 but had no funds for post-­production. He tried applying to the Israel Film Fund, but was told, “No chance”—­Night Soldier was too brutal for the establishment.23 Instead, Wolman took his film to Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus of Cannon Films. Wolman knew Golan and Globus from directing Baby Love (Roman Zair, 1983, part of the hit Lemon Popsicle franchise) and Nana (1983, Italy), which they produced. Golan and Globus came on board. In the end, Night Soldier was made for some $50,000 (about $20,000 came from a German distributor Wagner-­Hallig Film and about $30,000 from Cannon).24 From t­ oday’s perspective, Night Soldier does not seem like a thriller, let alone a horror film. At the time, Wolman was a representative director of the Israeli personal films of 1970s and 1980s.25 His signature style with its intimate lyrical tone, slow pace, and minor key score, was a better fit for a psychological drama. But his subjective camera work, dramatic lighting, and foreboding atmosphere led Oshra Schwartz, an Israeli film writer and critic (and, at times, Wolman’s collaborator) to see the influence of German expressionism and early American horror.26 Writing ­decades ­later, Ido Rosen saw Night Soldier as one of the first Israeli horror films and found in it the influences of American slashers.27 Wolman himself never addressed his influences directly, but he was clear about his intention to make a genre film.28 He even pointed out that thriller and horror

20 • New Israeli Horror

tropes let him “play Hollywood.”29 But that was not his main agenda, as it would be for the horror filmmakers of the 2010s. Nor was he trying to consciously adapt the genre to Israeli real­ity. A versatile filmmaker, he just reached out to the most appropriate cinematic tools for the proj­ect. In fact, during his long ­career, he never made another horror film. Night Soldier weaves together two subplots—­the story of Zeev’s killings and his romance with an unsuspecting waitress Iris (Iris Kanner)—­told through fragmented episodic narrative and flashbacks. The film’s first scene already evinces its influences and narrative approach: a group of Israeli soldiers sit around a campfire at night. When one gets up to urinate, he is stabbed. The situation is reminiscent of Friday the 13th, only the victims are Israeli soldiers instead of randy camp counselors.30 However, unlike slasher or serial killer films that start with the victims’ point of view, Night Soldier maintains its focus on the killer. In fact, his identity is revealed in the next scene, when the camera cuts from the soldier’s bloody body to a busy café where a t­ elevision news broadcast reports the murder. The camera then cuts from the TV screen to Zeev in a manner that implicates him. In this way, in contrast to a slasher narrative, we know the k­ iller’s identity almost from the start. L ­ ater scenes that confirm Zeev’s identity as the killer are also shot from his point of view, letting us identify with him. Yet, we know nothing about his victims, most of whom are anonymous soldiers. Zeev’s character relies on the trope of split personality. By day, he has a humdrum job as a sales clerk and spends time with his girlfriend. At night, he gears up for action and goes into the dark to kill (figure 1.1). Zeev’s transformation into the night soldier starts when he buys a military uniform. He looks at the store win­dow just as does Hans Beckert (played by Peter Lorre), the serial killer in M (Fritz Lang, 1931). Only instead of toys, military goods are on display: they are big boys’ toys. The film’s references to M—­a film that prefigured the rise of Nazism—­can be read as warnings of the rise of Israeli fascism, emerging from the country’s obsession with militarism. Zeev’s obsession is shown through close-up fetishizing shots of his weapons, uniform, boots, and dog tag, as he carefully puts them on. He draws Iris into his private rituals, telling her that he is on a secret mission for the army, which requires him to dis­appear into the night. L ­ ater, he even “recruits” her, asking her to abide by his secrecy protocols. In her naivete, she becomes his enabler, as she lovingly irons his fatigues. But Iris is more than a devoted ­woman preparing her man for b­ attle; she channels Zeev’s fetishistic fantasies, as in a scene when she wears his uniform over her naked body. She puts on his dog tag, loads the gun, and strokes it sensually. But Zeev is not turned on—­the army is his fetish, not to be shared. He rips the dog tag off Iris and hits her. The scene plays out at night; dramatic shadows emphasize the dark side of their relationship. The dog tag emerges as a symbolic object, an army talisman that has the miraculous power to transform a mere civilian into a soldier. We see that Zeev was

The Precursors • 21

FIGURE 1.1  ​Z eev pursuing his victims at night. (Photo­g raph by Nicole de Castro, courtesy of Dan Wolman.)

introduced to its magic as a child. In a flashback, Zeev’s ­father, an officer, bestows his dog tag on a happy boy. The gesture promises initiation into the army, which according to the thematic logic of the film, is the only path to manhood. However, the very institution that is Zeev’s raison d’être rejects him. A health prob­lem bars him from serving in a combat unit, the expression of militarized masculinity he craves. This is his primal trauma. Flashbacks show memories flooding his mind: rows of sunlit bare male bodies in line at a recruitment clinic and Zeev, the only one in a shirt, led in the opposite direction. A doctor confirms, “You are not like every­one ­else.” Unable to take part in the national military, Zeev forms an army of one: his ­enemy is the IDF itself. His killings are a form of revenge and adulation—­revenge for rejecting him and adulation of ­others’ manliness and power. By killing them, he might become like them. Although he kills soldiers indiscriminately, he reserves his strongest anger for the doctors who crushed his dream. He kills one doctor with a rock and then stabs another. A shaky hand-­held camera intercuts between close-­ups of slashing and a doctor cowering u­ nder Zeev’s knife. Set in a deserted medical office at night, this scene is the most horror-­like in the film. Themes of victimhood and vio­lence persist throughout, expressed through intermedial moments, such as when the camera repeatedly shows Zeev watching violent movies on t­ elevision or in a movie theater.31 When he watches an

22 • New Israeli Horror

action film, he places himself in it, fighting like an action hero. He is unable to separate real­ity from fiction, as is evident from his insistence to Iris, “I’m in the army, I’m like every­one. . . . ​I’m a soldier!” Ultimately, the night soldier comes into the daylight. In the final scenes, Zeev goes on a rampage on an army base, shooting soldiers, exactly like he does in his action film fantasies. The camera shows him at a low ­angle, like a hero, which is how he sees himself. When fi­nally captured, Zeev breaks ­free to dive headfirst into a TV screen on which a violent movie is playing. He dies with his head inside the ­television set, engulfed in flames. In another film, this ending could have been a critique of the role of media in society. But in the local context, it is a verdict on the militaristic brainwashing and army worship that leave b­ ehind nothing but a pile of dead soldiers. Significantly, t­ hese dead are not victims of the nation’s enemies. As in l­ ater Israeli horror films, the traditional foes of Israeli cinema—­ Palestinian terrorists or Arab militants—­are conspicuously absent. Instead, the source of vio­lence is the Israeli social body—­more specifically, the army or society that puts its highest value in the military. As we ­will see, the New Israeli Horror films of the 2010s w ­ ill pick up and develop this idea, using the IDF as their most common setting.

Reception By ­today’s standards, Night Soldier, with its slow pace and lack of suspense, does not seem like a thriller or a horror film. But when it premiered at the Jerusalem Film Festival in June 1984 and went into theatrical release soon ­after, the response was dif­fer­ent. The critics, most of whom lavished praise on the film, read Night Soldier as a thriller or a “story very close to horror films.”32 Even reviewers who criticized Night Soldier still discussed it within the ­parameters of genre. Rachel Gordon of Haaretz praised the film’s atmosphere but argued that the film does not work as a thriller, b­ ecause the identity of the killer is known almost from the start.33 Meir Schnitzer of Kol Ha-­ir noted that “the atmosphere of obscure horror” does not work, whereas the murder scenes only testify to “the director’s inability with horror.”34 A reviewer in Variety similarly argued that the film starts out as a thriller but does not deliver: “The real trou­ble is that the viewer is better informed than the characters on screen.”35 The disagreement is w ­ hether it is a good thriller or horror, not ­whether it can be qualified as such. But reviewers ­were taken by the film’s critical impetus. Gidi Orshar of Haaretz pointed out that Night Soldier reflects Israelis as “­bitter, conformist, aggressive, and militant ­people, whose frustration can burst out any minute.”36 Yoram Porat of the daily Hadashot read the film as a social critique of “conformist and violent Israeli society” with its idealization of the army. The film, he wrote, exposes the sources of “Israeli Fascism.”37 Irit Shamgar of Maariv claimed that Zeev’s private disfunction represents “collective madness,” a disease of the society “that embraces and destroys its most loyal sons.”38 Oshra Schwartz, cited e­ arlier, read the film as an expression of nihilism and paranoia at a time when “the romantic

The Precursors • 23

Israeli dream has come apart” and “the Lebanon war has no end.” She concluded, “The parable in the film seems to come true e­ very day.”39 ­ ere not ready for Night Soldier. Fewer than Unlike critics, Israeli audiences w nine thousand saw it in theaters, and ­later it all but dis­appeared from public view.40 Rarely broadcast on Israeli ­television, the film never came out on DVD, making it accessible only to specialists prepared to watch it at archives. And yet, Night Soldier did not dis­appear without a trace—it became a touchstone for the New Israeli Horror filmmakers, several of whom ­later referenced it.

Frozen Days: The Israeli Tenant No horror precursors came out of Israel in the 1990s. However, three films—­ The Appointed (Ha-­miu’ad, 1990, Daniel Wachsmann), Snow in August (Sheleg Be-­august, 1993, Hagai Levy), and The Dybbuk of the Holy Apple Field (Ahava asurah, 1997, Yossi Somer)—­drew on the visual language of horror. All three are dark dramas incorporating magical realism. All three represent Orthodox Judaism, a subject that Israeli cinema was discovering at the time (­until then, religion was only a fodder for comedy). The Appointed features two star-­crossed lovers, a miracle-­working rabbi and a ­woman who can start fires with her mind. Snow in August is also about separated lovers, a secular man and an Orthodox w ­ oman. It opens with a disturbing dream sequence that evokes nightmare scenarios typical of horror. The Dybbuk of the Holy Apple Field is the only of the three films that is based on an ­actual horror trope. In Jewish folklore, a dybbuk is the spirit of a dead who possesses a living person. This figure was pop­u ­lar­ized by the 1914 play “The Dybbuk, or ­ ussian Jewish writer S. An-­ski. The play, about the between Two Worlds” by R possession of a young ­woman by the spirit of her dead beloved, became a canonical work of both the Hebrew and Yiddish stage, performed around the world and adapted for screen.41 The Dybbuk of the Holy Apple Field reimagines the play as taking place in an ultra-­Orthodox neighborhood of con­temporary Jerusalem. None of t­ hese three films w ­ ere understood in Israel as horror, nor w ­ ere they mentioned to me by the filmmakers as source of inspiration. But their use of horror ele­ments is still noteworthy. ­Because horror deals with what is repressed or disturbing, perhaps it is not by chance that ­these films reached out for horror to portray the underbelly of religious Orthodoxy in Israel, an uncomfortable subject for the secular filmmakers and audiences. The true harbinger of New Israeli Horror was Frozen Days (Yamim kfuim) made by Danny Lerner in 2005. Much had changed by then. Israeli cinema was undergoing tectonic shifts following passage of the 2000 New Cinema Law. The industry had grown, diversified, and opened up to global markets. The seeds of ­ ere being planted by the Hamorotheque Club and the Utopia festival. horror w But as horror was moving to the screen, it was becoming even more evident in real life. The early 2000s was the time of the Second Intifada (aka the Al-­Aqsa

24 • New Israeli Horror

Intifada), which claimed the lives of more than three thousand Palestinians and over one thousand Israelis.42 Although the Palestinian death toll from Israeli military actions was much higher, the threat of suicide bombings terrified the Israeli public, leaving a deep scar on the Israeli psyche. Instead of trying to fulfill the promises of the Peace ­Process, Israeli politics drifted ­toward right-­wing neoliberalism, leaving the young generation with uncertainty not only about their security but also about their identity. It is in this cultural climate that Frozen Days appears. A dark psychological thriller with ele­ments of horror, the film is set in threatening urban spaces: back alleys, empty stairwells, and vacant apartments. A subjective camera follows a mysterious young ­woman named Meow (Anat Klausner) through ­these claustrophobic spaces; the film is shot in black and white in the style of film noir. The high-­contrast lighting, oblique a­ ngles, and disjunctive editing make every­thing look like a nightmare. Indeed, Meow’s life turns into one, a­ fter she is caught in a terrorist bombing outside a nightclub and loses touch with real­ity. She undergoes a transformation into “Alex,” adopting the identity of a man wounded in the same attack with whom she previously had a romantic encounter. Although the narrative is fragmented, by the end, we suspect that the entire postbombing sequence unfolds in Meow’s mind as she lays in a hospital d­ ying or already dead. Although Lerner’s film was not marketed as horror, it constitutes a bridge from early horror attempts to New Israeli Horror. Like the 2010s filmmakers, Lerner was a fan of genre films, both as an audience member and a filmmaker. “If you let me choose between a good ­family drama or a horror movie, I’ll run to the horror movie,” he says. As a filmmaker, he adds, “I wanted to make suspense, comedies, horror, I wanted to be entertaining.”43 Second, Lerner wanted to adapt genre to an Israeli context. As he said to me, “It’s not enough to make a genre movie; you have to plant it in the local Israeli real­ity.”44 In the film’s press-­release, Lerner was even more specific: “I wanted to make a dif­fer­ent kind of Israeli film . . . ​a film that would link Israeli cinema with genres that it ­hasn’t yet explored, a film that would talk about Israelis and Israeli prob­lems, but at the same time would be and look international.”45 Fi­nally, he was motivated to rebel against Israeli cinema culture and its system of funding, with its preference for realistic modes. As he said to me, “In the public funds, t­ here is still old-­school thinking, they ­don’t want genre films. ­There is no route t­ oday to fund genre movies in Israel. This needs to change.”46 Lerner’s love of horror and desire to “be entertaining,” his motivation to create a local genre adaptation, and a discontent with the current system all align with the New Israeli Horror filmmakers, who expressed ­these ideas again and again. But in the early 2000s, Lerner voiced them first. Danny Lerner (b. 1973) grew up in Bat Yam in a ­family of ardent cinephiles. They had ­Russian Jewish roots but spoke ­English at home—­Lerner’s f­ ather was an ­English teacher.47 “­English,” he recalled, “helped me with watching foreign movies.”48 And watch he did: genre movies ­were two for the price of one at the

The Precursors • 25

local theater, and he went ­every week. But the real ground-­breaking moment was the introduction of VHS in the late 1970s. Together with his b­ rother Alon, Lerner devoured films he took out from video libraries: “We watched every­thing, from Errol Flynn movies and Tarzan to Orson Welles and Godard.”49 The f­ amily also had a camera, and when Lerner came home on the weekends during his army ­service, he would gather his friends and shoot movies for which Alon drew the story­boards. By the time Lerner enrolled in the Tel Aviv University Film School, he had made dozens of shorts, mainly horror comedies. He continued making short genre films throughout his studies. By 2003, when he was an MA student, he was ready to make a feature film. The prob­lem was securing funding. Frozen Days was not his first screenplay—he had faced several rejections from the Israeli film funds. This time, he de­cided to make the film in­de­pen­dently, as New Israeli Horror filmmakers would do so ­later. Frozen Days was made for $25,000—­“the cost of catering for a normal movie,” Lerner quipped.50 Half came from a development grant he received from the Israel Film Fund, $1,000 from the Film School, and the rest was his own money.51 The development grant was intended to support further work on the screenplay, but Lerner used it to fund the production. He assembled a team of aspiring filmmakers and actors, all first-­timers ­eager to start their c­ areers: cinematographer Ram Shweky, editor Tal Keller, composer Tomer Ran, and the lead actor Anat Klausner. Alon, as usual, drew the story­boards and helped with ­every other aspect of production. No one got paid (just fed). That meant that they all had to keep their day jobs. Lerner had two: as a film critic for the youth publication Maariv Le-­Noar and as a content editor for the cable channel HOT-­Prime. To accommodate every­one’s busy schedule, the crew shot at night. They filmed guerilla style, with improvised lighting and without location permits. In the absence of a dolly, Shweky put his camera on a skateboard or on his shoulder; Lerner called him “a h ­ uman dolly.” With ­these limitations, the shooting period of twenty-­seven days had to be spread out over four months, from April to August 2004.52 Guerilla-­style i­ ndependent productions are more common ­today—in fact, most of the films I discuss ­here are made this way. But back in 2004, how Frozen Days was filmed was groundbreaking. In the twenty years since Night Soldier, only seven movies have been produced in­de­pen­dently in Israel.53 In some ways, Lerner was very calculated: he chose to make a psychological thriller not only ­because of his love for the genre but also ­because it made sense for the action to take place at night—­the only available time to shoot an ­independent movie. He de­cided to shoot with DV-­cam, then an innovative technology for feature film, ­because he could not afford to shoot on film stock. But in other ways, serendipity interfered: the decision to shoot in black-­and-­white was the result of an accident. A camera malfunctioned during preproduction ­trials, and when Lerner saw the black-­and-­white footage, he recognized the noir look of his favorite movies from the 1940s and 1950s.

26 • New Israeli Horror

In early 2005, Lerner screened the rough cut at Hamorotheque. He wanted feedback from his friends and teachers, the genre fans. He based the final edits on their advice and submitted the film to the Israeli film festivals. It ­wasn’t easy to enter the competitions: digital video was looked down on at the time, and film festival rules in Israel required that films be shot on film stock. The International Film Festival in Jerusalem refused to even consider Frozen Days the International Film Festival in Haifa was more lenient, but it had to change its rules to accommodate the film. In October 2005, Frozen Days premiered in Haifa. The audience was stunned: no one had ever seen—or heard—­anything like that in an Israeli movie.

Tel Aviv Noir What distinguished Frozen Days from the other Israeli films at the time and what made it a crucial precursor of New Israeli Horror ­were its cinematic references. Frozen Days drew on a range of international films but primarily thrillers and horror movies, which then ­were suspect genres in the cultural economy of Israeli cinema. Lerner paid tribute to Roman Polanski, Alfred Hitchcock, Brian De Palma, and Sam Raimi—­his favorite filmmakers. He also alluded to e­ arlier cult horror movies like Carnival of Souls (1962, Herk Harvey, US), Hollywood mind-­ game films like Vanilla Sky (2001, Cameron Crowe, US/Spain), and to psychological indie thrillers Pi (1998, Darren Aronofsky, US) and Following (1998, Christopher Nolan, UK). By freely mixing and matching his tributes, Lerner created more than a clever pastiche; landing the genre tropes in the ­middle of Tel Aviv, he conjured an electrifying new world, both alienating and familiar, what I call “Tel Aviv noir.” The film nods to ­earlier genre films even before the action starts: the credits roll on a revolving spiral background set to a foreboding piano score. The first shot of the film sustains a close-up on an eye, recalling the iconic opening of Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958), echoed l­ ater in Polanski’s Repulsion (1965, UK). Like in Repulsion, this close-up pulls us into the mind’s eye of Meow to signal that the narrative ­will reflect her point of view. She is in ­every scene and nearly in ­every shot, with the camera positioned seemingly over her shoulder. She sees the world in threatening close-­ups, prompting her to shield in defense. The intense atmosphere of Frozen Days is also reminiscent of Pi, with its alienating urban spaces, claustrophobic interiors, extreme close-­ups, and stark black-­ and-­white palette. Pi follows a loner mathematician, Max (Sean Gullette), as he tries to crack the mysteries of numbers and find a solution to his hallucination-­ inducing migraines. Max is unable to distinguish between nightmares and real­ ity. His single-­minded obsessiveness is expressed by compulsive repetitions of the same lines of dialogue and repeating visual motifs. Oblique a­ ngles, distorted fishbowl effects, and abrupt editing convey his paranoia, reinforced through the soundtrack that combines the incessant ringing of a telephone, jarring sounds, and techno ­music.

The Precursors • 27

Meow occupies the same hostile world. She is profoundly alone, without f­ amily, friends, or home. To sleep, she breaks into empty apartments and dis­ appears into the darkness when realtors come. W ­ hatever connections Meow has to ­others are mediated through her cell phone, intercom, and online chat rooms. ­These intermedial moments, when the film taps into some of the functions and effects of other media, create a feeling of immersion in Meow’s world and identification with her.54 When she talks on the phone in a tight frame, we hear what she hears. When she messages in a chat room, the text appears directly on screen, an e­ conomical (and innovative in 2005) way to keep her in our focus, watching for her ­every reaction. Meow’s mediated communication both creates her tenuous connections to ­others and emphasizes her essential separateness from them. Even when she talks to someone, she is alone in the frame. In scenes with the intercom, she is literally talking to a wall. In the anonymity of a chat room, she strikes up a conversation with “008,” a man whose name turns out to be Alex Kaplan. The name nods back not only to James Bond but also to Hitchcock’s North by Northwest (1959), a tale of mistaken identity in which “George Kaplan” is the name of a non-­existent agent for whom Cary Grant’s character is first mistaken; he l­ ater agrees to pose as George Kaplan. ­ hether Alex Kaplan actually exists. This is a hint inviting us to question w Even when Meow meets Alex (Pini Tavger) in his apartment, the lights are off, and we do not have a chance to fully see him: the camera keeps his face in deep shadow. When Meow agrees to meet him again at a night club where she deals drugs, a bomb explodes before they can connect. The explosion marks a pivotal point in the film, splitting every­thing into before and ­after. ­A fter the traumatic explosion, Meow’s already tense relationship with the world is further shaken, and her oppressive isolation turns into paranoia. Like the protagonists in Repulsion and Pi, she is tortured by invasive visions that make it difficult to differentiate real­ity from fantasy. Meow has had a vision already before the explosion, a nightmare featuring a figure wrapped in ­bandages—­flashforward to the way she ­will see Alex Kaplan when she finds him in the hospital. By contrast, post-­explosion, she sees herself in a hospital bed, the ­bandages wrapping around her like the killer vines around Cheryl in Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead (1981). The vision conflates Meow and Alex and goes to the heart of the film: Frozen Days evokes the instability of identity in the face of trauma, unsettling psychological and social distinctions between interiority and exteriority or between self and other. Indeed, Alex’s identity is never fully confirmed. He lies in a coma, with both his body and his face fully ban­daged (figure 1.2), like in an episode of The Twilight Zone (“The Eye of the Beholder,” 1960, CBS). As Meow starts visiting “Alex” in the hospital, she moves into his empty apartment, puts on his clothes, takes over his job as a security guard, and assumes his identity. Like in Polanski’s The Tenant (Le Locataire, 1976, France/USA), Meow’s transformation is a nightmare experience out of her control. Like Trelkovsky (played by Polanski himself) who

28 • New Israeli Horror

FIGURE 1.2  ​Meow visiting Alex at the hospital. A screenshot from Frozen Days.

is forced to take on the identity of Simone Choule, the previous tenant of his apartment, Meow becomes increasingly disturbed. She argues with neighbors, coworkers, and even police who start referring to her as Alex—­echoing not only the situation in The Tenant but also the dialogue in North by Northwest (when Cary Grant’s character asks ­others how they know that he is Kaplan). Like in The Tenant, the bound­aries between real­ity and nightmares are blurred, making us question the entire story: Is this a looped real­ity or a psychotic delusion? In The Tenant, Trelkovsky attempts suicide (like Simone e­ arlier) and then finds himself in a hospital bed wrapped in b­ andages looking at a previous version of himself. Similarly, in Frozen Days, the plot circles back on itself. Meow attempts to meet a w ­ oman who keeps calling Alex’s phone. The meeting leads Meow back to the scene of the trauma—­the nightclub on the night of the bombing. However, now she arrives t­ here as “Alex” only to see herself—in her incarnation as Meow—­about to be injured in an explosion. Clearly, the voice on the phone was her own: she has been talking to herself all along. In the film’s final scene, the dressings come off the ban­daged figure to reveal Meow’s burned face. In the last shot, Meow/Alex does not move or speak: she is fi­nally still ­after the agony of searching for herself, at peace and likely dead. This narrative arc is influenced by films where most of the action takes place ­after the character’s death—­like in Carnival of Souls where the lead character Mary dies in a crash but continues to live on as a ghost without ever understanding her own death.

The Chronic Trauma As in Carnival of Souls or Repulsion, trauma precipitates Meow’s unraveling. But significantly and in contrast to ­those films, Meow’s trauma is not only personal

The Precursors • 29

but also national. The suicide bombings during the Second Intifada terrified the Israeli public. No public place—­buses, markets, cafes—­felt safe; a bomb seemingly could go off anywhere, any time. The shell-­shocked atmosphere during this time scarred the Israeli psyche and further exacerbated fear and hatred of Palestinians. Lerner himself recalls witnessing an attack at the Dolphinarium nightclub in Tel Aviv in 2001, a bombing that killed twenty-­one ­people, most of them teenage girls. He kept thinking about the attack, and a year and a half ­later, when he started writing the script, he felt compelled to include the bombing as a quin­tes­sen­tial “Israeli experience.” “This is our fear,” he said in an interview.55 Lerner ­here identifies a par­tic­u­lar Israeli anxiety—­suicide bombing—to endow his film with national and cultural specificity. Another expression of this specificity is the constant appearance of security guards throughout the film. At first, Meow guesses that Alex Kaplan works as a security guard at a mall. In a ­silent scene modeled on the museum chase in Dressed to Kill (1980, Brian De Palma, US), she flirts with one of the guards t­ here, mistaking him for Alex. Then, as she adopts Alex’s identity, she transforms into a security guard herself. Security guards are a quotidian presence in Israel, conducting security checks at the entrance to e­ very public or commercial place. Security guards are part of the vast network of private policing, which during the Second Intifada became the fastest-­growing segment of Israel’s economy. Rela Mazali estimates that in 2004—­when Frozen Days was in production—­there ­were between 46,500 and 100,000 security guards in Israel, one of the highest concentrations of security guards in the world.56 Although often untrained and unskilled, security guards are at least nominally part of the national security system, which encompasses the police, the military, and vari­ous private and public agencies. As Boaz Hagin notes, a security guard is a liminal figure—­neither an uninvolved private citizen nor a full-­blown security agent involved in counterterrorist operations57: he or she blurs the bound­aries between civic and militarized spaces in Israel.58 The security guard serves as a naturalized “unseen” extension of the national security system and thus a diffused reminder of the impending danger of terrorism. Meow then becomes an embodiment of this par­tic­u­lar Israeli fear and obsession with national security, bringing the global genre in touch with Israeli specifics. The fragmented nonlinear narrative of Frozen Days ­after the explosion mirrors the effects of a psychological trauma, even as it grounds the film in the local real­ity. Like Meow’s mind, the plot circles in obsessive repetitions. Boaz Hagin suggests that she replays in her mind the events she lived through before the explosion.59 Some of the repetitions can be seen as Meow’s chance at a do-­over: in her pre-­explosion real­ity, her moped is stolen; in the post-­explosion replay, police find it and try to return it to her. Before the explosion, a sleazy client cheats her; ­after it, she forces him to pay up.60 However, once the narrative loops full circle, Meow comes to face her own injury, which she cannot undo. The film, then, has a structure of mise-­en-­abyme, looped endlessly around itself: when

30 • New Israeli Horror

Meow is injured in a terror attack, she starts replaying events in her mind, envisioning herself taking the identity of Alex, who then witnesses Meow injured in the explosion, and so on, like the spiral in the opening credits. The narrative structure of Frozen Days, as Lerner himself acknowledges,61 draws on the conventions of so-­called mind-­game films, a subgenre of thrillers that proliferated in the late 1990s to the early 2000s. According to Thomas Elsasser such films “ ‘play games’ with the audience’s (and the characters’) perception of real­ity” by withholding or obfuscating crucial information, such as a character being dead but not yet knowing it.62 Mind-­game films are characterized by the use of unreliable narrators, multiple timelines, unmarked flashbacks or dreams, causal reversals, and narrative loops as ways to convey the character’s pathological ­mental state, be it amnesia, ­schizophrenia, or paranoia.63 The mind-­ game films’ complex narratives, writes Elsasser, “enact the very condition their hero suffers from, in the structure of the film itself.”64 In the case of Frozen Days, the film’s mind-­game narrative conveys a par­tic­u­lar Israeli condition: the traumatic experience of a terror victim.65 In that sense, repre­sen­ta­tion of the terrorism in Frozen Days accords with other Israeli films of the time, which as film scholar Dorit Naaman observes, avoided the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict and looked inward.66 Intifada films, like Stones (Avanim, Raphael Nadjari, 2004), Distortion (Haim Bouzaglo, 2005), and Seven Minutes in Heaven (Sheva Dakot be-­gan Eden, Omri Givon, 2008) focus entirely on private Israeli trauma.67 ­These films do not engage with the ­political or historical context, and even if a bombing plays a pivotal role, it appears deus ex machina, without backstory or explanation: it is a blind destructive force undoing the life of the central characters, like a natu­ral catastrophe. The Palestinian Other, as a rule, is absent.68 Even in The ­Bubble, the only Intifada film that includes a Palestinian story, the Palestinian character appears “as a prop in the Israeli cultural psyche rather than as an equal social (and narrative) agent.”69 The “aesthetic of disengagement”70 in ­these films is far from innocent. By prioritizing and privatizing the Israeli trauma, ­these films structure the Israelis as innocent victims, thereby avoiding taking any responsibility for the actions that lead to the Palestinians’ violent protest. Terrorism is externalized as an invisible force com­ ill see, the New Israeli Horror films ing from outside Israeli society. As we w would depart from this depiction: Palestinians would remain largely absent while aggression would come from inside Israeli society, targeting its members. In that sense, Frozen Days is a precursor of the 2010s wave but not yet part of it.

Reception ­A fter barely getting into the 2005 Haifa Film Festival, Frozen Days won the award for Best Israeli Film. The judges praised it as “a daring and original film, a distinctly Israeli film, which penetrates deep ­under the surface of real­ity, and deals with the psychological consequences of the constant trauma of living ­here.”71 The prize was 110,000 NIS—­exactly the ­budget of the film—­which

The Precursors • 31

Lerner divided with his cast and crew. Overnight, he went from an unknown film student to the hottest ticket at the festival, bathed in media attention and critics’ accolades.72 One interviewer called his a “Cinderella story.”73 From Haifa, Frozen Days went on to screen at festivals all over the world, including the Cinema Novo Festival in Belgium (where it won the Best Picture Award), the Phoenix Film Festival (where Lerner won Best Director), the AFI Festival in Los Angeles, and in festivals in Sydney, Warsaw, Shanghai, Sao Paulo, and Munich. Critics ­were wowed by Klausner’s magnetic ­performance and praised the film’s lighting, camera, and original score.74 In Israel, Frozen Days was nominated for two Ophir Awards (the Israeli Oscars)—­Best Actress (Anat Klausner) and Best Cinematography (Ram Shweky)—­and won the Israeli Critics’ Chamber Award for Best Actress. ­A fter the Haifa festival triumph, the Israel Film Fund invested additional money in the film, underwriting its transfer to 35 mm, an operation that cost $50,000—­twice the film’s original ­budget.75 That transfer made pos­si­ble a theatrical release in Israel. Although it was only a modest success at the box office, selling fifteen thousand tickets,76 Frozen Days earned phenomenal critical acclaim. Uri Klein of Haaretz called it the most in­ter­est­ing film of the year.77 Shmulik Duvdevani of Yediot Aharonot wrote, “It is a film from a young, ­independent creator, and it feels like it—­that is, daring, challenging, unique, but not indulgent.”78 Even Meir Schnitzer of Maariv—­a critic, who, as we see in subsequent chapters, was not a fan of genre films—­called Frozen Days “a sophisticated and impressive production that spins between characters, identities, and genders, with nods to Hollywood.”79 Other critics acknowledged the rich world of Lerner’s cinematic references that spanned film noir, thriller, and horror.80 To Hannah Brown, Frozen Days felt “like an Israeli episode of The Twilight Zone, which is a compliment, not a criticism.”81 But what most stood out to critics, was how this film, grounded in genre traditions, succeeds in expressing Israeli real­ity.82 Yair Raveh of the entertainment weekly Pnai Plus put it the best: “Lerner shows not only that it is pos­si­ble to make a genre movie that questions real­ity in Israel, but it can even be anchored within the local experience. This is the film’s greatest genius: it deals with local themes—­terrorist attacks, clubbing, Breslov Hassidim, mall security guards, tenant committees—­a nd manages to weave them into a thriller plot, which leaves viewers on the edge of the seat.”83 The critical reception of Frozen Days testifies that an Israeli film could successfully land genre conventions in the midst of a local setting, choosing effectively what I call, the strategy of conversion. Following its Israeli success, Frozen Days was theatrically released in France to a warm reception84 and was sold for distribution in Rus­sia, Thailand, Brazil, Lithuania, Ukraine, Greece, Portugal, Iceland, Taiwan, India, and Australia—­ introducing new markets to Israeli films. The success of Frozen Days paved the way for Lerner’s next film—­K irot (The Assassin Next Door, 2009,

32 • New Israeli Horror

Israel/France/US), an international coproduction with a $2 million ­budget, one of the most expensive Israeli films at the time. Shweky would become one of the busiest Israeli cinematographers. Tal Keller went on to work on numerous Israeli and international films, including We Die Young (2019, Lior Geller) with Jean-­Claude Van Damme. More significantly, Frozen Days served as a calling card for the entire genre trend. Beyond his own film, Lerner ushered in a new era by conducting a competition of fictitious genre film trailers called “­D ying to See” at the cable channel HOT-­Prime in 2007.85 Among the trailers was Rabies, which would continue the genre revolution that Frozen Days started, pronouncing itself “the first Israeli horror film.”

Part 1

Subversion

2

The First Hebrew Horror Rabies In 2007, two Israeli film students, Aharon Keshales (b. 1976) and Navot Papushado (b. 1980), took their film Zeitgeist to the Brooklyn Film Festival. The black-­ and-­white short used an old camera as a m ­ etaphor for memory. Through its viewfinder, characters see the specters of Holocaust victims haunting the pre­ sent. This was the first film on which Keshales and Papushado worked together.1 They had met in 2004 at the Tel Aviv University Film School, where Papushado was an undergraduate and Keshales a gradu­ate student and ­founder of the Hamorotheque Club. Discovering a mutual passion for genre films, the two became inseparable, spending hours watching films and discussing them.2 ­A fter the festival, Keshales and Papushado went on to have an Americana adventure in Atlantic City, New Jersey. ­A fter a day of gambling, ­music, and fun, they asked themselves, What comes next? Papushado wanted to make a feature film,3 and Keshales told him, “You have to make the first horror movie in Israel.” This was how Rabies (Kalevet) started. Initially, it was supposed to be Papushado’s film alone, and Keshales was a reluctant accomplice: he was primarily a film critic and teacher, and production was Papushado’s passion. But Papushado got him involved, step by step. Keshales recalls, “He tricked me with a trail of breadcrumbs. ‘Just have a look at the script!’ When I did, then, ‘Now that ­you’ve helped write the script, ­can’t you help me with the audition?’ ‘Ok,’ I said, ‘but I ­don’t want any credit.’ ‘­Can’t you sit at the rehearsals?’ ‘Now that ­you’ve done all that, why not help direct?’ And that’s how this film was made.”4 35

36 • Subversion

But once Keshales was committed to the proj­ect, he developed a sense of mission about making the first Israeli horror film. As a teaching assistant at the TAU Film School, he encouraged his students to take chances with genre films, despite the opposition of ­senior faculty. “Once I started making films myself,” he explained, “it was hypocritical of me not to do what I preached. I had to do it. . . . ​We ­were breaking the ­stereotypes, the idea of what Israeli film should look like, so ­we’ll go ­under fire for it, like every­one e­ lse.”5 But making a horror film was particularly challenging. With no local horror tradition, ­there ­were no models. Even international horror films w ­ ere not widely ­popular in Israel. How do you make an Israeli horror film then? Keshales and Papushado first had to define Israeliness and what made a film Israeli. They did not want to automatically reach for the army as a quin­tes­sen­tial Israeli setting ­ ill see, several other filmmakers indeed did).6 They wanted to (which, as we w capture Israeli mores and cultural norms without being sticklers for superficial verisimilitude.7 They started with the question, What if? Historically, t­ here ­were no high-­ profile serial killers in Israel or movies about them. Keshales and Papushado asked, “What would happen if ­there ­were a serial killer in Israel? What would he look like? How would he act?”8 They i­magined an Israeli serial killer based on a local ­stereotype: “­Here, the killer would be a schlemiel, like the guy who comes to fix your plumbing but d­ oesn’t know what he’s ­doing and never finishes the job.”9 “At the same time,” Papushado explains, “We d­ idn’t want a parody, we wanted a storyline, a coherent narrative. Basically, we ­were looking for ways to Hebraize the horror.”10 This was an ambitious plan, but they knew they could make it happen. Both Keshales and Papushado grew up loving film. They share a foundational childhood experience of watching American genre classics of the 1970s and 1980s by Steven Spielberg, Clint Eastwood, Sergio Leone, Francis Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Brian De Palma, and ­others. Papushado called it “entertaining cinema—­ with Coke and popcorn.”11 ­Later, both would be exposed to a tremendous ­ uropean art films to American grind­house and range of world cinema, from E Korean revenge thrillers. ­A fter this exposure, Keshales and Papushado grew frustrated with what they perceived as Israeli films’ narrow range: they ­were e­ ither fun or thought provoking. Keshales and Papushado wanted both. According to Papushado, “We wanted an entertaining movie with added value.”12 It was impor­ tant for them to tell the story through cinematic means—­camera work, mise-­en-­ scène, editing—­but they did not want to overdo it and end up with a “theoretical film.” They de­cided to avoid abstract ideas and conceptual shots, prioritizing the characters and emotional impact of the scene.13 Keshales and Papushado wrote the script in three months.14 The title, alluding to the concept of vio­lence as a contagious disease, harkens back to their 2007 eponymous trailer made for the “­Dying to See” competition.15 Their trailer featured a ferocious tennis match, set to foreboding ­music and news reports of a

The First Hebrew Horror • 37

rabies outbreak in Israel. The trailer did not win the competition, but ele­ments from its rabid energy (and tennis outfits) made it into the Rabies script. Israeli producers usually have ­little interest in genre films, but Chilik Michaeli and Avraham Pirchi of UCM, a major production com­pany in Israel, believed in Keshales’s and Papushado’s proj­ect, and took them on. With a microbud­get of about $100,000 and without applying for public funding, they set out to make a film. Only ­later would Rabies receive modest public support for post-­production. Although their ­budget was small, their vision was big. As Keshales shared with me, “We branded Rabies the first Israeli horror film. It was impor­tant to us. Yes, ­there was Night Soldier—­but it ­wasn’t branded as horror. In fact, they went out of the way to integrate it into what was acceptable back then. They called it a psychological thriller. . . . ​The Angel Was a D ­ evil—­how many saw it? Zero. It was impor­tant to us to state explic­itly that Rabies is horror, to make it an event. We wanted to change the landscape.”16 Keshales and Papushado made an effort to cast A-­list actors, thereby giving the horror genre legitimacy and status. They reached out to actors through their social network. Lior Ashkenazi, a major Israeli film star, turned out to be a horror fan and signed on. Next, Menashe Noy, another ­house­hold name in Israel, joined. Papushado recalls, “­A fter word got out they wanted to work with us, we started getting phone calls!”17 The first Hebrew horror would be a quality production. They shot for nineteen days, mainly on location in Bet Shemen, a national park halfway between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. The production represented a lot of firsts for the filmmakers, crew, and the actors. “Back then it was difficult to make a horror film,” recalls Papushado. “­There was no blood h ­ ere; we had to import it.” With no experience and working with a small b­ udget, they had to figure out how to create special effects, like accidents and explosions, which they wanted to do entirely on camera and not in post-­production. But at least they did not need to spell out to the crew their vision and cinematic references: as Papushado explains, “They ­were all Aharon’s students, so we ­were on the same page.”18

Between Horror and Comedy Con­temporary film scholars often understand horror as an engagement with national traumas that haunt the past and pre­sent.19 It is tempting to read Rabies in the light of national traumas: the memory of the Holocaust, Israel’s wars, and the constant threat of further attacks. But the filmmakers oppose this reading of their film: “It has nothing to do with war or the Holocaust. It’s about ­people who ­don’t listen to each other, so their relationships disintegrate.”20 Instead of the ­grand idea of national trauma, the key to understanding their work is incongruity, by which the filmmakers mean a disproportionate response of the characters to each other and their situations.21

38 • Subversion

Like many recent ­popular films, Rabies straddles horror and comedy. Theorizing the structure of the two seemingly dif­fer­ent genres, ­philosopher Noël Carroll argues that they share a common territory.22 According to the prominent theory of humor, humor stems from incongruity—­from the transgression of logic, concepts, norms, and social expectations. But horror can also be seen as a response to incongruity, to a violation of our ideas and norms, especially ­those pertaining to order and purity. Carroll thus notes that both horror and humor “share an overlapping necessary condition insofar as an appropriate object of both states involves the transgression of a category, a concept, a norm, or a commonplace expectation.”23 Cynthia J. Miller and A. Bowdoin Van Riper agree that, despite their dif­fer­ent emotional affects, “both comedy and horror depend on the shock of the unexpected: the subversion of the audience’s expectations.”24 In Rabies, incongruity is an operating princi­ple. Even the film’s title is incongruous. It works as a m ­ etaphor for infectious vio­lence, showing how it spreads like an infection from a nameless psychopath through privileged youth into representatives of Israeli institutions. But the title also violates the very expectations it creates: even though nearly every­one is dead by the end of the film, no one gets rabies.

Hebraizing the Horror: The Princi­ples It is fitting that incongruity is the operating princi­ple of their film. The horror tropes—­lone-­wolf psychopath and hazardous woods—­are incongruous in an Israeli context. Their encounter with Israeli sensibilities challenges the genre conventions. At the same time, as horror figures populate an Israeli landscape, local meanings are subverted as well. The characters are subversions of recognizable figures from international genre films. Incestuous siblings, Tali (Liat Harlev) and Ofer (Henry David), on the run in their e­ vening wear—­a red dress and a black suit—­bring to mind similarly overdressed and incestuous ­couples in Korean revenge thrillers like Oldboy (2003, Chan-­wook Park). A lone psychopath in overalls (Yaron Motola) invokes killers in 1970s slashers like Halloween (1978, John Carpenter). The character of Menashe (Menashe Noy), a park ranger who drives with his dog in a pickup truck, is inspired by the Argentinian psychological thriller The Aura (2005, Fabián Bielinsky). The four teen­agers lost in the woods on their way to a tennis match—­Pini (Ofer Schechter), Mickey (Ran Danker), Adi (Anya Bukstein), and Shir (Yael Grobglas), with their tennis outfits and clean good looks—­could be characters ­ hether comedies (like She’s All That, 1999, Robert Iscove) in American teen films, w or horror (Friday the 13th, 1980, Sean S. Cunningham; or Cabin Fever, 2002, Eli Roth). The cops, the ineffectual Danny (Lior Ashkenazi) and the predatory Yuval (Danny Geva), reflect influences of American police thrillers of the 1970s and Italian poliziottesco films. In the words of Papushado, “This is a melting pot of genres—­not just a homage, and not a laundry list of citations, but

The First Hebrew Horror • 39

something hybrid that speaks to genre fans.”25 Relying on the audience’s familiarity with the tropes, the filmmakers ask, What if ­these tropes ­were transplanted to Israel? The truth is that this premise had a lot of chutzpah. When Keshales and Papushado set out to “Hebraize the horror,” the Israeli ­popular audience was neither familiar with nor interested in horror. Yet the duo skipped the basics, ­going straight to the advanced level and expecting their audience to recognize the references and appreciate how they bent the genre. In other words, instead of using the more accessible strategy of conversion, which adapts horror tropes to recognizable Israeli settings, they went straight for subversion, a strategy that not only undermines the horror tropes but also does not necessarily abide by Israeli real­ity. The result is delightful for horror fans but arguably confusing for the uninitiated. None of their characters make sense in Israel. Who are the incestuous siblings, and why are they dressed up? Israel is very informal: Did they escape from a bar mitzvah? Who are the preppy tennis players, wearing very un-­Israeli outfits? Why are they driving an SUV, which was rare in Israel back then? How did they get lost in the woods? Israel has no forests—­just small parks. Using ­these genre tropes seriously undermines the realistic conventions of Israeli cinema. Even more so, Hebraizing the horror challenges the genre conventions. Rabies is a take on a slasher film—­but the Israeli setting and local sensibilities, as I show, subvert the expectations of anybody who knows slasher films. The first move ­toward Hebraizing the horror was setting the action u­ nder the sunlight. Papushado recalled, “We thought ­there was nothing more Israeli than making a horror movie that was taking place in the sun. It automatically differentiated us from most horror films elsewhere, but it also challenged us and ­limited us. It was very hard to create terror when the ele­ment of darkness is taken from you, which is one of the most frightening and effective ­things in horror. In our film every­thing is vis­i­ble, every­thing is exposed, every­thing is lit.”26 This was a crucial choice: it gave the film its Israeli look and subverted the horror convention. (Shooting during the day also reduced production costs.) With some 3,300 hours of sunshine a year, Israel is not only among the sunniest places in the world but sunshine also figures prominently both in the Zionist ethos, which celebrates the tanned, masculine bodies of Hebrew pioneers in the idealized past, and in the present-­day beach culture. Arguably, Rabies established bright sunlight as an iconic look for Israeli horror, as seen in several ­later films. The incongruity of sunlight and horror had far-­reaching consequences for the world of the film. It pushed the filmmakers to find new ways to induce fear. They manipulated sound to build an intensified soundscape to signal danger. They silenced background noises to create what they called “a sense of cemetery in the soundtrack.”27 Then, against the quiet, they amplified the sound effects. When emerging from silence, even everyday sounds can be startling; a thud or a gunshot can be truly terrifying. The contrasting sound effects

40 • Subversion

amplified the sense of an off-­kilter world. They also distanced the film from the realistic sound of a typical Israeli drama. Another way in which Rabies subverts slasher conventions is its use of varying points of view, which the filmmakers developed with their cinematographer Guy Raz, another friend from film school. Keshales shared, “In contrast to films shot from the point of view of one or two characters, in Rabies, we had to decide who tells the story in each scene, and what do we gain from telling the story from that specific point of view.”28 In most scenes, the filmmakers privilege the perspective of a character who is in danger, ­under stress, or in the position of victim. This perspective brings the audiences closer to the action and allows them to identify with the character ­under attack. It also means that the audience sees the face of the murderer, violating a horror convention. According to Keshales, “Usually in murder scenes we see the victims screaming but the killer remains a faceless force—an abstraction.”29 In shifting perspective, Rabies amplified the fear: watching it, we face the murderer and identify with the victim. This choice of point of view involves the audience in the action and stakes out a moral position. The editing also served to induce fear. The filmmakers structured the film so that several events occur si­mul­ta­neously; once the first event reaches its highest peak of tension, they cut to another scene and then return to the first event right ­after its off-­screen resolution.30 This approach, which the filmmakers credit to the U.S. ­television series Lost (2004–2010, ABC), is meant to keep the audience at the edge of their seats the entire time. According to the filmmakers, it creates “double tension” concerning the events both on-­and off-­screen. Like the cinematography, it increases audience involvement and has moral implications. “What interested us is not the vio­lence itself but its consequences,” explains Papushado.31 The editing of Rabies withholds the audience’s gratification from graphic vio­lence while increasing the subjective sense of tension. All ­these ele­ments—­characters and actions, lighting and sound, cinematography and editing—­define Rabies as a film. They violate—or subvert—­our expectations of both slasher tropes and Israeli drama. But under­lying each violation are numerous horror conventions (e.g., red herrings or surprising deaths) that announce the film as a con­temporary horror comedy, while its social satire directed at Israeli society aligns it with the local cinema and its concerns.

Hebraizing the Horror: The Practice The film opens with frantic dialogue in a voiceover, as we stare at a black screen. The tension escalates as we wait to discover whose voices we hear. But the camera takes some time to reveal the disorienting image of Tali. Trapped in a pit, she looks up at her ­brother Ofer, whose face is shown from her point of view, as he tries to ­free her. This claustrophobic shot/countershot sequence is so tightly framed that the context of its surroundings is lost. The effect is disorienting, as

The First Hebrew Horror • 41

is the l­ater revelation that the siblings are lovers. The film situates the incest within the generic trappings of both South Korean thrillers (as mentioned ­earlier) and torture-­porn, such as the Saw franchise (2004–2017, James Wan and Leigh Whannell). The film’s opening sequence thus creates misleading expectations as to what kind of horror film we are about to see and avoids the typical visual ele­ments of an Israeli film. Only ­later do we learn that Tali was abducted by a psychopath (Yaron Motola) in military overalls and boots carry­ing an army bag, hinting at his membership in the IDF—­one of the few signifiers of Israeliness in the film. Rabies cuts to the next scene not when this one is resolved, but when the tension escalates, at which point the film shifts to the forest ranger Menashe, who is driving through sunlit woods with his girlfriend Rona (Efrat Boimold) and his dog, a German shepherd named incongruously, given its threatening breed, Buba (“doll” in Hebrew). The dog, however, ­will not be a source of vio­lence or rabies. The film continues playing with audience expectations, cutting next to Mikey, Pini, Adi, and Shir, four friends who are driving to a tennis match. They flirt and tease one another about virginity and sexuality. Young and attractive, they are familiar figures to slasher fans, creating an impression that we know how the plot ­will unfold. But the camera cuts away before we find out ­whether they are lost and shifts to Menashe and Buba as something alarms the dog. The camera returns to the tennis players just as Menashe exits the car to follow Buba and discover the source of the danger. Such editing heightens the tension, even if nothing scary is happening yet. A body hitting Mickey’s car produces a thud that gives the viewers their first jump-­scare. But before we discover what happened, the camera cuts to Tali in the pit. She calls out for her b­ rother, and the scene shifts back to the tennis players. They deliberate how to approach the man they hit, who remains out of the frame. Fi­nally, to a sound effect that might accompany the rising up of a zombie, the man gets up. It is Ofer, Tali’s ­brother. The sound toys with our expectation: Is Ofer undead? Infected? But this is a red herring: although covered in blood and confused, Ofer is alive and set on rescuing his s­ ister. This scene gives us an insight into the characters: although all four friends fail to exhibit empathy for a fellow ­human being, it is Pini who is depicted as particularly cynical. He refers to the unconscious Ofer in ­English as “a total loss,” using a term usually reserved for a damaged car, not a h ­ uman body. When Ofer gains consciousness and tries to understand what has happened to him, asking the four to confirm that they ran him over, Pini responds sarcastically, “What gave us away?” Reacting to Ofer’s insistence on saving his s­ister, Pini taunts him, “What are you, Trumpeldor?” invoking the myth of a Zionist hero who allegedly sacrificed himself for the national cause.32 Unlike former generations of on-­screen Israelis whose Hebrew was ­either “native” or accented for comic relief, Rabies characters speak in English-­inflected Hebrew. They appear outwardly

42 • Subversion

oriented to a globalized culture; the only nod to their Jewish Israeli identity is Pini’s Star of David necklace. Still, despite an unpromising introduction, Mickey and Pini accompany Ofer on his rescue mission. It is at that point that the film ratchets up the sense of impending danger, intercutting three scenes that unfold si­mul­ta­neously: Mikey, Pini, and Ofer in search of Tali; the psychopath choking and drugging her; and Menashe and Buba in pursuit of the psychopath. Then the first murder takes place. Echoing the scene of the murder of the ­family’s dog in Halloween the psy­ ill be the source of “rabies.” chopath kills Buba; ­human vio­lence w Even Menashe gets pulled into a cycle of vio­lence. In pursuit of Buba’s murderer, he fires a tranquilizer gun that hits both Tali and the psychopath who is carry­ing her. The psychopath escapes, leaving her b­ ehind. As Menashe tries to help her, his girlfriend Rona comes on the radio and hears Tali’s voice. The c­ ouple ends up in a jealous fight completely out of proportion to the situation. Instead of listening to Menashe and getting him help, Rona hangs up in anger. As they argue, the psychopath gets away; he pulls out the tranquilizer dart and then passes out a safe distance away. The camera that tracked his pro­gress in the woods continues moving even ­after he is down, as if to indicate the spread of vio­lence beyond its original source. Meanwhile, Shir and Adi wait for the police. Officers Danny and Yuval are introduced in a comedic exchange that undercuts their credibility as protectors of the law. As they banter, the camera zooms in on a pine-­shaped deodorizer dangling in their patrol car. Emblazoned with the colors of the Israeli flag, it is the only reminder of the state they serve, illustrating the ideological distance of its current agents from its Zionist f­ ounders, as patriotic symbolism used in a cheap consumer product. The police car arrives with pomp. The scene opens with a long static shot: the girls wait for the cops while a police car speeds ­toward them, raising dust and blasting a siren, like in a Hollywood action movie, even though nothing is happening. The scene works both as a parody of a genre trope and a satire of the police, the agents of the state whose efforts are as loud as they are empty. Like their overblown arrival, the cops’ priorities are equally misplaced. Before approaching the girls, Yuval asks his partner, “How do I look? How’s my hair?” Once he approaches Shir and Adi, instead of helping, he interrogates them. The film cuts between the interrogation and the search for Tali. Pini, not wanting to get involved, backs away from Ofer and Mickey and steps into a bear trap. The ­giant metal contraption is completely incongruous in an Israeli setting where ­there are no bears. Instead, it is a reference to a horror trope (like in Marcus Nispel’s 2009 reboot of Friday the 13th) and a reminder that the sunlit woods are full of danger. As Mickey and Ofer try to extract Pini from the trap, he clutches his Star of David pendant and raises his eyes to heaven in prayer, similar to how Catholic characters hold onto crucifixes and rosaries in horror films produced in Christian-­majority states. This image plays both with the

The First Hebrew Horror • 43

horror trope and an Israeli s­ tereotype. In Israel, wearing a Star of David pendant is associated with Mizrahi macho nationalism, as exemplified by the character of a Moroccan thug in the musical Kazablan (1973, Menahem Golan) or, more recently, by the ­popular Israeli rapper Subliminal, known for his right-­wing politics. Blond, wimpy Pini, typed as Ashkenazi, looks ridicu­lous grasping for his bling. From Pini, we cut to Yuval holding Shir and Adi at gunpoint. As Yuval starts searching Shir’s body, the camera follows his hands up her legs, allegedly looking for weapons, ­until his fin­gers reach under­neath her skirt. The ­actual act of abuse is not explic­itly shown. Rather, the camera shifts to a frontal shot of Shir’s face, letting us identify with her suffering. Yuval’s character is a satire of the disproportionate use of vio­lence in Israel, both men against w ­ omen and police against civilian. His gleeful vio­lence stands in for the kinds of abuse usually used against Palestinians (apparent even in their absence from the film). But when Adi seizes a gun and points it at Yuval, it is clear that ­women can be violent as well. In the next scene, she has already shot off Yuval’s fin­gers. Even though the camera shows the consequences of this violent act—­the detached fin­gers and the bloodied hand—­the ­actual shooting is left off-­screen, just as Buba’s murder and the sexual abuse are not shown graphically. This strategy highlights the film’s concern with the consequences of vio­lence, rather than with visual gratification. The vio­lence escalates further, as Yuval pays no heed to his severed fin­gers but maintains his mocking macho pose: “I’m a lefty!” he taunts. All he wants now is revenge: he handcuffs Danny to the police car and chases the escaping Shir and Adi on foot. Once they are in the perceived safety of the woods, Shir squats to urinate, and the camera turns to a warning sign about active landmines. Playing with our expectations again, the camera shows a landmine close to the squatting Shir, who finishes and returns to Adi unscathed. Yet vio­lence explodes in the next scene, when Yuval catches up to the girls and puts Adi in a chokehold. Fighting back, she kicks Yuval, who falls backward and gets impaled on a metal rod, blood gurgling out of his mouth. With the ringing of a cell phone, the horror shifts to comedy. At first, the three cannot figure out whose phone is ringing. When they realize it is Yuval’s, he does not tell them where to find his phone, making them guess in a display of cynical disregard for his life and a demonstration of machismo. When he fi­nally answers the call, it is his f­ ather (voiced by Tsahi Grad). It turns out, Yuval damaged his ­father’s car and now his f­ ather is calling to berate him. In another context, the nagging parent might offer comedic relief, but in this scene, Yuval’s f­ ather appears compulsive and cruel, especially when his ­dying son tries to appease him. The scene suggests a profound misalignment of priorities: egos override survival and being right seems to be more impor­tant than staying alive. But paradoxically, this absurd phone conversation conducted seconds before Yuval’s death also evokes audience empathy for him as we can imagine his childhood traumas, which illustrate how vio­lence is passed from gen­ uman death in the film. eration to generation. Yuval’s is the first h

44 • Subversion

Horror and comedy continue to intertwine when the girls drag Yuval’s corpse to the car, and Shir notices another warning sign about landmines. Before Shir can turn to alert her friend, Adi steps on a landmine and is blown to bits along with the corpse. The explosion is terrifying but also cynically comical, with the film h ­ ere delivering the best that con­temporary horror comedy has to offer: an unexpected and somehow funny death. The explosion picks up on the adolescent humor of the ­earlier landmine scene when Shir squatted with her underpants down, oblivious to the danger. The landmine works ­here as a horror effect, but it also has a dif­fer­ent resonance in Israel, where minefields are understood as vestiges of Israel’s wars against its Arab enemies. In Rabies, ­there are no external enemies of any kind, and the aggression encased in the mines is directed against fellow Israelis. ­Here, the land itself, venerated in the Zionist ethos, is so polluted with vio­lence that it is literally a minefield. Other relationships also move quickly from ordinary conflicts into extraordinary vio­lence. Mikey and Pini get into a fight that ends with Mikey pummeling Pini ­until his face and pristine tennis outfit are bloody. The fight is shot with a camera positioned where Pini’s face would be, giving the audience a palpable sense that it is our face being hit and keeping the focus on the perpetrator. Pini retaliates by bashing Mikey on the head with a rock. The camera focuses on a deep gash on Mikey’s head in close-up before he slowly collapses in a wide shot. Pini leaves him for dead. Where Yuval and Adi died violent but accidental deaths, Mickey’s is the first premeditated murder. Both the bloody fight and the murder are completely out of proportion to the situation. ­These scenes signal that the epidemic of vio­lence has spread; it no longer needs an external villain. Anyone can turn homicidal in the blink of an eye. The generous use of bright-­red blood throughout ­these scenes pays tribute to the horror convention and at the same time visualizes the social vio­lence that simmers ­under the surface of Israeli society. The subplot of the second cop, Danny, also reveals moral failure even if he is less violent than Yuval. Throughout the film he barely attempts to stop his partner, b­ ecause his sole focus is salvaging his relationship with his wife. When his calls to her go unanswered, he leaves paranoid voicemails on their home answering machine. Like the responses of other characters, his are out of proportion. When she fi­nally calls him back, it is clear from their dialogue that she has not received his belligerent messages. The conversation turns sexual, and seeing an opportunity to reconcile, Danny abandons his responsibilities to race home to erase the voicemails. Driving, he sees Shir standing in the road. Stupefied from the vio­lence she just witnessed, she shoots at him with Yuval’s gun, wounding him. He steps on the gas and runs her over with the police car. Undeterred by his gunshot wounds and single-­mindedly focused on expunging the rec­ord of his male fragility, he does not stop, leaving Shir’s corpse ­behind as “roadkill” much as Pini did with Mikey.

The First Hebrew Horror • 45

Even good intentions misfire in this warped real­ity. When Menashe finds Tali, unconscious ­after being hit by a stray tranquilizer dart, he takes her back to the ranger station. The hopeful note of Tali’s rescue is undercut when Ofer arrives and ­mistakes Menashe for her assailant. He kills Menashe with a hammer without verifying his suspicions. In contrast to the police, the park ranger does not fail in his duty. However, as an agent of a state, he fails to be recognized as such, so the result is the same—­brutal vio­lence. Ofer and Tali presumably do not trust the Israeli judicial system to p­ ardon the murder as self-­defense, so they bury Menashe’s corpse as his phone plays a cheery message from his girlfriend informing him that she is pregnant. The words promising a new life—­and a new generation of Israelis—­are literally heard from the grave. The pessimism deepens when Ofer dies l­ater from his wounds in Tali’s embrace; as she waits with him for her own death, the two of them are enveloped in the smoke of a forest fire. Following the other characters, the incestuous c­ ouple die unnatural, violent deaths. The forest setting for all t­ hese deaths works both as a recognizable horror trope and a satire of Israeli society. Woods that are far and few between in Israel are nationalized as parks and seen as shrines to the allegedly innate connection of Israelis to the land. In Rabies, however, the forest is not a repository of nationalist ideals but a site of terror and peril. This repre­sen­ta­tion belies the dark history of Israel’s national parks, often established on the ruins of destroyed Palestinian communities.33 Indeed, the film’s shooting location in Ben Shemen Forest was the site of several Palestinian villages before 1948.34 Playing with the “Final Girl” convention of Hollywood slashers, only virginal Pini survives in t­ hese dangerous woods. According to Carol Clover, the Final Girl is the female victim-­hero, the slasher film’s sole survivor with whose point of view we, as the audience, identify.35 As such, the Final Girl is “intelligent, watchful, level-­headed; the first character to sense something amiss and the only one to deduce from the accumulating evidence the patterns and extent of the threat.”36 As per the trope, she is also a virgin. In other words, she is the character with unquestionable moral standing. Alternatively, Pini, who is a Final Boy, is the most morally corrupt of the characters. He is the only character to commit a murder intentionally: other characters kill by accident or by ­mistake. Keshales explains their choice to make Pini survive to the end: He is the coward who wants to escape and cares only for himself. [In a Hollywood film] he would die first b­ ecause he embodies inappropriate values for a “hero.” But what if I placed this cynic in Israeli real­ity? ­Here the cynics and smartasses are actually the ones who would survive, b­ ecause they have the brains to get out. The brave commander is the one who would die. American cinema takes a moralistic position: he must die b­ ecause he is a coward and a weasel. In Israel ­there is something more realistic and cynical. In an American

46 • Subversion

film, even if a hero enters a forest full of mines, he w ­ ill live. The Israeli observer ­will say, “Pini is right! Mickey, you should join him!” This is an example of what guided us in the approach of how to transgress a genre and make a horror film Israeli.37

Pini might have survived, but he is not “out of the woods.” A car stops, and the driver asks him for directions. Even though Pini is covered in blood, the f­ amily in the car fails to express empathy or concern; instead, they bicker among themselves. Pini thus experiences the parallel unwillingness to help a stranger, a fellow Israeli, that he himself showed ­toward Ofer in the opening scene. When the ­family does decide to offer him a ­ride, their concern is for their car’s upholstery, not Pini’s health. Once Pini gets in, the car stalls and gets stuck near Mickey’s SUV, suggesting the start of a new cycle of vio­lence. The film, then, provides no ­viable solution to the rabies-­like infection of a society. Moreover, the only ­actual villain—­the nameless psychopath—­sleeps peacefully through the mayhem, thanks to Menashe’s tranquilizer. He awakens and leaves the woods during the end credits, making him the ultimate Final Boy of the film. Failing to catch a ­ride while hitchhiking, his last words—­“A country of ass­holes!”—­summarize the film’s take on Israeli society. The film’s pervasive vio­lence originates with the psychopath, but it cannot be blamed on him alone. His motives are left unexplained, but his uniform marks him as a military man, hinting at the army as the ur-­source of evil, an idea developed in ­later New Israeli Horror films. But even with the psychopath out of the picture, the vio­lence continues. In Keshales’s words, “The murders take place by themselves; it’s the society that commits them.”38 Rabies offers a grim view of Israeli society: state institutions are corrupt or inefficient, interpersonal relationships are dysfunctional or perverted. Conversations escalate into arguments, arguments into aggression, with the phone or radio only facilitating miscommunication. Commenting on the film years ­after its release, Keshales is even more pessimistic: “The truth is ­today the real­ity is so violent that it caught up to the film—­but back then it was still exaggerated.”39 In some ways, Rabies was the first Israeli horror film ­because Keshales and Papushado said so. By 2010, ­there was certainly a nascent horror scene in Israel, and some films that we could call horror ­were, in fact, made ­earlier. As described in chapter 1, the 1970s precursors ­were concerned with societal vio­lence. Night Soldier focused on toxic militarism and competitive masculinity within Israeli society. Frozen Days brought international genre films into conversation with Israeli subjects. But Rabies was the first to do all that plus declare itself horror. Yet its filmmakers did not take horror for granted—­they asked how to adapt it to Israel and grappled with it seriously. Their method was subversion of both the horror conventions and the local meanings. ­Later, Israeli genre filmmakers would make dif­fer­ent choices, but Keshales and Papushado ­were the first to pose the question. In that sense, Rabies is the first Israeli horror film, ushering in a new cycle.

The First Hebrew Horror • 47

Reception: Changing the Landscape Part of Keshales’s and Papushado’s g­ rand plan for the “first Israeli horror film” was advanced publicity. Journalists and critics excitedly followed the production from the moment the casting was announced in 2008. Rabies went into theatrical release in Israel in December 2010—­more than three years ­after the fateful conversation in Atlantic City. The early buzz about the film paid off only partially: fewer than twenty thousand ­people saw the film in Israeli theaters.40 Although this is typical for a local film, the filmmakers ­were disappointed; they did not realize that e­ very ­future Israeli horror movie would hit the same wall with the local audience.41 The film’s rating, set initially at suitable for ­those age ­eighteen or older, did not help.42 However, the film received enthusiastic, albeit controversial, coverage at home and went on a triumphant cir­cuit of festivals all over the world. An extensive preview in a major Israeli daily Yediot Aharonot set a celebratory tone. Discussing other Israeli films in production at the time, the article claimed that Israel was fi­nally “catching the wave of horror films.”43 But once the reviews started coming, critics seemed divided. Some celebrated Rabies’s departure from the Israeli realistic cinematic tradition and applauded its turn to genre; ­others praised its social commentary. Yet still ­others found both the genre subversion and the satire simply too much to take. Lilach Wolf of the ­popular internet portal Walla praised Rabies for being “simply fun” and advised against overthinking its social critique: “Let Rabies be a horror film and the Israeli cinema be fun. God knows we do not have enough of that ­here.”44 Writing for the entertainment magazine Time Out Tel Aviv, Doron Fishler also praised Rabies both as a successful attempt at horror and as a film “that takes the conventions of the genre, slices their guts and turns them inside out.” But he pointed out that such subversion might actually hinder the local reception. He was right.45 While praising the film, some critics noted its satirical commentary on Israeli society. Writing in the p­ opular entertainment guide Akbar Ha-­Ir, Oron Shamir declared, “This is first and foremost a film that makes Israeli cinema look cool at last.” He pointed out that although Rabies draws on American genre films, “­there is also something very Israeli about the film. Especially when it comes to combining the familiar types (which are based on ­stereotypical characters like a policeman or park ranger) and extreme situations.” In Rabies, argued Shamir, the mass murderer does not do his job; instead, the entire forest—­a part of Israeli landscape—­becomes murderous.46 In Haaretz, Uri Klein came to similar conclusions: “In Rabies, the Israeli landscape itself becomes a source of horror.” But he went further: “It is even pos­si­ble to read Rabies as a criticism of con­temporary Israeli society, its loss of values and rampant vio­lence, but that too, is part of the joke. . . . ​R abies is an attempt to subvert every­thing.” Although Klein praised the film for opening a

48 • Subversion

new page in Israeli cinema, he also sounded a warning. Rabies, he wrote, “tries to be a kind of alternative to the recent high-­brow Israeli filmmaking, and it takes this agenda very far, so far that it becomes a joke at the expense of Israeli cinema ­ hole.”47 as a w Along with ­these positive reviews, Rabies put some local critics on the defense. The most scathing rebuke came from Meir Schnitzer, a s­ enior film critic for the Israeli daily Maariv. He opened by invoking the very first horror film made in Israel, The Angel Was a ­Devil (which he himself nominated as the worst Israeli film ever),48 and then suggested that Rabies may rival its status both as the only other horror film and as the worst Israeli film ever. The main reason for his vitriol was the film’s “harsh post-­Zionist messages.” Schnitzer took issue with the film’s treatment of the Israeli flag and the Star of David, accusing the filmmakers of deliberate exploitation of Israeli themes for marketing purposes. He evidently missed the film’s goal to “Hebraize” the horror through its conscious use of local themes, subject ­matters, and points of reference. Schnitzer concluded with an insult: “The closing sentence of the entire film, which states that Israel is a ‘country of ass­holes’ also applies to the film itself.”49 Another critic, Yosi ­Lingel, chose the same line of attack and also invoked the final line of the film.50 Other critics did not reach this level of outrage but still missed the point of the film. Hannah Brown of the English-­language Israeli newspaper Jerusalem Post, saw Rabies as “unintentionally funny, crude, and worst of all, dull.” She was particularly disdainful of the film’s violations of “what screenwriters and directors should not do,” including having unlikable characters, a lack of logic in the plot, sudden and unexplained acts of vio­lence, and the fact that “nobody actually gets rabies” (my personal favorite).51 Goel Pinto, of the Israeli business publication Globes, was equally confounded by the film’s social satire and its genre subversion.52 This reception shows how innovative Rabies was. As Doron Fishler predicted, not only audiences but also some critics did not know how to interpret it. Taken by a promise of “the first Israeli horror,” they expected horror by the book and lacked an interpretive framework for grasping the film’s genre subversion. Rabies’ social satire also pressed some sensitive buttons. The film’s international reception was a dif­fer­ent story. Rabies was “the most successful Israeli film in the world this year,” summarized Fishler in 2011.53 Its triumphant cir­cuit at film festivals started with Fantasporto in Portugal, where it won the Critic’s Award. L ­ ater at Tribeca, as Papushado put it, “An explosion started.”54 Variety and Screen Daily gave Rabies a thumbs-­up. Other publications followed suit, and then more specialized media—­horror fan blogs and forums across the world—­joined in.55 Critics outside Israel knew exactly how to interpret Rabies. Variety: “Rabies makes ­great use of collective expectations of where a homicidal-­maniac movie is supposed to go, and ­doesn’t go t­ here; the changes in strategy induce laughs, but

The First Hebrew Horror • 49

they also lend the film an unusual edginess, precisely ­because the normal genre rules are being kicked to the curb.”56 Salon: Rabies “takes the standard stupid-­ kids-­in-­the-­woods formula and inverts it to delicious, hilarious and extremely mean effect.”57 The horror website DreadCentral concurred: “To its credit, Rabies defies convention and detours in often unexpected ways, giving way to some explosive moments you’ll still be thinking about days ­later.”58 Rabies went to dozens of festivals, not only genre festivals but also some art ­house and Jewish film festivals. Its year on the festival cir­cuit was educational for the filmmakers: “We learned a lot during that year—­especially from observing audience reaction—­what they like, what is scary, what is funny. For us it was like g­ oing to film school.”59 Once it crossed Israel’s border, Rabies became commercially successful: it was sold to several markets, including the United States, the United Kingdom, Japan, France, Germany, and Spain. Unusually for an Israeli film, Rabies was also screened in Indonesia, Iran, and Turkey. In Arab-­speaking countries where Israeli films normally do not circulate, fans pirated the film online and discussed it on social media. The filmmakers also had dif­f er­ent experiences at home and abroad: “In Israel, Rabies still has a l­ imited audience, but in the world it’s a cult film b­ ecause of the fandom tradition—­people know how to appreciate ­these films. . . . ​We received a red-­carpet reception everywhere we went. H ­ ere we have to be defensive about our choices.”60 ­Later Keshales and Papushado even regretted not releasing Rabies abroad first, a lesson that other New Israeli Horror filmmakers would take to heart.61 Notwithstanding ­these difficulties, Rabies had a tremendous influence in Israel. As the filmmakers intended, the film’s high production values, star cast, and the media buzz surrounding it made it an impor­tant cinematic event. Its international success gave the new horror trend legitimacy and status. It also broadened industry horizons. Before Rabies, Israeli filmmakers and critics w ­ ere familiar with a l­imited number of prestigious international film festivals (like Cannes or Berlinale). Rabies put dozens of international genre film festivals on the map that have since become vital ave­nues for introducing Israeli films to the world. Most importantly, it signaled to young filmmakers that it is pos­si­ble to make a horror film in Israel and a successful one at that. It also helped that just around the time of Rabies’ release, the Israel Film Fund opened the so-­called genre track to encourage the production of horror, sci-fi, and thrillers. Katriel Schori, the head of the Film Fund, was quoted in the press saying, “I have no prob­lem with horror.”62 In many ways, Rabies changed the landscape of film production in Israel.

3

A Korean Revenge Thriller in the Israeli Countryside Big Bad Wolves In the spring of 2011, when Keshales and Papushado presented Rabies at the Fantasporto Film Festival in Portugal, they met Jee-­woon Kim, a South Korean filmmaker whose I Saw the ­Devil (Ang-­ma-­reul bo-­at-da, 2010) had just won the festival’s Best Film and Best Director awards. The film features a showdown between a serial killer and the revenge-­seeking special forces agent whose fian­ evil mixes ele­ments of serial killer horror, splatter, torcée he killed. I Saw the D ture porn, police procedural, and espionage films. Its moral ambiguity blurs bound­aries between victim and perpetrator, thematizing toxic masculinity turning on itself. It made a big impression on Keshales and Papushado. In I Saw the ­Devil they found a model for their next film proj­ect, Big Bad Wolves (Mi mefakhed me-­ha-­zeev ha­-­ra).

Not a Fluke The filmmakers continued their “Hebraizing horror” approach first used in Rabies, transforming genre tropes in the ­process of adapting the film to Israeli sensibilities and settings. But where Rabies is a subversion of a slasher, Big Bad Wolves takes as its starting point a South Korean revenge thriller, itself a subversion of horror, action, comedy, melodrama, and other genre ele­ments.1 By setting this already subversive genre pastiche in Israel, the filmmakers also subvert our 50

A Korean Thriller in the Israeli Countryside • 51

expectation of Israeli drama. Big Bad Wolves is even darker and more violent than Rabies, with sharper social satire. ­A fter Rabies broke ground as the first Israeli horror film, the filmmakers wanted “to push the envelope even further” with Big Bad Wolves. They also wanted to set a pre­ce­dent: “We wanted to make one more ­ ere, horror film to show that it’s not a fluke. We wanted to establish the genre h to create facts on the ground.”2 Papushado adds, “Big Bad Wolves continued what Rabies started.”3 Where Rabies was produced on a tiny b­ udget in the face of many obstacles, Big Bad Wolves was a dif­f er­ent story. The success of Rabies had marked the start of a new cultural moment, as Keshales recalls: “­There was a lot more openness. We received support from the Rabinovich Foundation. All sorts of p­ eople, academics and ­people in the industry, read and loved the script. A point of view like mine was now legit.”4 Working with the same producers, Chilik Michaeli and Avraham Pirchi of UCM, and leveraging the commercial success of Rabies, the filmmakers secured a b­ udget of about $500,000—­still small by U.S. standards but sizable for a genre film in Israel. Keshales and Papushado kept costs down by setting most of Big Bad Wolves in one location and having a small cast. But t­ hese choices did not mean they compromised their vision. Like in Rabies, they worked with the best crew and cast in Israel. Cinematographer Giora Bejach, who had helped with Rabies, was experienced with cinematic vio­lence from his work on the award-­winning Lebanon (2009, Shmuel Maoz).5 Editor Asaf Korman had worked on the violent Israeli drama God’s Neighbors (Ha-­mashgikhim, 2012, Meni Yaish) and art director Arad Sawat on the acclaimed Israeli film Footnote (Hearat Shulaim, 2011, Joseph Cedar). Keshales and Papushado continued collaborating with Israeli British composer Haim Frank Ilfman, who wrote the ­music for Rabies. Ilfman recorded his score for Big Bad Wolves with London’s Metropolitan Orchestra, which has played the m ­ usic for many films, including genre hits like Kick-­Ass (2010, Matthew Vaughn) and Edge of Darkness (2010, Martin Campbell). The cast was equally impressive: in addition to the A-­list actors who appeared in Rabies—­Lior Ashkenazi, Menashe Noy, and Tzahi Grad—­Dovale Glickman joined the cast. Glickman is an iconic figure in Israeli culture, famous for his role in the long-­r unning weekly TV sketch comedy show Zehu Zeh (1978–1993, Channel 1; 1993–1998, Channel 2).6 Keshales and Papushado tailored their script to the cast, even keeping the first names of the actors in ­earlier drafts. As in Rabies, even the small roles went to g­ reat actors: Kais Nashif, Sarah Adler, and Rivka Michaeli. Having grown tired of the publicity hoopla surrounding Rabies, Keshales and Papushado wanted to keep the production u­ nder wraps.7 When they shot Big Bad Wolves in April 2012, no one in the media even knew about it. Working at several locations, they shot both exterior and interior scenes at a cabin on a farm in Beit Shemesh, an area between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. The investigation scene was shot in an abandoned building of a ­mental hospital in Ramat Ha-­Sharon.

52 • Subversion

For the torture scenes, they built a set in a studio in Beit Hannan. But the scenes of graphic vio­lence posed a challenge. As with Rabies, Keshales and Papushado eschewed the use of computer-­generated imagery (CGI). They wanted to capture natu­ral body movements to make the scenes feel as real as pos­si­ble. This was challenging, given the ­limited special effects experience of Israeli makeup artists and actors.8 Keshales and Papushado also kept a low profile throughout post-­production. By the time they ­were ready to talk about their film in public, almost a year ­later, it was about to have its world premiere.

Total Emotion Rabies is mainly a subversion of a slasher film. But the filmmakers had a more ambitious vision for Big Bad Wolves: they wanted to mix genres, not only weaving them together but also transgressing horror, thriller, dark comedy, and even drama.9 They brought together three storylines: a drama about a man whose life is coming apart ­after he is suspected of being a pedophile; a comedy about an unscrupulous cop; and fi­nally, a thriller about a vengeful ­father.10 The interplay of stories allowed for a tremendous emotional range, from suspense to fear, from horror to comedy, each time pushing the envelope as far as it could go. Papushado called their approach “total emotion.”11 They hoped that the film’s emotional range would help it to appeal to the Israeli public, beyond horror fans. Keshales and Papushado emphasized the importance of empathy (“every­one can relate to the loss of a child”) and comedy (“which makes vio­lence more palatable to audiences”).12 Their new film would be “not only violent, but also funny and dramatic—­with the depth of Ingmar Bergman.” To achieve that depth, they cut suspense, fear, and vio­lence with laughter—­and then escalated the vio­lence. The oscillation between comedy and vio­lence, they believed, would push the audience to ask: What are we laughing at? How far can it go?13 In this way, the duo hoped to get to deeper questions of moral choice and justification of vio­lence. Like Rabies, Big Bad Wolves uses comedy as a vehicle for social satire, targeting societal vio­lence and the toxic masculinity that fuels it. However, in Rabies, the comic incongruity arose from the disproportionate responses of the characters; in Big Bad Wolves comedy arises at the points of contact of violent genre (be it horror, thriller, or police procedural) and the Israeli real­ity. As previously, Keshales and Papushado started with the “what if” thought experiment. Papushado explains, “We asked what if ­there ­were a serial killer, but in a place where every­one was in the army, in a place where every­one’s ­father and grand­father w ­ ere in the army. . . . ​ What if the action is set in a remote cabin, but that cabin is surrounded by Arab villages—­then an Arab ­will come, and then what ­will happen?” Keshales adds, “What we are looking for is how our [Israeli] mentality ­will refract the genre conventions. . . . ​The complexities stem from Israeliness.”14 At the same time, the filmmakers ­were careful to avoid making a “message” film. As Papushado notes,

A Korean Thriller in the Israeli Countryside • 53

“We are products of our country, of our families. We ­didn’t make a manifesto—­it’s just that’s how ­people act ­here, that’s how we act. We stop and ask, ‘What if?’ But ­ ill come out in an organic way.”15 we ­don’t push a philosophy. The philosophy w Like Rabies, Big Bad Wolves subverts both genre conventions and Israeli cinematic realism. The film’s unique world—­its ­music, dialogue, props, and costume—­draws on iconic ele­ments from a range of international genre films. ­These ele­ments influence the way the film portrays its local settings, combining familiar cultural signifiers with ­those that appear unrealistic and unfamiliar: as a result, despite being set in Israel and satirizing Israeli society, the film challenges the audience’s expectations of domestic production. Together with composer Haim Frank Ilfman, the filmmakers sought a unique musical score; in their words: “the kind of m ­ usic Bernard Hermann might write for a movie by Hitchcock based on a ­Brothers Grimm tale.” They wanted the ­music to be grandiose, to make even interior scenes with a small cast seem “larger than life.” In addition to Hitchcock, the filmmakers cited a range of other inspirations, from I Saw the ­Devil with its stirring score, to In Bruges (2008, Martin McDonagh) with its evocative melodic motif. Ilfman emphasized the influence of Car­ter Burwell’s m ­ usic for the Coen b­ rothers’ films, as well as Tarantino’s use of ­music.16 Such a hyperbolic style is unusual in Israel, where films often feature more understated ambient scores. A rare exception, and another influence on the filmmakers, is the comedy Footnote, which sets a squabble among scholars to incongruously ­grand ­music. The ­music in Big Bad Wolves signals switches between genres, from tragedy to comedy to drama to thriller, and back. As Papushado explains, “We call it the ‘Pixies Method,’ where you have a loud chorus and a quiet verse. . . . . But it’s not just between scenes; it’s also within the scenes themselves, in the parsing of beats.”17 The ­music emphasizes the constant change of tone, ­going “from nothing to overdose.”18 The filmmakers use the score for comic incongruity—­both when iconic, grandiose m ­ usic accompanies scenes where not much happens or, alternatively, when through instrumentation and motifs it undermines what should have been a scene on a ­grand scale. Like the score, the dialogue is meant to be unique or, as the filmmakers put it, iconic—­instantly recognizable and quotable. Keshales and Papushado wanted it to be comparable to ­music or dance, with its own rhythm and flow.19 Their stylized dialogue pays tribute to genre films, thereby violating the conventions of realistic Israeli cinema with its naturalistic speech. To craft it, they drew on their favorite films by Sergio Leone (especially The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, 1966), Steven Spielberg, Clint Eastwood, and Quentin Tarantino. Keshales points out, “­There ­isn’t an unnecessary sentence t­ here. No one speaks like that!”20 Although rare in Israeli film, such stylized dialogue is characteristic of several e­ arlier productions, which Keshales and Papushado also cite as their influences: comedies by Uri Zohar (Metsitsim [Peeping Toms], 1972), Assi Dayan (Giv’at khalfon eina ­ oesn’t Answer], 1976), and Boaz Davidson (Hagiga be-­snuker ona [Hill Halfon D

54 • Subversion

[Snooker], 1975), as well as Planet Blue (Ha-­kokhav ha-­kakhol, 1995, Gur Bentwich), considered the first Israeli cult film.21 The dialogue in ­these films is so memorable that each has donated phrases to everyday Hebrew. ­ ere equally invested in creating an iconic look for the film The filmmakers w through props and costume. They visually emphasized tools of torture—­hammer, pliers, and a blowtorch.22 Unlike machine guns or tanks—­the “official” weapons seen normally on the Israeli screen—­a hammer and pliers are everyday tools, repurposed to produce extreme vio­lence. The tools also tap into associations with torture porn and Korean revenge thrillers. To give the characters a signature look, the filmmakers used thick layers of clothing. Characters appear bulked up, as if their outfits might protect them from vio­lence. For this look, Keshales and Papushado credit the influence of the Coen ­brothers’ remake of True Grit (2010), another film about the unintended consequences of revenge. (In the original 1969 film by Henry Hathaway, the characters are dressed lightly.) Keshales and Papushado continued to use cinematography to explore moral choices. In Rabies, they play with points of view to force audience identification with a perpetrator or a victim. In Big Bad Wolves they expand this approach through two kinds of camera movement. The first they call the “Spielbergian-­ Hitchcockian method,” which considers a shot to be a complete narrative unit, with a beginning, ­middle, and end. In this approach, a single shot can tell a story via narrative change, and by its end, the point of view can shift. The other approach, which the filmmakers call the “Scorsesian method,” uses movement of the camera (such as a rapid dolly-in) to accentuate a key moment in the scene.23 Whereas the first approach encourages the audience members to examine their moral positions by providing a dif­f er­ent perspective on vio­lence within the scene and changing the balance of power, the second one intensifies their emotional involvement in the scene, including by anticipating vio­lence. The duo also continued to explore moral relativism through editing, relying on reaction shots in violent moments. Such shots repudiate vio­lence using a jolting effect, making the audience question their identification with the perpetrator on screen and their enjoyment of watching the violent events.

Inhaling Vio­lence In focusing on everyday vio­lence, the film not only explores themes found in Rabies but also centers on crises of masculinity and fatherhood within middle-­ class Ashkenazi society in Israel. “We see childhood as a state of innocence and naïveté,” explain Keshales and Papushado. “But ­there is a lot of vio­lence and evil in the world, and you already get exposed to it as a child. We tried to portray a kind of society, where no m ­ atter what you do—­you w ­ ill always be exposed to vio­lence. . . . ​You inhale vio­lence like a passive smoker. You ­can’t escape it, and it ­will prob­ably shape who you are.”24

A Korean Thriller in the Israeli Countryside • 55

Big Bad Wolves shifts the geopolitics of Israeli society into the realm of fairy­ tales evoked by the film’s title. The original Hebrew title (Mi mefakhed me-­ha-­ zeev ha­-­ra; literally, Who Is Afraid of the Bad Wolf) recalls the song “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf” originally featured in the 1933 Disney cartoon Three ­Little Pigs (Burt Gillett). That story ends with the piglets defeating the wolf.25 Big Bad Wolves upends this optimistic conclusion: it is unclear not only who wins but also who is a pig and who is a wolf. The ­English title hints at this moral ambiguity by pluralizing the word “wolf.” Invoking the fairy­tale not only establishes the connection between childhood and vio­lence as the key motif but also hints at the nonrealistic nature of the film’s aesthetics. In the words of the filmmakers, “It’s still Israel, it deals with Israeli subjects, but in a distorted and surreal way.”26 Keshales explains why this was impor­tant: “Usually, the first test an Israeli film has to pass with Israeli audiences is ­whether it’s au­then­tic or not, ­whether it reflects real­ity. . . . We realized this is one of the pitfalls of genre writing in Israel, so we de­cided to stylize the film right from the opening sequence; so on one hand it’ll contain the film’s symbolic ele­ments, but on the other, also tell the audience: it’s a fairy­tale, it’s ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ it’s ‘­Little Red Riding Hood,’ only with police.”27 The fairy­tale motif is most vividly expressed in the film’s enigmatic prologue. The opening visual slowly reveals an enormous tree in a forest clearing. This mythical image invites contradictory associations with both the Tree of Life and original sin. A young boy and two girls play hide-­and-­seek. The girls enter a dilapidated h ­ ouse, its dark hallways contrasting sharply with the sunlit woods. As the opening credits roll, a girl in a red dress enters a wardrobe. A dark shadow appears; someone is following her. In the next scene, the boy opens the cupboard to find only a red shoe, an image evoking the ruby slippers in The Wizard of Oz (1939, Victor Fleming), as well as Hans Christian Andersen’s dark fairy­tale about cursed red slippers (and its adaptations to film). The prologue also recalls the opening scene of Prom Night (1980, Paul Lynch) where a game of hide-­and-­seek ends in vio­lence. The ­children’s game is also reminiscent of the iconic opening of The Wild Bunch (1969, Sam Peckinpah), in which young c­ hildren torture a scorpion. Like Peckinpah, Keshales and Papushado draw a connection between childhood and vio­lence. This opening sequence functions as a set piece that is only metonymically connected to the main story. As in the Coen ­brothers’ A Serious Man (2009), which opens with an enigmatic tale, the prologue’s content is not mentioned again in the film, although its themes of uncertainty and existential doubt reverberate throughout. The continuity is aided by brooding ­music, with a main theme that contrasts minor and major chords, creating a noirish mood that returns in ­later scenes. The connections between allegedly innocent childhood and violent adulthood position the narrative of Big Bad Wolves as a scary fairy­tale. The first scene following the prologue is a brutal police interrogation. Two plainclothes

56 • Subversion

policemen throw Dror (Rotem Keinan) into a chair in an abandoned building and beat him with glee, interspersing blows with cynical jokes. The scene echoes the ware­house torture scene in Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs (1992). Dror is suspected in the abduction and murder of young girls. With his pasty complexion, thick glasses, and unfashionable clothes, Dror looks like the nebbishy teacher he is. He seems normal, making us doubt his guilt compared to the police officers’ sadism and stylized speech. The scene also introduces us to s­enior detectives Micki (Lior Ashkenazi) and Rami (Menashe Noy), who disagree about police methods. Rami wants to follow the letter of the law, whereas Micki joins in beating the subject. Already the film poses its principal moral question: How much vio­lence is justified by a good cause? Initially, we are meant to identify with Micki, who is more charismatic and determined to find the abducted girl by any means necessary: he is an Israeli Dirty Harry. But as the torture goes on, the camera dollies out, revealing, in what the filmmakers call a Spielbergian shot, a young boy, an unwilling witness to police brutality who films it with his smartphone. As we see the boy’s fear, our identification shifts, and Micki no longer looks like a hero. The film continues to use cinematography and editing to explore moral ambiguity. However, we are tempted to side with Micki again when, despite his confidence in Dror’s guilt, s­ enior leadership ­orders Dror’s release for lack of evidence. The scene continues the theme of the connection between childhood and vio­lence. As Micki enters the office of his superior Zvika (Dvir Benedek), an unsmiling boy greets him. “It’s ‘bring your child to work day,’ ” explains Zvika. A massive figure sitting ­behind his desk, with his head shaved and wearing a police uniform with full regalia, Zvika is the fitting symbol of state power. Yet, his obesity undermines his masculinity. His son, although missing his bulk, acts like a miniature version of Zvika, ignoring Micki’s attempts at levity. The scene is comedic, but it is also a study of the pedagogy of vio­lence and toxic masculinity. “Nothing ­will stop me from kicking your ass to the traffic department!” the boy repeats ­after Zvika, reproducing his tone. Footage of his “interrogation” was leaked, revealing Micki’s participation in beating Dror, and the detective is suspended. A phone call with a tip about the location of the kidnapped girl interrupts Micki’s dressing-­down, and he rushes off. The camera follows him and Rami as they look for the victim in a sunlit forest, reminiscent of the prologue (and of Rabies). They follow a trail of gummy bears, a nod to the ­Brothers Grimm’s “Hansel and Gretel” tale about ­children left to die in the woods. The trail of candy leads the police to the decapitated body of the young girl. The camera reveals only her legs, marred by crusty bloody wounds, with pink underwear pulled below her knees and flies buzzing around. Micki walks away from the site to the ­music from the prologue. He is shown in a low-­angle shot: he is no longer a disgraced cop but a vigilante in a leather jacket. As the camera follows Micki leaving the crime scene, another figure appears out of focus in the background: it is the girl’s f­ ather Gidi (Tsahi Grad). “What is he ­doing at the murder scene?” asks Rami. “He served in Lebanon with

A Korean Thriller in the Israeli Countryside • 57

the chief of police,” says Zvika, to explain his presence. This is a fitting introduction. Unlike ­earlier generations for whom combat was associated with heroism, Gidi served in “Lebanon,” a series of failed military attacks starting with the 1982 war which signified a moment of disillusionment in the Zionist national proj­ ect. The military past with its entitled male solidarity is the baggage that Gidi brings with him. In his fury and guilt, he is set on revenge. So is Micki. The next scenes provide insight into Dror’s life and explore the collapse of the relationship between innocent childhood and protective adulthood. In a wood-­ paneled classroom, which looks like an American rather than an Israeli high school (another reminder of the stylized world of the film subverting the expectations of realism in an Israeli film), Dror’s students taunt him by passing around a doodle of him murdering a girl with an axe and scribbling “pedophile,” “murderer,” and “son of a bitch” on their test papers. Ironically, this suspected serial killer teaches Hebrew Bible, a subject linked with moral values and with Judaism. Yielding to parental pressure, the school principal suspends Dror. As a result, his ex-­wife denies him access to their ­daughter, reinforcing his failure as a husband and ­father. Dejected, he goes to visit and observe other l­ ittle girls’ ballet classes, where the students are pictures of innocence. Like Micki and Gidi, he ­will set out on his own revenge mission. Meanwhile, convinced of the police incompetence, both Micki and Gidi fol­ ater in the film, he acknowledges low Dror. Gidi is furious and racked by guilt. L that his careless be­hav­ior allowed his ­daughter to be kidnapped, tortured, and decapitated. He failed to pick her from school b­ ecause he was too busy receiving a blow job from his secretary. ­A fter losing their d­ aughter, his wife then leaves him, much as Dror’s wife has left him. Gidi finds a cabin in a remote location he can use for the specific purpose of torturing Dror. He even tests the h ­ ouse for soundproofing by asking his realtor (Nati Kluger)—­the only on-­screen adult female character—to scream in the basement while he is upstairs. Her voluntary screams prefigure Dror’s involuntary ones. The realtor’s elaborate blond hairdo and formal outfit visually recall Kim Novak’s character in the scene at a tower in Vertigo (1958), thus hinting at both deception and murder. A Hitchcockian score accompanying the scene sharpens the sense of danger and unease. Along with being an unwitting accomplice in this rehearsal of torture, the realtor participates in social vio­lence when she assures Gidi that he can purchase the ­house at a good price ­because it is surrounded by “Arab villages,” thereby introducing the racial prejudice that seeps into everyday transactions amongst middle-­class Israelis. The moral differences between the three men—­Micki, Gidi, and Dror—­ become blurred as the film intercuts the scenes of their preparations for their respective missions: Gidi bolts a chair to the basement floor and sets up torture tools, Dror bakes a cake laced with sedatives and pre­sents it to a girl wearing a tutu in his basement, and Micki tries out a Taser. In the next scene, in which Micki electrocutes Dror’s dog, the camera closes in on Gidi; even he is repulsed.

58 • Subversion

This shot further chips away at our identification with Micki, making us shift our perspective to Gidi. In fact, from that moment on, Gidi becomes the film’s protagonist, thus paying tribute to Hitchcock, Tarantino, and the Coen b­ rothers who play with narrative structure in a similar way.28 Sensing danger, Dror flees, setting into motion a chase through narrow alleys that parodies Hollywood action movies. ­Toward the end of the chase, Micki is out of breath, clutching his side: in the words of Papushado, he is now a “Schlubby Harry”—­a parody of Clint Eastwood’s invincible Dirty Harry.29 A truck stuck in a narrow pathway prevents Dror’s escape. The ­music adds to the comedy, as the bold tense score with ele­ments of the main motif is offset by contra bassoon and bass clarinets: in Keshales’s words, it “sounds almost like Hassidic ­music and renders the scale of that chase absurd.”30 The comedy ends when Micki takes the subdued Dror to a remote location in the woods and ­orders Dror to dig his own grave. As Micki points the gun at Dror, the film plays again with the moral standing of the characters when Dror is saved by Gidi’s sudden appearance. Gidi is now ready to break all laws to force Dror to confess where he buried his ­daughter’s severed head. Dror may have been the initial villain, but the circles of vio­lence keep spreading, as in Rabies. In fact, even though Gidi is bulky where Dror is skinny, they are not that dif­fer­ent. They are both balding middle-­aged men with thick eyeglasses wearing woolen sweaters. But under­neath his soft shawl-­neck cardigan, Gidi is as sadistic as Dror. His military background in Lebanon indicates as much. The filmmakers note, “­We’re all Rambo, ­we’re all Dirty Harry. That’s the biggest difference distinguishing us from the U.S. and genre films abroad. ­Because at the end of the day, every­one in this country has shot a gun.”31 Gidi gives Micki no choice but to become an accomplice. Dismissing Micki’s methods of extracting information from the suspect as insufficient, Gidi says the film’s most iconic line: “Maniacs are not scared of guns. Maniacs are scared of maniacs.” When Micki asks, “Do you want to play bad cop, good cop?” Gidi answers, “­There is no place for a good cop h ­ ere.” The two descend to the basement where Dror is bound to a chair like in the ­earlier scene. The visual repetition of techniques for ritualized torture retrospectively clues the audience to the film’s implication of a militarized masculinity. Incongruously, this chair is refashioned from a soft living room armchair, its domesticity contrasting with the office chair in the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs or the metal recliner in Save the Green Planet! (Jigureul jikyeora! 2003, Joon-­Hwan Jang), a South Korean horror-­sci-fi comedy. The film circles back to its motif of the disturbing connection of childhood to vio­lence. Gidi begins his “interrogation” by telling Dror a story of his crimes in the form of a fairy­tale about a big bad wolf, written as he says, by the Israeli police. The moment is both aggressive and intimate, as the camera shifts from a close-up of Gidi to reaction shots of the bound and gagged Dror. “Are you insane? It’s not me! You have to stop it!” he cries out the moment the gag is removed. “Sorry,” Micki plays along, “but I would like to know how this tale ends.” Gidi

A Korean Thriller in the Israeli Countryside • 59

continues with the “fairy­tale,” detailing its gruesome particulars, including pulled nails and the sawed-­off heads of ­little girls. The camera zooms in aggressively on Gidi, when he sums up his plan: “I’m ­going to do to you all the ­things you did to ­those poor girls. Fin­ger by fin­ger. Toenail by toenail. ­Until your head rolls onto the floor.” Once torture begins in earnest, Gidi and Micki take turns, each using his own approach and his own tools, chosen from a carefully arranged tray: hammers, pliers, and screwdrivers are repurposed into instruments of torture. Gidi and Micki joke throughout the torture, which adds to the sense of dark comedy and raises questions, probing our moral position: How can we laugh in the presence of extreme vio­lence? What if Dror is innocent? Trivial moments interrupt the torture, only prolonging the sadism. As Gidi is about to smash the bones in Dror’s hands with a hammer (echoing its gruesome use in Oldboy), his cell phone rings, and he takes a break to chat with his anxious, manipulative m ­ other (voiced by Rivka Michaeli). Like the two other significant female characters—­Dror’s wife (Sarah Adler) and Micki’s wife (Vered Fedelman)—­she is pre­sent only as an offscreen voice, an acousmêtre, using Michel Chion’s term. Normally, the use of an acousmêtre in a film increases suspense and audience involvement.32 But in Big Bad Wolves ­these female acousmêtres signal that the action takes place in the men’s world, in which ­women are literally unseen. Yet that does not mean that they are powerless or ­free of responsibility for vio­lence. The ­mother’s voice (acousmother, in Chion’s neologism)33 in Big Bad Wolves plays with both the horror trope of telephone voices terrorizing victims and the comedic trope of an overbearing Jewish ­mother. Gidi is no victim, but when his ­mother calls, her voice reduces him to a guilty child who offers weak excuses for not inviting her over. Like in Psycho, the voice of the m ­ other seems to be omniscient and omnipotent.34 Without being physically pre­sent, Gidi’s ­mother can surmise details about his life and use them to exert her influence. Not reassured by Gidi’s claims that he is well, she dispatches his f­ ather Yoram (Dovale Glickman) to check on him. The juxtaposition of torture and meddling parents results in the funniest—­but also darkest—­moments in Big Bad Wolves. Dark comedy also unfolds in a scene when Gidi goes upstairs to bake a cake, which he laces with sedatives to replicate the way Dror drugged his young victims. To sharpen the contrast with the subterranean world in the basement, the ground-­f loor scene of baking a cake in a sunlit kitchen is accompanied by the song “Everyday” by Buddy Holly (1957). The upbeat tune playing in such proximity to torture echoes the use of ­popular m ­ usic in Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs. When Gidi is about to extract Dror’s toenails with plyers, a kitchen timer goes off to remind him to remove the cake from the oven, emphasizing again how extreme vio­lence is an integral part of everyday life. “I’ll be right back,” Gidi tells Dror with a cynical politeness. Indeed, he returns momentarily and proceeds with the torture. In the next scene, Gidi takes a longer break. He sits on his porch rolling a cigarette, when a man approaches on a ­horse to the swell of romantic ­music. The

60 • Subversion

scene echoes a Western mise-­en-­scène, creating an expectation of conflict. The film heightens this expectation when the rider (Kais Nashif) greets Gidi in Arabic. Within the universe of Israeli film, he is a Palestinian invader; yet he only wants to bum a cigarette. “­Here, take mine,” offers Gidi. The rider takes one drag and returns the cigarette to Gidi. “That’s it,” he says in Hebrew. “My wife ­doesn’t allow me to smoke.” Although this encounter seems inconsequential to the plot, it is a key scene. As the filmmakers recall, “We wanted to make fun of the way Israeli cinema portrays Arabs, e­ ither as perpetrators or as victims. ­ ere is a story of three Israelis who torture They are always part of the conflict. H one another, and ­there comes an Arab, who is a character from a Spaghetti Western. In this violent film, the most peaceful idyllic scene is between an Israeli and an Arab, and they smoke a peace pipe.”35 This nod to the Western is particularly ironic given the roots of my­thol­ogy of the Wild West in the Orientalist accounts of the ­Middle East written by nineteenth-­century American travel writers.36 In Big Bad Wolves, the trope of the American cowboy, with an ­ orse­men as its global antecedent, comes full circle. Arab h As Gidi returns to the basement, he is interrupted by his ­father Yoram, who arrives at his door, chicken soup in hand. Glickman’s appearance creates an expectation (at least for the Israeli public) for humor.37 But this film, even if Glickman is funny, remains a very dark comedy. In fact, the brutality of torture escalates when Yoram joins the interrogation. He takes the place of Micki, whom Gidi demoted from accomplice to hostage and has chained next to Dror. The ease with which a victimizer becomes the victimized shows the arbitrary nature of vio­lence. In his turn as torturer, Yoram offers to conduct “a fire test,” something he learned in his army ­service. “They ­don’t teach you anything in the army ­these days,” he teases his son. This is a satire not so much of the IDF but of the pervasive culture of militarism in Israeli civilian life, an impor­tant theme in Israeli horror. The filmmakers comment, “Our grand­fathers and grand­mothers ­here know from their time in the Palmach [paramilitary ­organization preceding the IDF] ­things that ­we’ve never ­imagined.”38 Vio­lence becomes a hobby through which ­father and son bond, literally passing a blowtorch between generations. Calling his son by the affectionate nickname, Yoram asks him for a blowtorch. Gidi places the tool into his ­father’s outstretched hand. Yoram lights it up and burns a deep wound in Dror’s chest, in a frontal shot. Micki looks away. Even Gidi winces. But Yoram inhales wistfully, saying “I could go on like this all night!” The smell of burning flesh reminds him of the barbequed meat he misses since his wife forced a vegetarian diet on him. Echoing Tarantino’s mix of vio­lence and comedy, the scene challenges our morals and tempts us to laugh at barbarity. ­Under the duress of torture, Dror falsely confesses that he hid the severed head of Gidi’s d­ aughter in an abandoned green­house near the school. Gidi then rushes off to the green­house. He enters the deserted space and starts to dig. Even as the ­music rises to a crescendo, we know that he ­will find nothing. The sequence

A Korean Thriller in the Israeli Countryside • 61

replicates the mise-­en-­scène in I Saw the ­Devil: Gidi turns on the lights in the green­house exactly like the serial killer does in that film. Keshalis and Papushado use the green­house setting not only to pay tribute to the film that influenced them but also to satirize Israeli ideals: “­There is something very Israeli in the land, in the green­house, in growing ­things, and conversely in showing it completely dead. . . . ​That place says cemetery, cemetery for dreams, cemetery for the Zionist dream.”39 The image of the empty green­house disavows the Zionist dictum of “making the desert bloom.” As Gidi is digging in the green­house, another darkly comedic scene unfolds back in the basement when Yoram receives a phone call from his wife Malka (“queen” in Hebrew). Her voice has the super­natural power of the acousmêtre: without being pre­sent at the scene, she can detect infractions such as smoking or forgetting to take a pill. Nagged by her to take his pills, Yoram eats a slice of the drugged cake to avoid taking medi­cation on an empty stomach. Soon, he collapses. This is the first instance when Gidi’s revenge backfires, foreshadowing darker developments. When Gidi returns from his futile mission, he finds his ­father unconscious and Micki gone. Micki escaped on a ­children’s bike; his awkward getaway both parodies an action movie (like the ­earlier chase) and harkens back to the theme of childhood. On his way, Micki runs into the Palestinian rider from before. Micki automatically stops and raises his hands. Shown at a low a­ ngle in the warm light of a streetlamp, the rider looks like a romantic hero. “Good e­ vening,” he says. “Why do you Jews always think we want to kill you?” he continues, providing a not-­ unreasonable real­ity check to both Micki and the Israeli audience. “You know how it is,” says Micki, and asks him w ­ hether he has a cellphone. “Why s­ houldn’t I have it? ­Because we are primitive?” “No,” deflects Micki, “it’s us who are primitive.” Like the sociopath in Rabies, Micki expresses the position of the filmmakers. As Papushado told me, “This is the only place where we go on rec­ord with our philosophy.”40 It is also a moment when they can Hebraize the genre and break down Israeli expectations: “In this unrealistic revenge film, we bring in the Israeli real­ity with conflict. But through the back door, not the usual way. And it creates a dramatic moment—we treat the Arab with racism, but he comes to help.”41 The film’s critical impulse, however, is ­limited. Even though the Palestinian rider ­here is not brandishing a Kalashnikov or a set of explosives, the film still pre­sents Palestinians—or “Arabs” in Zionist parlance—as the Other, much like the “noble savage” in classic Hollywood Westerns. The “noble Palestinian” has no history, no name, and barely any dialogue. An instrumental character, his presence only serves to prompt the Israeli audience to rethink their racist assumptions. From a call he makes on the borrowed cellphone, Micki learns that his own ­daughter is missing. He has repeated Gidi’s error: distracted by his pursuit of the pedophile, he neglected to pick his ­daughter up from ballet class, thereby making it pos­si­ble for her to be abducted. He runs back to the cabin, but by the time

62 • Subversion

he arrives, it is too late. Frustrated by the failure of his interrogation, Gidi saws through Dror’s throat, replicating the brutality with which the girls’ heads ­were severed. Fountains of blood spray out of his neck. In the last moments when Dror is still alive, Micki pleads with him, “Where did you hide my ­daughter?” Dror no longer can speak, but Micki asks for paper and pencil. At the most intense moment, when the pencil is placed in his hand, Dror drops it, and the camera shifts to his face. With a sly smile, Dror’s head drops. The hope to find the abducted girl dies with him. At that moment the film confirms not only that Dror was the murderer but also that the abduction of a girl who, we understand now, is Micki’s ­daughter, was his act of revenge. The camera rises to reveal Dror’s bloody corpse and Yoram, Gidi, and Micki standing motionless, as in a memento mori tableau; it then floats away to travel through a narrow basement hallway ­until it cuts to a shot of another basement, this one in Dror’s ­house. In the final scene, the film returns to the hide-­and-­seek motif introduced in the prologue. Rami, casually holding a coffee cup, searches that basement looking for the final victim, Micki’s d­ aughter. He fails to find her and leaves. As Rami shuts the door b­ ehind him, the camera traverses the wall to reveal a hidden chamber, where the girl remains, drugged and alone, still in a tutu. The devastating finale is not mitigated by comedy. The filmmakers recall receiving the predictable pressure from the producers to have an uplifting ending.42 They resisted. In Big Bad Wolves, the ending powerfully indicts Israeli institutions, not just the police and the army but also the entire system of militant masculinity that underlies them. The satire frames Israel as a society of violent but ineffectual men who fail their wives, ­mothers, and ­daughters. In this way, the film conveys a bleak image of Israeli society and institutions, continuing the critique of structural vio­lence introduced in Rabies. Yet, this harsh critique remains somewhat insular, continuing an internal Israeli conversation about their own violent state. The only “outsider,” the Arab ­horse­man, has no narrative opportunity to shift the conversation. Instead, the film offers a space for liberal Israelis to identify with Micki (and with the filmmakers) and to feel good about themselves and their progressive politics. In that, the film continues the long-­standing Israeli cinematic convention to focalize the narrative through Israeli Jewish protagonists and to show them as critical of vio­lence as they are committing it (a kind of “shooting and crying”), rather than engaging with the Palestinian question, which is at the root of the societal vio­lence in Israel/Palestine.43 Like Rabies, despite its subversion of cinematic realism, Big Bad Wolves does not entirely transgress local cinematic conventions. Po­liti­cally, it remains a fundamentally Israeli film.

Reception: Tarantino’s Favorite Big Bad Wolves premiered not in Israel, like Rabies did, but at the Tribeca Film Festival in New York City on April 21, 2013. Papushado recalls, “It ­wasn’t in a

A Korean Thriller in the Israeli Countryside • 63

midnight screening ­there, like Rabies, but in a regular slot, where the films by established filmmakers are shown. We ­were very apprehensive, ­because we ­were afraid that they are waiting for Rabies 2. But ­after the premiere we saw that it’s even bigger, that it was more accessible to the audience.”44 The trade press agreed. The Hollywood Reporter stated, “Big Bad Wolves is mesmerizing from start to finish.”45 IndieWire’s noted, “Papushado and Keshales direct this ­thing beautifully, weaving dark humor and philosophical and p­ olitical unrest. . . . ​­There are details and moments in the film that d­ on’t just linger; they downright haunt.”46 By the time the film had its Israeli release on August 15, 2013, Big Bad Wolves had been screened at the Stanley Festival in Colorado and Fantasia in Montreal (where it won Best Film and Best Screenplay) and was about to play at genre film festivals in the United Kingdom, Germany, France, and Canada. The jury statement of Fantasia read, “With ele­ments of horror, crime thriller, revenge drama, and wicked black comedy, Big Bad Wolves takes genre-­bending to bold new levels. This sense of originality, along with its subversive ­political subtext, assured visual style, and impeccable ensemble cast, is what separates the film from the rest of the pack.”47 Triumphs abroad created buzz at home: even before the official release, Big Bad Wolves was screened at several events at museums and cinematheques, as well as at the Utopia festival, attracting scores of genre fans. With the wide release, the general public followed. Nearly 50,000 p­ eople saw the film in theaters, making it by far the most p­ opular local horror film in Israel.48 From the first reviews it was clear that Big Bad Wolves had broken new ground in Israeli cinema. Yair Raveh of the entertainment weekly Pnai Plus wrote, “It does not look like anything I’ve seen in Israel.” The film shocked him with its horror coming “from the most real, darkest, and most frightening places.”49 Uri Klein of Haaretz called Big Bad Wolves “a milestone in the history of Israeli cinema.” Moreover, he recognized the film for its sharp social satire, which went “to the place of horror in the heart of Israeli pre­sent experiences.”50 Other reviewers followed suit, celebrating the film for cultivating the local horror genre and for its social criticism. Shmulik Duvdevani of Yediot Aharonot interpreted the basement in the film as “an expression of the Israeli unconscious,” testifying to a society that “lives in a constant state of threat and paranoia.”51 Similarly, Yishai Kiczales of Israel Hayom wrote, “Big Bad Wolves digs in the dark cellars of Israeli society.”52 Benjamin Tovias, another Yediot Aharonot critic, pointed out that despite its international influences, Big Bad Wolves is a very Israeli film: “It’s no less relevant than a film about Lebanon. And no less bloody.”53 Yael Abraham of Maariv described Big Bad Wolves as “a semi-­oxymoronic, comedic horror-­thriller, which fits Israeli tastes.”54 Critics who missed the film’s social commentary still praised it as “fun and escapist”55 or “fun and entertaining.”56 ­There ­were very few dissenters. Even Hannah Brown of the Jerusalem Post and Meir Schnitzer of Sofshavua, who both slammed Rabies, relented this time. “Big Bad Wolves is a much better film, far better written and more intricately

64 • Subversion

plotted than Rabies,” Brown wrote. “A huge improvement,” agreed Schnitzer. Both, however, complained about its graphic vio­lence: “Only hard-­core horror junkies ­will be able to sit through it,”57 decried Brown. Big Bad Wolves can serve as “a basic guide to the beginning sadist,” wrote Schnitzer.58 A barrage of interviews with the filmmakers and cast, and reports from the festivals, often lavishly illustrated with full-­spread photo­g raphs, bolstered the film’s standing and its creators’ celebrity status.59 But the strongest evidence for the Big Bad Wolves’ positive reception was its winning Israeli Film Critics Association awards in the Best Film and Best Director categories. Even the Israeli film establishment acknowledged the film’s accomplishments. Big Bad Wolves was nominated for Ophirs, the Israeli Acad­emy Awards, in eleven categories—­and not only for best makeup like Rabies. The acad­emy did not, however, nominate it for Best Picture, thus disqualifying it from representing Israel at the Oscars. Ultimately, Big Bad Wolves won Ophir Awards for art direction, sound, cinematography, ­music, and makeup. Big Bad Wolves continued its triumphant run on the festival cir­cuit, winning awards at such prestigious venues as Fantasporto in Portugal (Best Director, Best Actor), and the Sitges Film Festival in Spain (Best Director). More significantly, it won awards for Best International Film and Best ­Music at the Saturn Awards held by the American Acad­emy of Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror Films, popularly known as the genre films’ Oscars. But possibly the highest award did not come from a jury. On October 11, 2013, Big Bad Wolves was featured in the Busan Film Festival ­ orea. During the post-­screening Q&A, Quentin Tarantino took the in South K microphone to say, “This is not only the best film of Busan; it is the best film of the year.”60 Not only did e­ very horror fan website and trade newspaper report Tarantino’s praise but also so did ­every Israeli news outlet. The quote made it into the film posters and DVD covers. In Israel, Keshales and Papushado became national heroes. With Tarantino’s endorsement, the film received international distribution with Magnet, the genre arm of Magnolia Pictures. The directors’ statement spelled out their ­political platform: “Existential anxiety serves as Israel’s foundation and attempts to define and reinforce the legitimacy of the state: a fear of terrorist activities, primarily kidnappings, unremitting feelings of being persecuted, inherent intolerance and macho be­hav­ior topped with a historical craving for vengeance create an ideal breeding ground for extreme actions and subsequent reactions.”61 What in Israel was taken for granted needed to be spelled out for international critics and audiences. Big Bad Wolves went on to theatrical releases in several countries, including the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Italy, Rus­sia, and Japan, followed by DVD release. Like Rabies, Big Bad Wolves found fans across the world, even in unexpected places such as Turkey and Iran. Along with Rabies, it is one of the few Israeli films circulating in the Arab world with Arabic

A Korean Thriller in the Israeli Countryside • 65

subtitles. Although ­these versions are pirated, their circulation is still remarkable in places where Israel films are normally boycotted. However, even though Big Bad Wolves did extremely well at specialized festivals and with genre film fans, its mainstream reception was more ambivalent. Tarantino’s imprimatur backfired. A review at the reputable Roger Ebert website sneered, “So it must be some comfort to the auteur to find that Tarantino-­aping ­hasn’t died out entirely; it just moved to Israel.”62 Variety commented that Tarantino’s praise of Big Bad Wolves as the best film of the year was “a ridicu­ lous claim that sells his own work rather short.”63 The Telegraph in the United Kingdom took the same tone: “The Israeli revenge thriller Big Bad Wolves arrives on ­these shores with a full-­throated endorsement from Quentin Tarantino, who called it the best picture of the year. It resoundingly ­isn’t . . . ​the film is gory, mean-­spirited, it feels very long, and carries its moral like an albatross around the neck.”64 Manohla Dargis of the New York Times quipped, “A foul tale foully told.”65 But enough critics liked the film to make Big Bad Wolves a critical success outside of Israel.66 It achieved a 77% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes.67 IndieWire featured it in its list of the best foreign-­language films of 2014.68 What distinguished the critical response to Big Bad Wolves in the United States and United Kingdom was that in ­those markets, it was understood as a thriller, whereas in Israel it was unequivocally read as horror. Additionally, some critics read the film as a commentary on so-­called enhanced interrogation, comparing it to Prisoners (2013, Denis Villeneuve) and Zero Dark Thirty (2012, Kathryn Bigelow), which dealt with torture. Big Bad Wolves made c­ areers and cemented reputations. The soundtrack, by Haim Frank Ilfman, came out not only as a CD and a digital release but also on vinyl (2014, Death Waltz Recording), a unique accomplishment for an Israeli film. Giora Bejach, Arad Sawat, Asaf Korman, and other crew went on to work on significant Israeli and international films. As for Keshales and Papushado, Hollywood came calling. They took part in ABCs of Death 2 (2014), an international horror anthology. Keshales’s and Papushado’s contribution, the dark comedy F Is for Falling, featured a mordant encounter between an IDF female soldier and a Palestinian child, subverting the ­stereotypical repre­sen­ta­tions of ­ usic. Israelis and Palestinians. Haim Frank Ilfman wrote the m Ultimately, several Hollywood proj­ects fell through.69 Soon ­after, Keshales and Papushado went their separate ways to work on their own proj­ects. As of this writing, Papushado has released Gunpowder Milkshake (2021, US, France, Germany), an action thriller starring Karen Gillan and Lena Headey. Keshales has released South of Heaven (2021), a crime drama with Jason Sudeikis. “In general,” says Papushado, “we want to make movies of e­ very genre—­romcom, sci-fi, real horror—­depends on what and where you are in life.”70

Part 2

Conversion

4

Horror in the IDF Horror films are often understood as a reflection of cultural anx­i­eties and national concerns. It should come as no surprise, then, that nearly e­ very New Israeli Horror film engages with the subject of the army and militarism. The Israel Defense Forces is central to the plots of the four films featured in this chapter: Poisoned (Muralim, 2011, Didi Lubetzky), Cannon Fodder aka ­Battle of the Undead (Basar tutakhim, 2013, Eitan Gafny), Freak Out (Mesuvag harig, 2015, Boaz Armoni), and The Damned (Mekulalim, 2018, Evgeny Ruman). ­These films have much in common. They thematize the connection between vio­lence and toxic masculinity. They locate the source of horror within the Israeli military and not in an outside threat. And they set familiar zombie, slasher, or ghost narratives at an IDF base, a paradigmatic Israeli setting. In so ­doing, ­these films follow the conversion strategy of adaptation, transplanting horror conventions to a recognizable Israeli real­ity. In this chapter, I discuss how Poisoned and Cannon Fodder adapt the zombie outbreak scenario, Freak Out adapts a slasher narrative, and The Damned adapts a ghost story. We can thus read ­these films through the lenses of Israeli culture and genre convention.

The ­People’s Army In Israel, the army is a national institution that does much more than provide security. It is a so-­called ­people’s army: “an entry­way into normative Israeliness and the epitome of citizenship.”1 Its disproportionately large role has led sociologists to conclude that Israel’s ­political culture has a military orientation. Baruch Kimmerling calls militarism a central ­organizing princi­ple of Israeli 69

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society,2 and Uri Ben-­Eliezer shows how military thinking seeps into and dominates everyday life in Israel.3 It is so dominant ­because the majority of Jewish ­ omen, serve in the army, as do Druze and Circassians.4 Israelis, both men and w ­Those who are exempt—­Palestinian citizens of Israel, ultra-­Orthodox yeshiva students, and conscientious objectors—­are marginalized. Thus, the IDF functions as a power­ful mechanism of inclusion and exclusion and as a marker of identity, reflecting one’s class, race, gender, religion, and politics. Military ­service in Israel is normalized as a “natu­ral” stage in one’s life, marking the transition from youth to adulthood.5 Beginning with one’s assignment to a military unit, army s­ ervice has far-­reaching consequences for the rest of one’s life, c­ areer, and social networks.6 Combat units enjoy the highest status. Below them are support units. At the bottom are jobniks, a derogatory term for soldiers with desk or menial jobs.7 Even though army ideals of heroism and sacrifice are based on the experiences of combatants, most soldiers serve in noncombat roles. Increasingly, t­ hese ideals lag b­ ehind real­ity. Since the 1973 War, Ashkenazi middle-­class recruits, who traditionally formed the elite and the backbone of the army, have demonstrated a decreased motivation to serve.8 Young Israelis began questioning the army’s status and legitimacy even more ­after the 1982 Lebanon War and seem to f­ avor personal goals and fulfillment over sacrifice for the nation.9 The increased unwillingness to volunteer for combat assignments and declining enlistment numbers are ­matters of concern for the IDF. IDF s­ ervice is mandated for both men and w ­ omen, reflecting the value of gender equality and the Zionist ideals of creating a “new society.”10 Yet men are overrepresented in the higher echelons of command, serve longer, and maintain ties to the army as reservists for years a­ fter active duty. Thus, their lives and identities are more profoundly affected by military ­service than are ­women’s. ­Going beyond ­these pragmatic considerations, the army is a masculine institution, in which the warrior is a key symbol of masculinity and participating in combat is seen as a means of achieving and proving one’s manhood.11 The IDF is therefore a masochistic and male-­oriented subculture.12 Army training is geared t­ oward mastery of the body and control of one’s emotions so that they can be used in ­battle. Naturally, New Israeli Horror films set in the IDF are preoccupied with questions of masculinity and vio­lence. The first two such films feature zombies that serve as a symbol of dehumanization and a vehicle for social critique.

Zombies in Fatigues: Poisoned and Cannon Fodder Poisoned Poisoned, which premiered in 2011, was the second Israeli horror film ­after Rabies and the first Israeli zombie film. Like other Israeli horror filmmakers, its director, Didi Lubetzky (b. 1978), grew up in the 1980s as an avid genre movie fan. He attended Film School at Tel Aviv University, went to the Hamorotheque

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screenings, and became friends with fellow genre lovers. It was with t­ hese friends that he came up with an idea for a horror thriller about a zombie outbreak at an army base. By 2007, he had developed that idea into a trailer made for the “­Dying to See” competition sponsored by the cable channel HOT-­Prime. ­A fter the trailer aired, Lubetzky continued developing the script and de­cided to turn it into his graduation proj­ect. At that point, he asked a friend from school, a young screenwriter Yael Oron, to help with editing. Oron, a rare ­woman in the Israeli horror scene, was also a part of the Hamorotheque cohort. She recalls, “­There was this nice period of flourishing horror, ­after Rabies—­every­thing was ‘the first’! We watched each other’s films and we talked about them, and about the ­future of horror genre in Israel.”13 They discussed adapting horror for Israeli screen: What would make a horror film feel Israeli? Oron recalls her answer: “Fear has to be something that Israelis r­ eally are afraid of—it has to reflect the real-­life horror ­here.”14 A horror film set at an IDF base tapped into au­then­tic Israeli fears. Another issue for young filmmakers was funding: “How do you create tension and horror with no ­budget and with minimal special effects?”15 Oron suggested they turn Lubetzky’s serious script into a comedy. Using humor would make the film’s imperfections part of the fun. But even a comedy needed a b­ udget. Initially, the film school rejected Lubetzky’s application for funding. But ­after he received a grant from Israeli commercial ­television, the university and the Rabinovich Foundation came on board.16 Even with this support, Lubetzky had to invest his own funds, and the cast and crew had to work for ­free.17 They shot the film in one location, a defunct army base near Herzliya, in seventeen days.18 But like other Israeli i­ ndependent productions, the shooting period was staggered over a year b­ ecause of a lack of money and resources. Between Shaun of the Dead and Halfon Hill D ­ oesn’t Answer. Poisoned was inspired by Lubetzky’s own army ­service, especially the time he spent at a remote base near the border with Lebanon.19 In the film, the protagonist Danny (David Shaul) is also stationed at a remote base, where he is a maintenance worker. When a routine vaccination goes wrong and an elite commando unit turns into zombies, he must rise to the occasion and ­battle an army of flesh-­eating monsters. Along the way he undergoes a transformation from victim to hero, earns the re­spect of his military ace ­father, and almost gets the girl. Like other Israeli horror filmmakers, Lubetzky looked for ways to adapt the genre to the local real­ity. “I like to take a genre that’s very American, with its ­ ere and see how Israelis respond to the sitown rules and conventions, plant it h uation,” he explained.20 In contrast to Keshales and Papushado, who explore how familiar horror tropes are transformed when transposed to Israeli real­ity, Lubetzky and Oron kept the tropes intact and changed only the setting. As Oron points out, “To make Israeli horror, we need to develop Israeli characters in

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recognizable Israeli situations like an army base, or Tzofim (Israeli scouts), or a kibbutz, but especially the army—­it’s a universal experience that every­one goes through ­here.”21 Yet Lubetzky’s model was not military films: “A lot of American horror movies are set in high school and college, which are formative experiences for many Americans. So, for me it was an obvious move to take this style and transfer it to the IDF.”22 The army base in Poisoned is structured like a high school campus in American films and TV, with nerds, bullies, hot girls, and an evil principal. In addition to the IDF setting, Lubetzky wanted “to take the American tradition of holiday films and Israelize it.”23 In the same way in which Hollywood horror films are thematized around Halloween or Christmas, Lubetzky envisioned Poisoned as a Passover film. Passover, the holiday memorializing the ancient Israelites’ liberation from slavery in Egypt, is uniquely suited for this role. First, it is a major Jewish holiday that the Zionist movement appropriated as a story of national redemption. It is also a holiday associated with the Ten Plagues, a series of disasters bestowed by God on the Egyptians in response to Pha­raoh’s refusal to liberate the Israelites, making it a kind of a horror story. Fi­nally, Passover in everyday Israeli culture is a time for ­family gatherings. And like Thanksgiving or Christmas in the United States, its familial associations are both positive and negative. The film actualizes the Passover theme through plot, dialogue, and ­music as a put-­upon protagonist strug­gles for liberation. That he strug­g les against zombies offers opportunities for humor and parody, which are impor­tant components of the film in line with the con­temporary trend of horror comedies. Lubetzky and his team ­were influenced by zombie “splatstick” comedies of the late 1980s and early 1990s, especially Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead franchise.24 They wanted an entertaining and funny film without a p­ olitical agenda.25 However, by setting the zombie film at an IDF base on Passover, the film invites p­ olitical interpretations. The film’s title hints at a militaristic theme: in Hebrew, the meaning of the term mur’alim is ambiguous, referring both to someone who is literally poisoned and, in army slang, to hard-­core army enthusiasts “who have been ‘poisoned’ with the desire for combat and prepared for it accordingly.”26 In this way, the title hints that the army is itself a poison that turns ­people into zombies. “Zombies fit the structure of an o­ rganization that works on obedience and a blind pursuit of something,” said Lubetzky, but, he clarified, “­T here was no intention of commenting about the occupation or anything ­else. The army is a means in the film to clarify what the hero is ­going through.”27 When ­later the film was interpreted as a leftist critique, the filmmakers w ­ ere surprised.28 Like several other films of New Israeli Horror, Poisoned delivers its social satire despite the filmmakers’ intentions. While “Israelizing” horror tropes, Lubetzky pays tribute to his favorite horror, action, and comedy films. The filmmakers characterize Poisoned as “zom-­ rom-­com,” or zombie romantic comedy, in the style of Edgar Wright’s Shaun of

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the Dead (2004).29 Like Shaun, Lubetzky’s Danny is an unlikely hero, forced to grow up and take responsibility in the face of a zombie apocalypse. Poisoned relies on humor that is “character oriented, notably verbal . . . ​, and situational.”30 Lubetzky’s film also draws on Wright’s cinematic style, with long carefully planned shots with dynamic action, constant movement in and out of the frames, fast zooms, and jump cuts that generate visual humor. Poisoned is also influenced by Die Hard (1988, John McTiernan), the American action movie starring Bruce Willis. Die Hard is set on Christmas just as Poisoned is set on Passover and features a character who is r­ unning away from the ­battle ­until he has no choice but to stay and fight. “Danny goes through the same transformation as John McClane, and even similar wardrobe changes,” commented Lubetzky.31 Tributes to other genre films, especially Westerns and action movies, are scattered throughout Poisoned as well, signaling its preoccupation with the theme of masculinity. But Poisoned also pays tribute to Israeli films. Hill Halfon ­Doesn’t Answer (Giv’at halfon eina ona,1976, Assi Dayan), a paradigmatic army comedy with ele­ ments of the bourekas genre, was particularly influential. In Hill Halfon, a remote desert army base becomes a setting for madcap events, undermining the army’s serious image ­shaped by ­earlier dramas. But it also normalizes the army as a natu­ral part of the Israeli social landscape, demilitarizing and depoliticizing it. Hill Halfon introduces recognizable signifiers of army life for comedic effect. Its iconic dialogue, a mash-up of army slang and idiosyncratic malapropisms, contributes to Hill Halfon’s tremendous popularity. Poisoned also draws on an army setting for over-­the-­top comedy and on the IDF’s unique argot for its dialogue, where army-­speak is interspersed with catchphrases from American classics. A ­later comedy, Driks’ ­Brother (Akh shel driks, 1994, Ori Inbar and Doron Tsabari), features a mild, unheroic protagonist Shlomo (Tal Friedman) bullied by his fellow ser­vicemen and abused by his superiors. More realistic and less buffoonish than Hill Halfon, Driks’ ­Brother was influential as a satire of army mores, establishing the trope of a weakling soldier who at the end finds his backbone and asserts himself in the face of adversity. Poisoned echoes Driks’ ­Brother in themes, setting, mise-­en-­scène, and even cast. Zombifying the IDF. In a typical trope of horror comedy, Poisoned features an unheroic protagonist who ends up saving the day. The opening sequence introduces Danny’s ­father, Bino Aharonovitz, who in 1982 killed forty-­seven e­ nemy combatants with nothing but his commando knife and still asked for “more martyrs.” The year 1982 refers to the Lebanon War, the first Israeli war fought without governmental and societal consensus. Causing both heavy Israeli losses and civilian casualties in Lebanon, the war provoked opposition domestically and throughout the world. In Israel, it impaired trust between civilian society and the military, undermined the IDF’s image as a moral and humane army, and marked

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a moment of disillusionment in the national unity in Israel.32 This is the army that Bino Aharonovitz represents. In contrast to his macho ­father, Danny’s only “weapons” are his garden tools. He cuts himself on his shears, yelps, and sucks on his fin­ger. While other soldiers on this commando base engage in aggressive hypermasculine training, he trims the bushes while humming ABBA’s 1976 hit “Dancing Queen,” signaling his dis­ usic reinforces this contrast throughout the film. tance from alpha maleness. M Danny’s appearances are accompanied by a nine-­note major key theme, which sounds whimsical and gentle but swells in moments of action. Other characters have their own themes. Menny, the sadistic commandant, is introduced with car­ usic. The old-­school Zionist songs known as Israeli folk ­music toonish military m accompany other soldiers on the base. The score’s recurring theme combines an Ennio Morricone-­style spaghetti western motif with a traditional Passover “Four Questions” tune, which adds to the comedy and to the “conversion” of the genre. Danny’s inferior status at the base is confirmed when his fellow soldier Ben Dov (Yehuda Fridman) headbutts him. “How is this Aharonovitz’s son?” he asks his friend as Danny lays on the ground, wiping his bloody nose. Danny’s emasculation is confirmed when he glimpses Ma­ya (Orna Shifris), his high school crush, who arrives at the base to vaccinate soldiers. He panics and escapes to a storage shack where he finds Shauli (Artur Perry), his only friend on the base. But even Shauli acts in line with codes of masculinity and misogyny. He naps ­under a sign advertising Marlboro cigarettes, sitting with his feet up on the t­ able like a sheriff in a Western, and occasionally muttering, “I’m too old for this shit,” a catchphrase from the American action comedy Lethal Weapon (1987, Richard Donner). To encourage Danny to ask Ma­ya out, Shauli slaps him and gives him a motivational speech, interspersing army slogans and slang, in the style of Hill Halfon dialogue: “What ­doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. What kills you, makes your ­mother stronger”—­a cynical take on Nietz­sche’s famous line, “From the war school of life—­what ­doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” A true bastion of masculinity on the base is the office of the commander Menny (Rudi Saada). Its walls are decorated with portraits of his heroes—­ generals, politicians, and athletes—­and with award plaques. Ironically, the awards are for best maintenance, which is Danny’s job. Before Menny sends Danny on a series of absurd cleaning tasks, an army version of Passover cleaning, he denies Danny’s transfer request. Echoing a similar scene in Driks’ ­Brother, Menny tears up Danny’s request. “From this base,” he explains, “one can get out ­either in a coffin or with a psychiatrist.” Filmed in threatening close-­ups, the scene emphasizes Menny’s combative masculinity. The ­actual horror starts when Danny reports to Menny’s office ­after hours. He sees Menny’s secretary Rona (Magi Azarzar) performing what he thinks is oral sex. Mortified, he turns to exit, stopping when Rona slams her hand on the desk and lifts her head. She is chewing something bloody. Danny runs out to see the courtyard full of zombified soldiers, dripping with blood and saliva.

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Danny’s encounters with the zombies playfully engage with zombie tropes and satirize the Israeli army. When Rona advances at him in an iconic zombie walk, he points a gun at her and shouts in Arabic, “Stop, or I’ll shoot!” His IDF training to fight the Arab ­enemy clearly fails in the face of the new threat. That idea is further developed when Danny tries to radio for help, saying, “The secretary ate the commandant . . . ​over,” before cutting himself off. As is typical in a horror film, he realizes that no one ­will believe him. He regroups, assumes a more masculine, in-­control voice, and, instead of a zombie outbreak, reports a terrorist. In t­ hese scenes, the traditional e­ nemy of Israeli war films—an Arab militant, a Palestinian terrorist—is conspicuously absent. Instead, the horror stems from within the army as an institution, with its soldiers zombified or “poisoned” by the army’s cult of masculinity and militarism. In fact, viewers ­later learn that the zombie outbreak originated when the army distributed spoiled vaccine against super-­rabies. The vaccine gone wrong is a common trope in zombie films, but the targeted disease alludes to Papushado and Keshales’s title, Rabies. Nothing much changes for the soldiers a­ fter they turn into zombies. They are a slow-­moving herd, ­going through the motions out of habit. They keep working on their training exercises, zombie-­walking through an obstacle course. Rona ­ omen’s position in is still performing oral sex on Menny—­a clear jab at w the army. Danny also acts exactly as he did before the outbreak: he continues to try to fit in. When he runs into Ben Dov, his main abuser, Danny rolls back his eyes, tilts his head, and growls. This is both a satire of army mores and another nod to Shaun of the Dead, where the characters imitate zombies to blend in (figure 4.1). Like Shaun, Danny ­will mature throughout the film. His transformation starts in a storage shack, his only safe place. He takes off his army shirt,

FIGURE 4.1  ​Danny and the zombified Ben Dov. (Courtesy of Didi Lubetzky.)

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remaining in a white tank top, like Bruce Willis’s character John McClane in Die Hard, and climbs up through a trapdoor. His short climb parodies the escapes through ventilation shafts in Die Hard or Dawn of the Dead. But, as Danny pops up on the roof, he sees a zombie ­there. The zombie belches and throws a half-­eaten foot into Danny’s face. When he ducks and his tank top is stained with blood, Danny looks both like a parody of an action hero and of a  “muscle Jew” of the ­earlier Zionist ideals. The change in costume and his ­baptism by blood signal that his transformation has begun. It continues when he  catches Ma­ya’s voice on the radio and starts coordinating an escape plan with her. As in Rabies, the telephone is used to show the failure of communication. First, Danny’s attempt to call t­ hose in command comically fails, when he gets a message: “Your place in line is number 40 . . . ​7.” His attempt to call his f­ ather goes equally wrong. When his ­mother answers the phone, instead of listening to ­ hether he has eaten. Her voice is that of the overbearhim, all she does is ask w ing Jewish m ­ other, similar to the acousmother in Big Bad Wolves and Freak Out. ­ ere slaves, and It is heard over the sounds of a ­family seder, with the song, “We w now we are ­free,” reinforcing the film’s Passover theme. When Danny fi­nally succeeds in getting his f­ ather on the line, he does not listen e­ ither. But for the first time, Danny stands up to him. “Listen to me,” he says, “­people are ­dying ­here!” Danny’s call is interrupted when the zombified Shauli rises up from ­behind him in a classic horror shot. Danny and Shauli, blood dripping from his mouth, are shown in a two shot face to face, as Shauli slaps Danny on the cheek, like in the ­earlier scene. (The same actions are repeated before and ­after soldiers become zombies, like in Shaun of the Dead.) Danny shoots Shauli in the head: this is his first kill, but it is also a moment of crisis. Danny is ready to give up. He tells Ma­ya on the radio, “I ­couldn’t deal with them even before they turned into monsters! My f­ ather thinks I am a failure. Every­body ­here thinks I am a joke. And the only guy I liked just tried to eat me.” He rants as he strug­gles to open a can of “Loof”: “I ­can’t even open a can!” Loof, the army-­supplied canned meat, has been the staple of field rations for so long that it has gained iconic status in Israeli culture, resulting in an entire folklore of army jokes and ­recipes. Loof ’s appearance in the film is also a tribute to Hill Halfon, where it is featured in a comedic plot.33 Danny dishes Loof out to distract the zombies so he can get his car keys from the office. Ironically, despite all the military arsenal at the base, it is army food that becomes his main weapon. His other weapon is equally incongruous. ­ ill fight Menny, Danny grabs a tiny hammer When Ma­ya asks him how he w and says, “­He’ll say hello to my ­little friend.” The line is from Scarface (1983, Brian De Palma), where Al Pacino’s character boasts a ­giant machine gun. Danny’s hammer is small, a parody of the standard arsenal of weapons in horror and action films. Danny looks especially unheroic next to Ma­ya, who is geared up like a professional soldier. And yet, Danny’s transformation from victim to hero

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has begun. To mark it, he smashes the award plaques in Menny’s office; he is fighting zombies as much as he is avenging his abuse at the base and asserting his liberation from the slavery of his maintenance work. Danny rises to the occasion again when, to allow Ma­ya to shoot Menny, he draws the zombies’ attention by singing the Passover song, “We ­were slaves to Pha­raoh in Egypt—­now we are ­free.” They follow him the same way the Israelites followed Moses out of Egypt and how the zombie horde follows Shaun as he leads them away from the pub door so that his friends can enter. This scene perfectly encapsulates the film’s aesthetics: it is a mash-up of army comedy, Passover themes, and tributes to Shaun of the Dead. When that plan fails and the zombies attack Ma­ya and Danny, the camera zooms in on Danny’s bitten fin­ger, swollen and blue, in a callback to an ­earlier scene where he cut his fin­ger gardening. But now he responds differently: he chops off his fin­ger with his garden shears, like yakuza in ­Japanese gangster films. He laughs maniacally at the pain and picks up a chainsaw—­a classic horror prop. With that his masculinization is complete. In the subsequent fight scene, Danny uses his shears, the chainsaw, and a weed whacker to cut through the army of the undead. With its heroic ­music, choreographed movements, slow-­motion effects, frame freezes, and jump cuts, the scene testifies to its eclectic influences—­and succeeds in “converting” the genre staple to Israel. “Had Gadya, motherfucker,” says Danny, as he is about to hit a zombie with a weed whacker, mashing up a famous line from Die Hard (“Yippee ki yay, motherfucker”) and a classic Passover song. In a callback to an ­earlier scene, Danny headbutts Ben Dov, his main abuser, before slicing him with the chainsaw. When Danny is wiping blood off his face, he is shown in bright light as if t­ here is a new dawn. But Danny’s main ­battle is with Menny, as the Western showdown ­music indicates. “­You’ve just made one ­mistake,” he says to Menny. Then, he jumps up like Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon (1973, Robert Clouse), and descends in slow motion to slay Menny with his shears, finishing his thought: “You ­should’ve given me a pass!” This scene transplants the conventions of horror and action movies to an Israeli army base to ­great comedic effect. The comedy, though, grows darker in the next scene, when at the end of the b­ attle the camera surveys the courtyard strewn with slain zombies in IDF uniforms, some wearing yarmulkes. Not moving or growling, t­ hese zombies’ corpses look like the bodies on battlefields seen in Israeli war dramas and on the news. Poisoned ­here is no dif­fer­ent from other recent Israeli war films that “expose and display the soldier’s torn and open body.”34 The tone shifts, and instead of zombie antics, we are confronted with the real­ity of war. The comedic tone returns when Danny tells Ma­ya (who also survived) how he killed the zombies. Now that he is a hero, he is shown bare-chested with an Israeli flag in the background, as seen on the cover of this book. The irony is inescapable. In the film’s final scene, Danny’s ­father arrives at the base, Tupperware in one hand and shotgun in the other. With his bandoliers and sunglasses, he looks like an action movie hero. But the casting complicates his character: Danny’s f­ ather

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is played by Tal Friedman, famous for the lead role of an abused soldier in Driks’ ­Brother.35 This casting suggests the generational perpetuation of vio­lence. Aharonovitz ­senior throws the Tupperware box to Danny, saying, “Mom sent you food.” He surveys the result of Danny’s ­battle and reports on the radio: “My son took care of it.” He asks Danny, “Do you need anything?” “A psychiatrist,” says Danny, his answer calling back to Menny’s line (“From this base one can get out ­either in a coffin or with a psychiatrist”) and contrasting with his ­father’s words in a similar situation (“More martyrs”). “Pussy,” responds the ­father. They both remain in character. In the last shots, Danny and Ma­ya walk into a meadow, but it is not a romantic happy ending. “Do you know that I’m not ­really a combat soldier?” asks Danny. She answers, “Do you know that I have a boyfriend?” This ending is bittersweet, with Danny fi­nally earning the approval of his heroic ­father and instantly compromising it with his demand for a psychiatrist. Nor is the promise of Ma­ya’s love fulfilled. Still, normality is restored, and the army is back in control, assuring us that the zombie outbreak was just an isolated accident. In that, Poisoned, unlike other Israeli horror films, is reserved in its critique of the army. In the original script, the film had a dif­fer­ent ending: in the post-­credit scene, Rona (whom we never see killed) walks out of the base and thumbs a r­ ide. A car full of soldiers stops for her, and when she gets in, it is clear that the epidemic ­will continue to spread.36 This more pessimistic ending was dropped in the final version, with the only hint at the massive scale of the outbreak remaining in the scene when Ma­ya ponders, “But what if it’s everywhere in Israel?” Danny immediately reassures her, “The IDF are not ­idiots.” But then both do a double take, as a comical sound effect draws our attention to that impor­tant moment when the film goes on rec­ord with its skepticism regarding the IDF. Reception. Poisoned was highly anticipated. When it was still in production, a slew of interviews and previews appeared in the media. With Rabies about to be released and with Poisoned, Cats in the Pedal Boat, and Another World in the pipeline, ­there was a sense that “the genre of horror in Israeli cinema is gaining momentum.”37 Yediot Aharonot welcomed Poisoned as one of the local horror films grounded in Israeli real­ity.38 The army magazine Bemahane dedicated a feature story to the forthcoming film.39 Just before the film’s premiere, ­there was a publicity campaign heralding it as the first Israeli zombie comedy, “expanding the horizons of Israeli cinema.”40 The ­popular news site Mako praised Poisoned, calling it “a combination of a buddy comedy, bourekas, and horror—in one watch.”41 Yediot Aharonot considered the p­ olitical implications of setting a zombie film in the army,42 and Time Out promised “the film that w ­ ill flood you with all the traumas from the army.”43 Despite the filmmakers’ denial, reviewers sensed a ­political agenda. On October 17, 2011, Poisoned premiered at the Icon festival (­later known as Utopia). Before the screening, the press received publicity materials in a

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blood-­stained army file, and the public was offered red jello shots with tiny bones in them. The screening was a success. A screening at the Haifa International Film Festival soon followed. Poisoned went on to play at Friday midnight screenings at Tel Aviv Cinematheque, a coveted slot for cult films.44 ­These screenings attracted a young, hip crowd, which in Israel means ­those who recently finished their army ­service or are still serving. Poisoned struck a chord with this audience. Some midnight screenings ­were accompanied by zombie marches—­with young ­people in zombie make-up parading through central Tel Aviv. But the film’s biggest exposure came from its broadcast on Israeli Channel Two and on cable, where it is still available on VOD. This is how the film earned not only the praise of young, genre-­loving critics like Oron Shamir and Amir Bogen but also of Uri Klein of Haaretz, who warmly recommended it to readers in his regular column.45 This was a sign that Poisoned had entered the Israeli mainstream, a remarkable achievement for what began as a low-­budget student film.

Cannon Fodder Like other Israeli genre filmmakers, Eitan Gafny (b. 1981) grew up watching movies on TV. “Same films over and over again—­Star Wars, Jaws, Police Acad­emy,” he recalls. Although he became a voracious cinephile, t­ hose ­were the movies that he loved and wanted to make. He studied film in high school and at Tel Aviv University, where he was part of the Hamorotheque crowd and was especially influenced by Aharon Keshales. His student films, Accident (Teuna, 2007) and Open Stitch (Petza Patuakh, 2009), w ­ ere horror comedies. For his graduation proj­ect, he wanted to make more than just a student film. Inspired by his favorite action and horror films and by his IDF ­service in a combat unit, Gafny penned a script about a zombie invasion in Israel. “With Rabies just released, it was the right moment for a zombie movie in Israel,” recalls Gafny. He enlisted his girlfriend Yafit Shalev (who would play a female lead), and his friend from film school Tom Goldwasser and started fund­rais­ing. Gafny explains, “During the ­process of raising funds, we ­were our own agents and producers— we learned how to put together a business plan and did research about how the market works.”46 Although they got modest contributions from the film school and from the Israel Film Fund (through the “guerrilla track”), most of the $250,000 ­budget came from private investors and crowdfunding.47 Despite the small b­ udget, Cannon Fodder was a complicated production with hundreds of extras and special effects. To assist the local makeup crew, who had no experience with zombie films, the filmmakers brought in makeup artists from the United States and Canada. They also invested in an original soundtrack by Erez Yohanan (of the Israeli metal band Amaseffer), which featured local rock musicians and guest appearances from Israeli rock icon Yitzhak Klepter and Guns N’­Roses guitarist Ron “Bumblefoot” Thal (aka Ronald Jay Blumenthal).

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As is the rule in ­independent Israeli productions, ­family and friends helped, and the filmmakers multitasked, playing multiple roles on-­and off-­screen.48 Cannon Fodder was shot in twenty-­six days, mostly in northern Israel where the landscape resembles the film’s Lebanon setting. Shooting finished in late 2011; editing took another year.49 In 2013, Cannon Fodder went not only on the festival cir­cuit but also enjoyed a theatrical and digital release, which ­were exceptional for a student film. A Zombie Film with Bite. Cannon Fodder pays tribute to and parodies classic action thriller and zombie horror films, especially Predator (1987, John McTiernan), Romero’s Living Dead trilogy, and Zack Snyder’s 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead: ­these films have ­shaped other examples of global millennial zombie horror. Like Poisoned, Cannon Fodder adapts classic horror scenarios to the context of the IDF and Israeli society, thereby “converting” the genre. The film’s Hebrew title, Basar Tutakhim—­literally “cannon meat”—­signals the genre’s cannibalistic gore and a satirical stance ­toward the IDF. But Cannon Fodder’s social satire is directed not only at the army with its cult of masculinity but also at racial tensions and i­nequality in Israel, a common theme in many zombie films since Romero’s trilogy.50 The pre-­credit sequence shows cells moving ­under the microscope, inviting associations with disease or biological weapons, common sources of contagion in zombie narratives. The sequence ends with a fadeout to the caption “Israel, October 5,” a date inviting an association with the 1973 War, which broke out on October 6, 1973.51 With its massive losses and weakened confidence in the IDF, that war induced a lasting national trauma in Israel.52 The credits roll over the montage of cells and news footage from the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict. The caption and the images draw on a convention of zombie horror but ground it in local real­ity. The action starts when an Israeli general, Gideon (Amit Lior, an Israeli screenwriter who was a script ­consultant for the film), sends an elite team to capture Mansour, a top man in Hez­bollah who is responsible for developing a power­ful new weapon; ­senior special ops agent Doron (Liron Levo) leads the team. Gideon, a grizzled man of action, wears an eye patch, calling to mind Moshe Dayan, the iconic general celebrated for Israel’s victory in the 1967 War but ­later disgraced by the military failures of 1973 and personal scandals.53 Doron does not want to take on this mission; in fact, he is on his honeymoon when asked to lead the team, which he reluctantly agrees to do over the objections of his new wife. As Ido Rosen observes, this action thriller cliché, transplanted to a local context, references Israeli heroic-­nationalist films, such as He Walked in the Fields (Hu halach be-­sadot, Yosef Milo, 1967), in which a character prioritizes the community over his private life.54 In a very dif­fer­ent local reference, a camera shows a handwritten sign at an army base, “What ­doesn’t kill you, toughens you; what kills you, toughens up your mom.” This army slang, used e­ arlier in

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Poisoned, functions ­here as an inside joke and marks the continuity between the New Israeli Horror films. In another action film cliché, Doron prefers to work alone but is forced to work with a team. The team members—­Daniel (Roi Miller), a ­Russian immigrant; Moti (Emos Ayeno), an Ethiopian immigrant; and Avner (Gome Sarig), a religious soldier wearing a yarmulke—­exemplify over-­the-­top military machismo. Their aggressive banter and macho demeanor parody symbols of masculinity in American ­popular culture. When Daniel packs a machete, Doron calls him “Rambo.” The composition of the team is a nod to Predator’s diverse team, which follows the demographic logic of the American “unit” films, with the unit representing a microcosm of the nation. The team’s composition in Cannon Fodder also reflects the tensions within Israeli Jewish society. As the team members carry out the mission, the tensions between them escalate. Moti is called “Obama,” “Cosby,” and “kushi,” an Israeli racist slur. In turn, Moti calls the religious Avner “Mea Shearim 2.0” (referring to an ultrareligious neighborhood in ­ ussian immigrant, a representative of low-­ Jerusalem) and a “settler.” Daniel, the R status immigration wave, explains the local ethnic hierarchy to Moti, a representative of an even more disparaged group: “When we came from Moscow, my ­father was a porch monkey. He barely taught seventh grade ­here ­after being a college professor in Rus­sia. . . . But then you guys arrived, and with time, we ­rose through the ranks.” With the refugees from Eritrea taking the lowest place, the Ethiopians ­will move up the ladder, he promises Moti, “and I’ll be a real Sabra.” This monologue not only problematizes racial tensions, a universal theme in international zombie films, but also echoes their repre­sen­ta­tion in Israeli ­popular culture—­especially in an episode of the famous sketch comedy TV show Lool (1973, Channel 1, IBA), where Arik Einstein and Uri Zohar take turns playing vari­ous immigrants gaining status with each new wave of Jewish immigration to Israel. ­A fter the team members cross into Lebanon, their trek through the forest is modeled on the jungle scenes in Predator, including the alarming percussion on the soundtrack that signals that the team is in over their heads. That idea is reinforced when they find the corpses from a previous IDF mission and Doron pulls a dog tag out of the remains exactly like in Predator. But for a local touch, Avner recites the Kaddish, the Jewish mourning prayer, over the remains. By the time they face the first zombie attack, they know that this is no regular military mission. When the team reaches Mansour’s h ­ ouse, a zombie epidemic is in full swing as they learn from his ­daughter Noelle (Yafit Shalev). The scenes in the ­house, where the team is u­ nder siege, pay tribute to Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, sharing its characteristically claustrophobic, apocalyptic feel. Set in dark rooms with high-­contrast lighting, the scenes show the escalating tensions between the team members. With Avner bitten and Noelle captured, they disagree about their course of action. Avner is turning more violent and dangerous, whereas Noelle

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is becoming a fighting partner. As the zombie hordes attack the ­house, she alone understands their nature and how to fight them. Moreover, as a scientist, only she can devise the antidote. Her repre­sen­ta­tion as a w ­ oman and an Arab is ambivalent. Like the ­woman scientist in Romero’s Day or Barbara in the more feminist remake of Night of the Living Dead (1990, Tom Sevini), Noelle is set to become the most knowledgeable, resourceful, and dedicated member of the ­ oman group: she is a “true professional.”55 Such a characterization of an Arab w subverts not only the gender politics of the horror genre but also the national politics of Israeli cinema. The film also underplays her Arabness with a nonste­ reo­typical portrayal: she is young, attractive, and dressed in a tank top and pants. Moreover, the camera emphasizes that she is a Christian—­and not Muslim— by zooming in on the cross on her necklace. (­Later, when they arrive in Israel, she ­will lose the cross, thus undergoing a symbolic conversion.) She speaks perfect ­English, rather than Arabic, con­ve­niently avoiding any Arabic dialogue in a film set almost entirely in Lebanon. Played by an Israeli Jewish actor, the casting further erases her Arabness, replicating an outdated practice in Israeli cinema of casting Jewish actors to play Arab roles.56 At the same time, the film satirizes the racist responses of the soldiers who find it difficult to accept Noelle as a team member. Moti cautions against trusting her, saying, “We are in a fucking third Lebanon war h ­ ere,” whereas Daniel warns Noelle, “No terrorist bullshit, Osama.” ­ uman, Noelle explains the nature of the zombies to the team: “They are still h they are sort of like us,” citing Dawn almost verbatim (“­They’re us”). Indeed, ­these zombies, like t­ hose in Romero’s Dawn and Day, retain shreds of their humanity. But they are also fast-­moving, feral, and animalistic, biting into ­humans and then gnawing on their body parts. As in other films featuring the fast-­moving infected, starting with 28 Days ­Later (2002, Danny Boyle), t­ hese zombies embody raw urges unmitigated by social norms. Cannon Fodder adds local flavor to ­these familiar tropes by dressing zombies in Arab dress and traditional headscarves. On the surface, featuring Arabs as zombies signals that they are monsters who are dehumanized twice: first as the Arab ­enemy and then as zombies. The group shots of zombies echo the repre­sen­ ta­tion of Arabs in Israeli films not as individualized characters but as the “abstract agent of death.”57 What complicates this picture is that the Israeli military is revealed as the outbreak’s source. As Doron learns from Noelle, Mansour had developed a new virus on Israeli ­orders: it was supposed to kill Lebanese leaders without leaving any traces of its Israeli origins. But when the Israelis rush at Mansour to capture him, he takes an experimental dose and becomes “patient zero.” Gideon then o­ rders his men to abduct Noelle to force Mansour to cooperate. In the thematic logic of the film, the IDF is evil and immoral, whereas the images of greedy zombies gnawing on ­human bones merely satirizes how Israel sees Arabs. In addition to social satire, the zombie figures in Cannon Fodder dish out gross-­out comedy. One pulls out a spinal column from a body, like in Dead Alive.

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­ thers chomp on limbs and get tangled in intestines. Linda Badley juxtaposes O “black humor and social content” of Romero’s films with the “splatstick” zombie comedies characterized by “gross-­out physical humor and self-­referentiality.”58 Cannon Fodder does both: it combines social satire with the gore gags. When the team returns to Israel, the scenes show apocalyptic devastation and civil collapse, characteristics of zombie narratives. The camera pans over smoke rising from buildings and zombies ­running in the deserted streets to the sound of a recorded announcement, “­Don’t leave the shelters!” blaring over emergency system. ­Under a sign that says (ironically enough), “Naharia—for people who love life,” zombies tear into bloody body parts. The film’s last ­battle unfolds ­under the bright Israeli sun on the seashore. The Israeli zombies are drawn to this paradigmatic local site by their vestigial memories just as American zombies are drawn to the mall. In a grotesque parody of the leisure routine, adults and c­ hildren flock to the beach. Instead of sunbathing, they devour ­human bodies and fight each other in a frenzy. The dwindling team shoots, stabs, and blows up zombies as they make their way to Doron’s yacht, where his wife is waiting for him. Daniel is bitten in the ­battle, and like Jake Weber’s character in Dawn, he sacrifices himself by staying on shore, allowing Doron and Noelle to get to the boat. Ironically, this IDF commando, obsessed with the danger of Islamic terrorism, dies as a suicide bomber, blowing himself up along with the onslaught of zombies. The last scene delivers, if not a happy ending, then at least poetic justice and gross-­out comedy. On the boat, Gideon holds Doron’s wife hostage and demands the sample of Mansour’s blood they had taken to make an antidote and end the outbreak. But when the vial is in his hand, Noelle chops it off, and Doron pushes Gideon overboard. “Need a hand?” she calls out to Gideon. The sarcasm of the line alludes to the winking dialogue of the Schwarzenegger movies, especially Predator, that provide Canon Fodder’s blueprint. With Mansour’s blood safe and Gideon defeated, ­things seem to look up. But in the last shot, we see that Doron’s wife has been bitten. Despite the comedic tone, the ending is ambivalent: both Lebanon and Israel are overrun with zombies, and the prospect of an antidote is bleak. As Steven Shaviro observes, in zombie films “the protagonists’ survival is not the same as their triumph.”59 The film’s ending challenges the repre­sen­ta­ tion of the army and the nation in e­ arlier Israeli war films. The films of the heroic-­ nationalist genre, as Ella Shohat notes, end with Israel’s triumph, resulting from “numerous heroic acts of individuals whose death was necessary for the birth of the nation.”60 In Cannon Fodder, however, the characters’ deaths do not lead to triumph, and their sacrifices are unnecessary, ­because Israel is beyond saving. That idea is emphasized in a satirical post-­credit sequence that parodies Israeli ­television news. On a TV screen shown to the side of the credit roll, a news anchor (played by real-­life Israeli anchor Gadi Sukenik) reports on the usual vio­lence and peace protests in the ­Middle East. The illusion of normalcy breaks when he mentions “infected citizens.” In a discussion that follows, a liberal activist (Michael Hanegbi) argues with an Orthodox rabbi (Meni Florentine). The

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activist’s advocacy for the rights of “the undead ­people” echoes real-­life left-­ wing discourse. “Are we not responsible? Are we all that dif­fer­ent from them?” screams the activist, inviting parallels between Palestinians and zombies. In turn, the rabbi’s response parodies the national-­religious discourse in Israel. He screams back: “­These ­things ­shouldn’t walk among us, in the land of the chosen Jewish ­people. It’s an abomination!” The m ­ etaphor of zombies as Palestinians is further developed when the activist suggests having a dialogue with the undead. “It is a land for all of us,” he argues, his words alluding to the concept of Israel as “State of all its citizens,” in contrast to the Jewish State. But the rabbi responds with the theological argument: “It’s about keeping the Jewish tradition! As it is ­ ill walk the earth. . . . ​ written, when ­there is no more place in hell, the dead w ­We’ve sinned, and now we are paying the price!” He is cut short when the camera shows zombies invading the studio. The picture becomes increasingly shaky, and the film ends with what looks like found footage, as in Zack Snyder’s remake of Dawn of the Dead (2004). In this satirical vignette, zombies are a ­metaphor not just for the Other but also for Israel’s fear of the Other. Film scholar David Skal writes that horror films can be seen as expressions of past wars haunting the pre­sent. That is b­ ecause “wars tend not to resolve themselves, culturally, ­until years ­after ­actual combat stops.”61 New Israeli Horror films are haunted by its vari­ous wars, with the 1982 Lebanon War casting a particularly long shadow over Cannon Fodder and Poisoned. Cannon Fodder especially can be placed in the context of the cycle of so-­called Lebanon films that started coming out in Israel about twenty years ­after the first Lebanon war; they include Beaufort (2007, Joseph Cedar), Waltz with Bashir (Vals im Bashir, 2008, Ari Folman), and Lebanon (2009, Samuel Maoz). Although the Lebanon films express a critical stance ­toward the war, seeing it as both unnecessary and morally fraught, the Israeli ser­vicemen in all three films are represented as victims, as ­children abandoned and betrayed by their symbolic parents—­the government and the military. The individual psychological trauma that the soldiers undergo masks their a­ ctual historical role as perpetrators.62 Like ­these films, Cannon Fodder returns to the repressed traumas of the 1982 Lebanon War and even the 1973 War. But it does not absolve the IDF of responsibility: the zombie epidemic and the fall not only of Lebanon but also of Israel result directly from the army’s actions. As scholarship reflects, zombie films take issue with dominant social structures, reflecting current national and social issues in a given society.63 Zombies, as Michael Drake notes, become “simply the name we can give to an illness of which we suffer the symptoms.”64 Whereas in the U.S. context, films about zombie outbreaks reflect “a general ­popular distrust with big government and big business,”65 Israeli adaptations of the genre reflect a distrust with what may be called Big Army. Significantly, zombies in general, as Steven Shaviro argues, do not stand for “a threat to social order from without”; rather, it is society that turns on itself.66

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In Poisoned, the zombies are the IDF soldiers, and the outbreak stems from the army poisoning itself and attacking its own. In Cannon Fodder, only a few zombies wear IDF fatigues. Instead, the zombies are at first shown as Arabs, the traditional ­enemy of Israeli film. But as the infection spreads, Israeli civilians also turn into zombies. In Cannon Fodder, the army not only poisons itself, but also turns into monsters the very society it ­ought to protect, through excessive aggression against the ­enemy. This aggression backfires, and the picture of the ­enemy (Arab zombies) becomes the picture of us—­the undead do not have a nationality. Ultimately, as the post-­credit sequence shows, the zombies in Cannon Fodder are a ­metaphor for fear of the Other. Reception. Like Poisoned, Cannon Fodder was highly anticipated in Israel. Reports on the film production and interviews with Eitan Gafny appeared in Israeli media as early as 2011.67 The film premiered in September  2013 at the Utopia festival, followed by a theatrical release in March 2014. The critics lambasted it. Yair Raveh quipped, “It’s not funny enough, and it’s not scary enough.”68 Meir Schnitzer of Maariv called it “amateur.”69 Even Uri Klein of Haaretz, a supporter of local horror, found it disappointing. Its critical message about “our primal fear of the Other,” argues Klein, gets lost in the “narrative tangle.”70 Following this abysmal reception, the theatrical run was cut short.71 Most Israeli fans watched it on Walla VOD, the local streaming ­service. Cannon Fodder had its world premiere in 2013 at the Cape Fear ­Independent Film Festival and went on to play the genre festival cir­cuit, including at such established venues as Screamfest in the United States and FrightFest in the United Kingdom (where it was screened alongside Big Bad Wolves). It earned a string of awards at other venues.72 With a tag­line, “­There is a new conflict in the ­Middle East,” Cannon Fodder was billed as “Israel’s first full length zombie film.” But a­ fter being greeted by supportive previews, the reception was mixed, never crossing beyond specialized horror outlets.73 “Though spritely shot, the first Israeli zombie flick does ­little to elevate itself above the garden variety entries to the genre, suffering from poor acting, a generic plot, and laughable visual effects,” concluded the website WhatCulture.74 Another online review, in ­Ain’t It Cool News, disagreed, praising Cannon Fodder for “the thematic depths of its message and for the loads of action tropes and mayhem riddled throughout.”75 In 2014, the film was picked up for world distribution by the U.S. com­pany Screen Media. It was dubbed into ­English, renamed The ­Battle of the Undead, in line with the global trend,76 and sold to a variety of markets, including the United States, United Kingdom, Germany, Rus­sia, and South K ­ orea.77 Despite its inauspicious critical reception, Cannon Fodder proved to be a commercial success, demonstrating the financial viability of an ­independent horror production in Israel and paving the way for Eitan Gafny to fundraise for his next film, ­Children of the Fall.

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From the “Living-­Dead” to the Undead The new Israeli zombie films “convert” global genre conventions to portray specific local cultural meanings. It is by adapting familiar zombie tropes that ­these films make a significant intervention into repre­sen­ta­tion of a particularly Israeli institution, the IDF. In some ways, the appearance on Israeli screens of zombie soldiers can be seen as a response to and disavowal of the figure of the “living-­ dead” of ­earlier Israeli lit­er­a­ture and film. This myth worked to accomplish, in Hannan Hever’s words, “the symbolization of violent death,”78 whereby “the death of the individual was authorized and justified by contributing to national life and significance.”79 In Israeli cinema, the myth of the “living-­dead” soldier is actualized in the heroic-­nationalist genre. In ­those films, according to Raz Yosef, “The national myth represents the warrior whose life has been sacrificed on the nation’s altar: even though his physical body is absent and dead, the soldier continues to live on in the ­imagined national consciousness. The individual existence is subsumed within the collective, and the warrior’s death is justified and endorsed by taking on a greater and more general national and transcendent meaning.”80 As Karen Grumberg shows, the “living-­dead” then emerges as an ambivalent figure, vacillating between “a ­human and also a symbol, living and also dead, hero and also victim”—­signaling “a forceful affinity among victimization, power, and the culture of death” in the Israeli cultural imagination.81 ­Later Israeli war films revised this paradigm. Instead of repressing the materiality of death, films like Amos Gitai’s Kippur (2000) and ­those of the Lebanon cycle visualize the dead and the wounded bodies of Israeli soldiers. Such exposure, argues Raz Yosef, not only reveals their trauma but also strips the soldier’s body of its “meta­phoric national meaning—­that is, it loses its mythic status as ‘living-­dead’—­and turns instead to its corporeality, to its flesh, blood, and bones.”82 He concludes, “The body’s physical appearance sabotages any attempt at its nationalist appropriation.”83 If the graphic repre­sen­ta­tion of bodies on the battlefield already resists the heroic myth of the “living-­dead,” what happens when the nonheroic undead swarm the screens? The undead mark a cynical return to the “living-­dead” myth and restore ambiguity between the living and the dead. Whereas the “living-­dead soldiers” ­were physically dead but symbolically alive through the nation’s revival, the undead—­zombies—­are soulless bodies operating on the residual drives of hunger and vio­lence.

Freak Out: “The Final Boy” on the Base “Israel is a small country; two films is a wave, three films is a revolution, four films—­a historic era,” quipped film critic Avner Shavit, discussing the horror comedy Freak Out.84 The plot follows Matan (Itay Zvolon), a mama’s boy who is out of place on a remote army base, where he becomes an easy target of pranks

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for other soldiers. However, once the killings start, Matan has more pressing concerns than being bullied. He alone survives the ordeal and lives to tell the tale. By 2014, when the film premiered, ­there ­were enough Israeli horror films to compete in the Utopia festival. New titles ­were added ­every month. The fact that several of ­these films are set in the IDF was not lost on critics.85 But work on Freak Out started way before IDF horror became commonplace. In late 2010, the year Rabies premiered, the New Fund for Cinema and ­Television (NFCT) held a competition for short sci-fi, horror, and fantasy screenplays, an initiative that indicated the growing interest in emerging genres. A young screenwriter, Lior Lederman, won the competition with a screenplay for a horror comedy set on an army base, which he had written while still a student at Tel Aviv University’s Film School. The prize was funding to make the screenplay into a TV film, for which the NFCT recommended a new dynamic production com­ pany, Green Productions.86 The producers brought on board a young director Boaz Armoni (b. 1979), a recent gradu­ate of the Beit Berl College. Armoni was not among the cohort of horror fans at the Tel Aviv University, but he was on the same wavelength. Growing up, he loved the horror classics, watching and rewatching films by John Carpenter, Peter Jackson, Roger Corman, Tobe Hooper, Brian Trenchard-­Smith, Wes Craven, and Brian De Palma.87 His student film Motel De Palma (2005) was a tribute to his favorite horror master. Lederman wanted to make a film that “­doesn’t take itself too seriously”88 in the spirit of American horror comedies, but with a local feel: “I wanted to write a horror movie that can take place only ­here, with characters and types that can only exist h ­ ere. If someone tries to place it abroad and to portray a lone soldier [a special status the army bestows on soldiers without immediate ­family in Israel, usually immigrants] or weekly guard duty, they w ­ ill have no clue what that means. But ­here, in Israel, every­one who sees it had this experience or recognizes such ­people. It’s very Israeli.”89 ­These ideas resonated with Armoni, who served in the IDF as a medic in the tank corps: “My army ­service was a horror comedy—­this is what I remember, fear and laughter. ­Because ­there ­were a lot of scary ­things, but a way of dealing with it was humor. And this felt very natu­ral and very Israeli.” Like Lederman, he wanted to make a film that was “a combination of Israeli realism and horror sensibility.”90 With Armoni’s contributions, Lederman spent another year developing the screenplay, and by mid-2012 they ­were ready to shoot. They de­cided to use the modest b­ udget intended for a t­ elevision production to make a feature film—­a nother example of creative use of funding in New Israeli Horror. In August 2012, Freak Out was shot in just twelve days, with a day of reshoots a year ­later. It was the first feature film for every­one—­Lederman, Armoni, and the lead, Itay Zvolon. When he was cast, Zvolon was an unknown young actor and musician (a song by his punk group Vitarti is included in the soundtrack). But in 2013, his YouTube video sketch “Yanir Ha-­a khmash,” which satirizes hipsters, went viral

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in Israel, and Zvolon became a local celebrity. By the time Freak Out was released, the film had a star lead. Like other New Israeli Horror films, Freak Out was made on a micro-­budget. The initial funding from the NFCT was ­later supplemented by funding from the Israel Film Fund. The modest public money was not enough, however, and the producers and Armoni had to add their own funds. Freak Out was made for a ­grand total of 600,000 NIS (approximately $172,000).91 With such a meager ­budget, the shoot demanded ingenious solutions. The film’s opening scene of a bus ­ride was shot during the ­actual bus ­ride of the crew to the location, with the crew hiding b­ ehind the seats in the back. Extras in a restaurant scene ­were friends of the ­owner of an ­actual Palestinian restaurant in Jericho in the West Bank. The script had to be modified to reflect the dilapidated state of the only location they w ­ ere able to secure: an abandoned army base in the Beit She’an Valley in northern Israel. The buildings had neither roofs nor doors, and the crew had to improvise to create the illusion of a functional albeit desolate army base. For a while it was not clear ­whether they would have enough funds to finish the film.92 With its small b­ udget and guerilla-­style production, it took three and a half years to complete.

A Slasher in the Army Armoni was highly motivated to make a horror film set in the IDF. As a young recruit, he had a romantic perception of the army drawn both from an Israeli ethos and Hollywood films. The real­ity proved dif­f er­ent: “99% of the army is not heroism. When I understood it, I thought that the idea of a war that we w ­ ere sold on was a scam. In the fights, in Lebanon when I was shot at, ­there was no rousing ­music in the background, and I ­couldn’t see anything.”93 He wanted to make a film that deconstructed the army myth. At the same time, he saw the army as a definitive Israeli setting: “the army is just a site where we can create an au­then­tic experience, a site with which ­people ­here can identify.”94 The film’s critical message relates to Israeli society, not just the army. The Hebrew pun in the film’s title is lost in translation. Mesuvag harig, which means “classified as exceptional” and “marked as irregular,” refers both to an exceptional case of a killing spree in the army and to the way a society treats t­ hose who are dif­fer­ent, ­whether racially, culturally, or socially. The second meaning undergirds the numerous tensions in the film—­between Ashkenazi and Mizrahi, Israelis and Palestinians, immigrants and locals. What is b­ ehind the tensions is fear of ­Others. Like Poisoned, Freak Out sets a horror plot at an army base. But where Poisoned converts a zombie trope, Freak Out reaches out to the conventions of slasher films. Armoni is particularly indebted to his favorite director Brian De Palma, both in theme (split personality) and cinematography (long steadicam shots exploring characters’ interactions with their environments). Armoni also pays tributes to other classic sci-fi and horror films, including Wes Craven’s slashers A Nightmare

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on Elm Street (1984) and Scream (1996), Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: Space Odyssey (1968), and John Carpenter’s The ­Thing (1982). As is common in con­temporary horror, Freak Out plays with audience expectations with red herrings that tap into dif­fer­ent horror subgenres. Adapting horror to an Israeli setting, Freak Out follows the strategy of conversion using the generic conventions of a slasher film to tell a story grounded in Israeli army films and bourekas comedies. But the military setting of Freak Out also allows for bending of the slasher rules, adding ele­ments of subversion. Unlike a typical slasher in which sexual tensions undergird interactions between a group of young men and ­women, Freak Out does away with the female presence, effectively taking heterosexual tension out of the game. W ­ omen are mentioned in the film mainly as objects of the solders’ misogynistic bragging. ­Actual ­women appear only once and very briefly, when two female soldiers leave the base: they are physically out of the picture. This exclusion of ­women on screen emphasizes that the army is a masculine institution and that the main relationships are between male soldiers. Their relationships are hierarchical, focused on one-­ upping one another. Sexuality comes into play only as homophobic taunting or as homoerotic body language that functions as a parody of heterosexual coupling. Consequently, without ­women on screen, the major figure of a slasher—­a Final Girl—­cannot be realized. Instead, following in the footsteps of Rabies, Freak Out introduces a Final Boy. However, where Rabies deliberately subverts the convention with two imperfect Final Boys, Freak Out keeps it intact: we identify with the protagonist Matan’s point of view, he is the one who alerts ­others that something is amiss, and ultimately, he is the one to defeat the killer. And, of course, he is not sexually active. The only t­ hing the story changes is the gender. But that change has far-­reaching consequences for the meaning of the film. As Ido Rosen explains, “Israeli horror films, like Israeli war films, are male narratives that deal with initiation stories in which young men assimilate the values of the military pedagogy, become skilled warriors, and take their place in Israeli society. This is why ­these films portray them as violent and bloodthirsty. If so, ­there is obviously no place for a ­woman in the center of events. What ­matters is the coming of age and survival ­process that ­these boys experience.”95 The point of an Israeli army slasher is not as much to defeat the monster as to “man up.” This is why Freak Out, like other IDF horror films, is so preoccupied with masculinity. Indeed, the entire first half of the film plays out like an Israeli army comedy, with scares only providing comic relief. Like Poisoned, Freak Out is indebted to Driks’ ­Brother, as well as Israeli dramas critical of military manhood; for example, Paratroopers (Masa alonkot, 1977, Judd Ne’eman), which is about Private Weisman, who commits suicide when he is unable to meet the standards of macho ser­vicemen; and Infiltration (Hitganvut yahidim, Dover Kosashvili, 2010), about brutality and abuse in the IDF set in the 1950s. A central character in Infiltration, a bullied Mizrahi recruit, is played by Assaf Ben-­Shimon, who is

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cast in a role of a Mizrahi bully in Freak Out. This intertextual connection suggests the generational perpetuation of vio­lence. Freak Out also echoes recent Israeli war films, especially Beaufort, set in an isolated fort during Israel’s withdrawal from Lebanon. The theme of militant masculinity in Freak Out intersects with the theme of ethnic tensions in the style of bourekas. The plot is populated by recognizable local types. An Ashkenazi mama’s boy jobnik, the Mizrahi com­ ussian immigrant soldier constibat fighters who are bullying him, and a lone R tute a microcosm of Israeli society. The film’s comedy often results from tapping into specifically Israeli s­ tereotypes and tropes of Ashkenazi nerdiness and Mizrahi physicality. The film’s themes are introduced in the opening scene, which starts with ominous m ­ usic and a shot of a bunker entrance awash in red light. As a dog barks off-­screen, the camera zooms in on the entrance and then floats into the doorway, moving in a long steadicam take through an under­ground passage reminiscent of the spaceship interior in 2001: Space Odyssey. As Ido Rosen notes, the passage also resembles the inside of the outpost in Beaufort.96 The shot concludes at a computer interface with a large blinking red light, fashioned a­ fter HAL9000. Blood splashes on the blinking light, and the barking stops. The m ­ usic mixes with the sound of static as the camera slowly pans up from the bunker to the surface. A long take reveals layers of soil, plant roots, and fi­nally grass, ending at an antenna and a military observation tower. As the camera reaches the top of the antenna, ­ usic. This opening thematizes isolation and the static nearly overwhelms the m surveillance, characteristic of both sci-fi and horror, and sets up expectations for disturbing events. The pan up from the bunker to the tower suggests that danger originates from evil forces hidden from sight. Signs of danger continue to build in the next scene, which is set on a bus driving through a desert. The radio newscaster announces “unusually high levels of radiation in the Jordan Valley.” But the driver switches the radio to a ­music station, ignoring the danger. The song that comes on, “Eastern Storm” by Kobi Peretz, introduces an impor­tant musical motif in the film. The song belongs to the genre of musiqa mizrahit, Mizrahi ­music (also known as Israeli Mediterranean ­music), a local hybrid genre that overlays Eastern codes and colors—­including Yemenite, Arabic, Persian, Moroccan, Greek, and Turkish ­music—­over standardized forms of Western ­popular ­music. Emerging in the 1970s from ­performances by Mizrahi singers in informal settings, musiqa mizrahit was derided by the Israeli establishment. Considered both “primitive” and “ethnic” (read Arabic), it was excluded from state-­run radio and ­television ­until the 1990s.97 ­Today musiqa mizrahit is not only a key feature of Israel’s ­popular soundscape but also is still a subject of Israeli culture wars, with old-­school Ashkenazi elites disdaining it as a part of the overall “levantization” of Israel.98 In the film, Mizrahi ­music is used as a marker of class and ethnic identity. Thus, where the opening sequence with its hypnotic electronic ­music invites associations with horror and sci-fi, Peretz’s song grounds the film in the local culture. It introduces the theme of

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ethnic tensions in Israel, one of the film’s major themes, which is characteristic of Israeli films in general and especially of the bourekas cycle. Only then does the camera turn to Matan, a pale, skinny, young man in glasses. Despite his uniform, he does not look like a military man, especially when he ­nervously complains to his ­mother on his cellphone that the driver does not appear to be Ashkenazi. This conversation marks Matan’s identity and—­along with the music, taps into the bourekas’s theme of incompatible characters—­a Mizrahi and an Ashkenazi.99 The fact that Matan gets threatened so easily and that he needs to report his ­every move to his ­mother—­and expects her help—­ identifies him as a mama’s boy. Like in Big Bad Wolves, the overbearing ­mother, albeit unseen, hovers over her son. But unlike in the ­earlier film, we do not hear her voice. We e­ ither guess her words from Matan’s dialogue or see them on the screen of his phone as he exchanges endless texts with her. Instead of an acousmêtre, she is a textmêtre, to coin a term. But even without a face or a voice, her presence is power­ful. Matan feels even more threatened when three soldiers board the bus, peppering their Hebrew with Arabic phrases that have been absorbed into Israeli slang, language that the Ashkenazi Matan would never use. Yishai (Eran Peretz) in a black Orthodox yarmulke and Uzi (Assaf Ben-­Shimon) are marked as Mizrahim by their looks and accents. Roy (Ofer Ruthenberg) is an Ashkenazi who seamlessly passes for Mizrahi. All three men are big, dark, and muscular, in contrast to the pale and skinny Matan. Ignoring him, they speak over each other in loud voices, boasting about their sexual prospects. They supplement their sexism with casual vio­lence, teasing and shoving each other like the soldiers in Cannon Fodder. Their jostling is both competitive and affectionate, a display of what Raz Yosef calls “the homoerotic masochistic camaraderie” characteristic of Israeli army films.100 Matan does not stand a chance against this display of masculinity. When he tries to break into the conversation, Uzi looks at him as if failing to recognize a fellow ­human being and then laughs in his face. The Mizrahi Yishai and Uzi continue their ­horse­play literally on top of Matan, making him cower ­behind his hands. Roy does not take part in the wrestling, but neither does he defend Matan. Appropriately, the three are combat soldiers, as opposed to Matan who has a desk job (or as Yishai puts it, “a secretary”). With Matan established as the odd one out, the bourekas-­style juxtaposition is set: Ashkenazi versus Mizrahi, jobnik versus combat soldiers, mama’s boy versus macho men. The conflict is familiar from Poisoned and Driks’ ­Brother. The repre­sen­ta­tion of the Ashkenazi mama’s boy Matan vis-­a-­vis the Mizrahi fighters plays both into bourekas s­ tereotypes and slasher conventions. Freak Out portrays Mizrahi men in line with ­earlier bourekas films as “uncouth, irrational, emotional, oversexed, traditional, premodern, chauvinistic, patriarchal, and manipulative.”101 This characterization reflects the construction of the Mizrahi male body in the Zionist discourse as that of a “hypersexual stud,” reinforcing “the racist notion that Oriental males are inferior in mind and morality on

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account of their bodies.”102 The character of Uzi is a particularly good illustration: attractive and strong, he constantly discusses his sexual prowess. He even tries out his cruel charms on a man, making a bet with the other soldiers that he ­w ill be able to sexually excite Matan. Matan recoils in a way that shows that he is both heterosexual and sexually naïve. In the slasher universe, that means that Matan is a potential Final Boy, comparable to the genre’s prototypical virginal Final Girl. Moreover, Matan is depicted as smart and careful (perhaps too careful), a character to whose perspective we can relate. This is why, according ­ ill perish. to the laws of the slasher, he ­will persevere while his comrades w Despite his build-up as the movie’s moral center, Matan is not without flaws: he is a racist. His prejudice becomes evident on the bus ­ride through the West Bank. As Matan looks at the roadblocks and makeshift structures, he ­nervously ­ other that he is in “hostile territory.” When the bus stops at a Palestexts his m tinian roadside restaurant, Matan is visibly scared. In his eyes, ­every person in a keffiyeh is a terrorist. The other soldiers tell him to relax, calling him “Blondie” to emphasize his racial difference. Unlike Matan, who continues text­ing with his ­mother, they seem comfortable among the Palestinian patrons. They order loudly in Hebrew, confident that the waiter ­will understand. In fact, they act not just confidently but also provocatively, spitting out the food they do not like and cursing in Arabic. In response, some Palestinian patrons rise from their seats but are held back by their friends, who understand the danger of engaging in conflict with the IDF. Ultimately, the three soldiers abscond from the restaurant without paying the bill, leaving Matan alone, ostensibly to wait for them to return with money. Matan looks with terror at the ­silent patrons surrounding him and at the cook, who wipes a large, menacing knife. Percussion drowns out the diegetic Arabic ­music, creating a sense of impending danger. Matan runs out to catch the departing bus. While the three soldiers are shown ­here acting with the swagger and arrogance of colonizers, the true butt of the satire is Matan. In line with the bourekas convention, he is the hypocritical Ashkenazi.103 “­We’re surrounded by Arab ­ ecause the villages, ­they’ll kill us!” he yells at the soldiers once back on the bus. B action is focalized through Matan’s character, his fear creates an audience expectation of forthcoming Palestinian revenge, an expectation that exposes Israeli prejudice against the Palestinians. As Uzi points out to Matan, “If you ate at a restaurant in Tel Aviv, and ran out without paying, no one would do a ­thing. But ­here, you are afraid ­they’ll kill you? ­Because they are Arabs? ­Aren’t you a racist?” Matan is not comforted by this logic. The film ­here uses our identification with Matan to satirize Israeli racism ­toward Palestinians. When the soldiers arrive at the base, Matan sees other signs of danger. The blood-­splattered poster warns against high levels of radiation coming from the antenna. ­There is no phone reception, and Matan’s cell phone, his lifeline to his ­mother, dies. The base, desolate like the desert surrounding it, looks abandoned. When the soldiers line up for a drill, no one arrives to take charge. Once they

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find the commandant Stas (Kai Korabelnikov), they learn that he is alone at the base and he only serves t­ here part-­time. He splits commanding duty with another officer, Adam, on a weekly rotation. Military duty in this place is absurd, as is ­ ill be your demonstrated when Stas shows the four soldiers around the base. “I w tour guide for t­ oday,” Stas says when they climb on top of the observation tower, “On the left, you can see a horizon that separates nothing and zilch. To the right, please see more of nothing.” With no e­ nemy in sight, it is not clear why guard duty is necessary. The real danger comes from the base itself: as Stas explains, the antenna’s radiation “fries up your brain and gives your balls cancer. Or the other way around. But d­ on’t worry,” he adds with a smirk, “the army takes care of you!” Stas warns the soldiers about other dangers too. Apparently, a young boy from a nearby Palestinian village used to come by with a dog. As Stas explains, the dog contaminated the base’s ­water supply, and several soldiers ­were poisoned. His flashback depicts a soldier’s face oozing with blood, creating another false expectation: Would the poisoned soldiers turn into zombies? Meanwhile, Matan is threatened not by super­natural monsters but by his fellow soldiers. Like Danny in Poisoned or Weisman in Paratroopers, Matan is subjected to cruelty and bullying. Playing out Ashkenazi–­Mizrahi tensions in the style of bourekas films, the bullying is motivated by race and class, pitting Mizrahi combat fighters against an Ashkenazi nerd. Roy, a fellow Ashkenazi, tries to help. He offers Matan his MP3 player to listen to during the boring hours of guard duty. Matan puts on the headphones, but the only ­music he finds is Mizrahi ­music. We do not know Matan’s musical tastes, but given that his ringtone is based on Mozart’s Fortieth Symphony, he clearly would seem to be disappointed with Roy’s musical se­lections. Roy explains to him, “It’s ok; I ­couldn’t stand it at first e­ ither. But when the guys around you sing it all day, you have to get used to it.” “Have to?” asks Matan. Roy confirms: “If Uzi walks by, singing one of ­those songs, and you join him, ­he’ll give you a ­little more re­spect.” ­Here, the film again uses the genre of musiqa mizrahit to comment on the Israeli cultural hierarchy and power relations. From the elitist Ashkenazi point of view, musiqa mizrahit is the ­music of the low-­status masses; yet in the army universe, it is ­these masses that hold power and can exercise it through bullying. If an Ashkenazi wants to fit in, to be on the side of the strong, he needs to assimilate into the subculture of his Mizrahi peers. A third ele­ment in this social structure is Stas, a R ­ ussian immigrant, who fits ­ usic he lisin neither with the Ashkenazi nor Mizrahi group. The ­Russian pop m tens to marks Stas as a recent immigrant to Israel who has not yet assimilated into the local culture. Played by an actor who is an immigrant himself, Stas speaks with a foreign accent. He is neither good looking nor exudes machismo as the other three soldiers do. He is not “one of the guys.” In fact, he can only relate to Matan. “Listen,” he says, “I’ve been in your shoes. Only worse. I had no one to talk to: no friends, no ­family.” Like Matan, Stas does not belong. But

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Stas is a commander and can align himself with the Mizrahi group. When the other three soldiers go out, he joins them, leaving Matan on the base. Once Matan is alone on the base, the film focuses on his fear through omi­ usic and shaky camera shots. A low ­angle shot of the buzzing antenna nous m and flickering neon lights, intercut with a close-up of Matan’s terrified face, creates the atmosphere of a haunted ­house. Only instead of a haunted ­house, it is a haunted army base. The use of a haunted ­house trope plays with the audience expectations, making us anticipate the appearance of a ghost or another super­ natural phenomenon. When Matan comes close to the antenna, we see that the hair on his arm is standing up. The scene signals that the army comedy is finished and the horror is about to start. Indeed, when terrified Matan calls Stas on the phone, he hears soldiers’ screams on the other end, suggesting that they are being slaughtered. Then the line goes dead. Scared and alone, Matan goes to investigate strange noises, only to see an empty jeep stuck at the entrance to the base. His fears that the soldiers ­were abducted by Palestinian avengers are confirmed. The shot of the Israeli flag reminds us that this horror scenario unfolds on an IDF base. To Israeli eyes, as Ido Rosen points out, this moment taps into collective traumas of IDF failures to rescue abducted soldiers, such as the 2000 capture of three soldiers on Mount Dov or the 2006 kidnapping of Gilad Shalit.104 Suddenly the base goes dark, and a disorienting dolly zoom on Matan (modeled on the famous Jaws shot of Chief Brody) conveys his panic. Matan hears footsteps. He peeks from b­ ehind the corner to see a figure in a keffiyeh, shown in a reflection of his glasses, in a similar way to how a killer is reflected in Mr. Himbry’s eyes in Scream. Matan runs to the phone, but the cord is cut—­a horror convention. He runs into the kitchen and hides ­under the ­table. In the next shot, someone enters. From Matan’s point of view, only the feet are vis­i­ble. The figure approaches Matan’s hiding place and yanks away his ­rifle. Now we are sure that this is the work of Palestinian militants. But instead of shooting, the figure turns and runs out. Matan gets up and arms himself with what is available—­soup ladle. Like Danny’s small hammer in Poisoned, the soup ladle—­a particularly useless tool in a ­battle—­parodies both weapons in slasher films and IDF military might. Indeed, in the next shot, when Matan comes face to face with two men in keffiyehs, he drops the ladle, which breaks when it falls on the floor. He runs into the bunker, which is lit in alarming red light. Matan goes through the narrow passage and into a cavernous space full of industrial equip­ usic and the movement of the camment covered with dust and cobwebs. The m era in the bunker scene elicit the atmosphere of a nightmare, reminiscent of Freddy Kruger’s pursuit of Nancy in a boiler room in A Nightmare on Elm Street. As Matan enters the space with a HAL9000-­like interface, he slips and falls into what turns out to be a puddle of blood. He turns his bloodied face, and the camera follows his gaze to an animal skull in a pile of rotting body parts, which we understand to be remains of a dog slaughtered off-­screen in the opening sequence.

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Matan screams; slipping and falling again on the blood, like Lionel in Braindead, he fi­nally succeeds in standing up and ­running. He reaches the jeep, only to discover that he does not have the keys, another horror trope. Freak Out plays with this trope, when a man in keffiyeh knocks on a side win­dow, dangling the keys in front of Matan’s face, like the killer in Scream. To his terror, t­ here is another attacker in a keffiyeh ­behind him and one more in front. ­There is no escape. They throw Matan out of the jeep and stand over him. At that moment, when we expect the worst, one of them lifts his keffiyeh and grins: he is Stas. Three ­others take their keffiyehs off as well. “Ahlan wa sahlan!” (Arabic for hello), says Roy. They all laugh. The entire horror plot was just another prank directed at Matan. Once again, the film satirizes Matan’s and our expectations that Palestinians are ­behind the attack—­and all it took ­were a few keffiyehs. It forces us, the audience, to confront our prejudices. The film also pokes fun at Israeli media for cultivating ­these prejudices: right before the “attack” Matan watches Israeli news featuring violent men in keffiyehs. As is typical of New Israeli Horror films, the true source of horror comes from inside Israeli society, in this case, the soldier bullies. The keffiyeh prank becomes a last straw for Matan who for the first time, lashes out at the soldiers. He charges them with irresponsible be­hav­ior: “Are you insane?” he yells, “Someone could have died!” His ability to speak back to them is the first step ­toward his maturing—­becoming a man according to the cruel terms of military masculinity. Matan’s transformation is signaled visually by showing him covered in blood from his encounter at the bunker. Although he did not spill the blood himself, it still functions as an initiation mark, indicating that he is no longer an innocent paper pusher. In the next scene, Matan rehearses his newly found confidence in front of a bathroom mirror. As if shedding his previous identity, he has taken off his glasses (figure 4.2). Shot from ­behind, his bloodied face is reflected in two mirror panes, introducing the theme of split personality, a common cinematic trope and one that Brian De Palma used to ­great effect in Dressed to Kill (1980).

FIGURE 4.2  ​Matan tries on his new personality in front of a mirror. A screenshot from Freak Out.

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Only Stas dismisses the skull Matan found as “a toy from Purim.” The other soldiers take the situation seriously. The power relations shift, and it is Stas who is the odd one out: he is seen alone in a long shot, in contrast to the four soldiers standing close together: they are the “real” Israelis versus the immigrant Stas. Yet Stas is not just apart from the group but is also dangerous: he walks across the base whistling “The Farmer and the Dell,” like stickup man Omar L ­ ittle announcing his arrival to his victims in The Wire (2002, HBO). This global intertextual reference both points to Stas as a suspect and winks at the audience, rewarding them with the ­pleasure of recognition.105 When the soldiers confront Stas, he admits that he killed the Arab dog that ­ ater supply and stashed the corpse inside the bunker. He explains poisoned the w that he did it ­because, with no f­ amily and friends around, the army base has become his home and he wanted to protect it. “I have nowhere ­else to go,” he pleads with the soldiers. Yishai and Uzi go to the bunker to check out his story. Their expedition parodies the film’s opening sequence, with a camera tracking down the dank hallway, as the two soldiers laugh, bark, and howl along the way. But the hilarity wears out when they reach the computer room to find evidence of more than a dog’s slaughter. While Yishai and Uzi are in the bunker, Roy mans the observation tower. But instead of ­doing his duty, he is watching The ­Thing, another horror film about a group of men facing mortal danger in an isolated place in which p­ eople are not who they seem. Not only does Roy ignore his responsibilities as a guard but he also disrespects the army when he urinates off the tower while saluting the antenna in a mocking gesture. In the moral universe of an army slasher, he is a bad soldier, parallel to promiscuous girls in a conventional slasher. As he urinates, a knife pierces him from b­ ehind and protrudes through his chest. In line with the slasher convention, the identity of the killer is unknown. All we see in a long shot is a figure in an army uniform. Like in other New Israeli Horror films, a killer is not an external ­enemy but “one of the guys.” Then the killer goes ­after Yishai and Uzi. He drags his axe through the bunker, like in Prom Night, with only his legs and the axe in the frame. In a classic slasher kill, he hacks Yishai with the axe, blood splashing on the computer interface. Uzi is choked to death with an army b­ elt. The ­killer’s identity is revealed in the next scene, when Stas tells Matan, “You should be happy we killed them,” threatening him with a knife. Stas speaks both for himself and for his imaginary partner Adam, a persona he in­ven­ted so that he could stay at the base continuously. It is Adam who speaks to Matan now. With t­ hese revelations, the film effectively develops the slasher trope of a serial killer with a split personality, a motif introduced e­ arlier. ­ other calls, the cheerful ring Stas is momentarily distracted when Matan’s m tone turning horror into comedy, as in Big Bad Wolves. But the film switches quickly back to horror when Stas picks up Matan’s gun and points it at him. He is defending the army base that is his only home. Switching between his

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identities as a docile Stas and a violent Adam, he explains that he wants to stay at the base forever: “I ­won’t let anyone take it away from us!” He then pulls the trigger, but the gun misfires. The tension breaks, and the horror action turns into an Israeli army comedy again as he yells at Matan, “I told you to inspect your gun!” Matan yells back, “I ­don’t know how!” The next sequence delivers both as a slasher and as a commentary on toxic Israeli military masculinity. It opens with Matan stabbing Stas with the same knife Stas threatened him with ­earlier. Outside, Matan finds Roy, who is still breathing and tries to help him. Meanwhile, in line with the slasher convention of the unkillable killer, Stas comes alive, pulls the bloody knife from his wound, and goes ­after Matan and Roy, dragging his knife on the metal rail like Freddy Kruger dragged his fin­ger knives in Nancy’s nightmare. He first finds Roy and slashes his throat. At that moment Matan jumps Stas, fi­nally concluding his transformation from a mama’s boy into a fighter. When the killer initially overpowers him, Matan sticks his hand in Stas’s knife wound, like Sidney who sticks her fin­ger into Billy’s wound in Scream.106 Matan’s hand enters Stas’s flesh in a close-up. Stas screams and drops the knife. Matan picks it up and repeatedly stabs Stas. With each stab, Matan is spattered by more blood. The m ­ usic grows to a crescendo but stops abruptly when Matan cries out as in an orgasm and Stas collapses on top of him. Matan pushes him over and lies next to him, panting heavi­ly. The camera shows them in a two shot lying side by side, like a ­couple in a sex scene ­after a climax, signaling that Matan has lost his virginity—or innocence—in this b­ attle. The killing made him a man or, according to the rules of the genre, the Final Boy. The Final Girl of a classic slasher, as Carol Clover observes, is a strong, masculine ­woman. Her masculinity acts as “gender displacement,” allowing men to proj­ect onto her their sadomasochistic fantasies.107 The New Israeli Horror does away with such a substitution, making the Final Girl into a biological male, the Final Boy. Instead of a strong ­woman, however, t­ here is a weak man. The character who is destined to become the Final Boy begins in a feminized position and then gradually develops agency to stand up to the killer and ultimately defeat him. In that, paraphrasing Clover, he delivers himself into the adult world.108 If Clover reads the discourse of classic slashers as “wholly masculine,”109 with female figures appearing only to convey some aspect of the male experience, the IDF slasher eliminates the female figures altogether. The army is a masculine universe, and the slasher scenario serves as an initiation ceremony, making the Final Boy into a man. The final scene confirms this conclusion. In the morning light, a long mobile shot travels from the body bags and police cars to Matan. He is on a stretcher, about to be loaded onto an ambulance. A medic offers to call his m ­ other. “No,” replies Matan, looking straight at the medic, without glasses, “­She’ll just get stressed.” Matan has manned up, the killer is dead, but this is no happy ending. As the ambulance drives away, the camera scans the place and tilts upward to the evil antenna. Then, reversing the movement in the opening sequence, the

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camera slowly pans down from the antenna through the soil and into the bunker, settling on a shot of a dormant computer. It buzzes, and the red light in the center comes on. The implication is that the source of the danger has not been eliminated and that further vio­lence is bound to happen, in a pessimistic conclusion typical for New Israeli Horror films. Despite the superficial similarity to HAL9000, the computer interface h ­ ere is not symbolic of malicious technology. It is just an indicator of societal vio­lence. It would be tempting to see Stas as the source of the vio­lence, especially b­ ecause he is a ­Russian immigrant, a member of a group often constructed in Israeli cinema as an internal Other, exoticized by their cultural difference or vilified through their association with crime and deviant be­hav­ior.110 But the film’s repre­ sen­ta­tion of Stas is not xenophobic but empathetic: he began staying over at the base b­ ecause he had nowhere to go. And it is that stay, overexposing him to the antenna’s radiation, that drove him mad. The responsibility for his murderous actions falls to the army that built the poisonous antenna and the society that allowed it to be built. As in other New Israeli Horror films, the vio­lence stems from within. In the absence of an external ­enemy or outside threat, the source of horror is society itself with its cult of masculinity and militarism.

Reception Freak Out premiered in Israel in the summer of 2014 at the Cinema South Festival in Sderot, closely followed by screenings at the Jerusalem Film Festival and at the Utopia festival in Tel Aviv. The p­ opular film blog Srita recommended Freak Out as “a male-­jobnik answer to Zero Motivation.”111 The comparison to this comedy about disaffected female soldiers is apt. Zero Motivation (Efes be-­yahasei enosh, 2014, Talya Lavie) was a hit, selling a whopping half-­million tickets domestically. Its popularity signaled a new cultural moment when several other comedies, including The Last Band in Lebanon (Ha-­lahaka ha-­ahrona be-­levanon, 2016, Ben Bachar and Itzik Kricheli) and Atomic Falafel (Falafel atomi, 2015, Dror Shaul), explored less heroic aspects of army ­service. Freak Out appeared in Israel at the right time, a point some critics noted.112 When Freak Out went into theatrical release in Israel in October 2015, it was widely covered, including by an army publication Bemahane.113 But Freak Out also resonated in another unexpected way. Its theatrical release coincided with the wave of increased vio­lence between Israelis and Palestinians that became known in Israel as the “Knife Intifada.”114 Eleven ­people w ­ ere killed, and eighty ­were injured, some of them IDF personnel.115 Although most of the attacks ­were not stabbings, t­ hose stabbings made headlines. In that context, a slasher film set on an army base hit close to home. Some reviewers thought that the timing of the release made the film “more relevant than ever.”116 ­Others worried about the ­political implications of the parallels between the film and the news.117 ­These concerns notwithstanding, Israeli critics embraced the film, with Avner Shavit of Walla praising it for successfully putting “an IDF twist on the

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Hollywood conventions of the genre.”118 Yishai Kiczales of Israel Hayom also praised the film for “planting a horror plot deep inside present-­day Israel and its divisions,” resulting in a slasher film deserving of the “hype of Big Bad Wolves” and the “audience popularity of Zero Motivation.”119 Both Yael Shuv of Time Out and Uri Klein of Haaretz liked the first, comedic part of the film, which draws on recognizable Israeli types, better than the horror, although Klein still recommended it as a successful military horror comedy.120 Only Shmulik Duvdevani and Meir Schnitzer disagreed. Duvdevani of Ynet considered Freak Out “a poor and in­effec­tive imitation of dozens of fifth-­rate slashers” that was neither funny nor scary.121 Meir Schnitzer of Maariv, who had been critical of New Israeli Horror since Rabies, called Freak Out “an amateur work which burst out of a puddle of blood, left ­behind by some junky trash film, which remained in the pile of garbage that ­wasn’t cleaned properly.”122 Freak Out played in theaters for two and a half months, a respectable run in Israel. It was p­ opular with soldiers, for whom the theaters held promotional screenings.123 But even with the promotions, Freak Out did not become a box-­ office hit.124 Many more p­ eople saw the film on t­elevision when it became available on VOD in 2016. Si­mul­ta­neously with its theatrical release at home, Freak Out had its international premiere at the prestigious Sitges Film Festival. From ­there it continued to Fantaspoa in Brazil and to a handful of smaller genre and Jewish film festivals. Freak Out did not have a theatrical release abroad and, except for a few niche blogs, was barely discussed internationally. Still, the film went into straight-­to-­ digital and DVD worldwide release, selling to several ­European countries, including Germany, Rus­sia, Romania, Netherlands, Hungary, and Poland, as well as North Amer­ic­ a. Freak Out established Boaz Armoni as a comedic director, resulting in an invitation to helm The Electrifiers (Ha-­mechashmelim, 2019), a commercially successful Israeli comedy. But it also paved a way for him to create a new horror feature, Fingernails (Tsipornaim), with a more ambitious ­budget. As of this writing, the film is in development. The scriptwriter Lior Lederman, in contrast, left the film industry to become a l­awyer. He still writes in his f­ ree time.125

The Specters of Vio­lence in The Damned The original title of The Damned was Bab Jahannam (Arabic for “Gate of Hell”), a title promising peril for three soldiers who set out on a routine navigation exercise in the desert. Indeed, the film’s protagonists are haunted by the specters of vio­lence that Israel inflicted in 1948 on the indigenous population. The Damned was initiated by its writers, the husband-­and-­wife team of novelists and screenwriters Ayelet Gundar-­Goshen and Yoav Shutan-­Goshen, working with the theater director Irad Rubinstain. Th ­ ese three w ­ ere not the most obvious candidates to write a horror movie: it was their first foray into the genre

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and their first feature film.126 The idea for the story grew out of the experience that Shutan-­Goshen and Rubinstain shared during their army ­service in the elite combat corps. Rubinstain recalls, “Back in 1999 we would go out on navigation exercises. ­There is something almost religious about this experience, of a person facing the desert, facing darkness and fear. Your mind conjures all kinds of ­things.”127 The fear became a ritual: “Before we’d go on ­these navigation exercises, alone at night, we’d fantasize about the scary ­things that could happen to us ­there. Each one of us would come up with his own terrifying scenario.”128 Although neither writer had an intrinsic interest in the genre, they drew on horror tropes to convey this unique experience. More pragmatically, they wanted to write a script that would have a chance of being made. “We understood that horror is relatively cheap to make: a desert and three characters in army uniforms. Easy,” explains Shutan-­Goshen.129 This remark shows that by 2013, when they wrote their first draft, horror in Israel was already perceived as an option even by filmmakers without any special investment in the genre, which was not the case just a few years e­ arlier. Producers’ responses offered additional evidence of the trend; several w ­ ere interested in the script. Ultimately, the three screenwriters ended up working with Chilik Michaeli of UCM, the production com­pany ­behind Rabies and Big Bad Wolves. To direct, Michaeli recommended Evgeny Ruman, whose films he had produced before. Ruman was an equally unusual choice for a horror film. Ruman (b. 1979) immigrated to Israel from Belarus in 1990 and is best known for his bilingual work dealing with themes of immigration.130 A productive and versatile filmmaker, he helmed a charming f­ amily drama Igor and the Cranes’ Journey (Igor ve-­masa ha-­agurim, 2012), a satirical comedy Lenin in October (Lenin be-­oktober, 2010), both bilingual, and a Russian-­language Israeli t­ elevision series Between the Lines (Bein ha-­shurot, 2009, YES-­R aduga). Like the writers, he had no special investment in horror.131 But in 2015, when Gundar-­Goshen, Shutan-­Goshen, and Rubinstain ­were shopping for a director, Ruman’s new film The Man in the Wall (Ha-­ish she-­ba-­kir, 2015), an art­house psychological thriller, had just had its pre­ ere impressed by Ruman’s abilmiere. The screenwriters watched the film and w ity to build fear and tension. They agreed with Michaeli that he was right for their proj­ect. The script resonated with Ruman: “It seemed very Israeli to me. It’s a horror film that is firmly grounded in this land and this country. It is a story that starts in such a trivial way and ends in total chaos. I recognized this drastic transition from normalcy to a complete mess as something characteristically Israeli. Th ­ ere is a moral realism in that. I found this combination of psychological approach with the classic form of a super­natural horror film to be both in­ter­est­ing and original.”132 In other words, what appealed to him was the conversion of the global genre to a setting and sensibility that he recognized as authentically local. Ruman brought in Ram Shweky (Frozen Days), a cinematographer with a passion for horror. Shweky experimented with dif­fer­ent cameras to allow him to

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shoot u­ nder natu­ral light, even at night, to cut costs.133 They shot the film in December 2016 in fifteen days, with two more days of reshoots, all in the Negev desert. They kept the costs down by working with a skeletal crew and small cast. Only when the film was being edited did the producers succeed in securing additional funds, including from the Israel Film Fund, the Ra­bino­vich Foundation, and the distributor, United King Films. Even with t­ hese contributions, the ­budget remained minimal, totaling $200,000. By October 2018, the film was ready. ­A fter test screenings, the distributor insisted that the Arabic title of the film be changed to Mekulalim (The Damned). The new title was supposed to remove any unwanted associations with ­things Arab, which, according to the marketing team, was not a good selling strategy in Netanyahu’s increasingly right-­wing Israel.134 The following November, the film went into theatrical release in Israel.

Israel’s Blair Witch The Damned was inspired by several significant international horror films, most immediately The Blair Witch Proj­ect (1999, Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sánchez). The original script was based entirely on found footage, which in Israel in 2013 was an innovation. But as time passed, the writers realized that found footage was becoming cliché and de­cided instead to shoot mostly with an omniscient camera, only occasionally cutting to the footage on the diegetic camera.135 Although found footage is not its core cinematic approach, The Damned, like Blair Witch, was shot on locations with mostly natu­ral lighting, often with a shoulder-­held camera. The Blair Witch influence extended to the ele­ments of plot structure, dialogue, mise-­en-­scène, and even props. The Damned also offers a single linear plotline with no flashbacks, backstories, or subplots. The action is set in exterior locations with a minimal cast of characters and takes place in the pre­sent. Significantly, like The Blair Witch Proj­ect, The Damned jettisons the graphic gore and comedy of the previous horror films set in the IDF to create more atmospherically suggestive psychological horror. Its restrained approach leaves much of the terror to the audience’s imagination. This approach reflects the influence of ­Japanese horror, especially Ringu (1998, Hideo Nakata), the film known as “Japan’s Blair Witch.”136 Like The Blair Witch Proj­ect, Ringu uses subtlety and indirection to generate an overriding sense of dread, a feeling that Matthew Hills calls “objectless anxiety.”137 Another impor­tant influence was Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980), the favorite horror film of Ruman and Shutan-­Goshen.138 The Damned owes its premise to The Shining: in the same way that the violation of the Native American burial ground places a curse on the ­hotel, the vio­lence against the Bedouins during the Nakba plagues the present-­day Israeli desert.139 Thus, the film explic­ itly engages with a local ­political issue but treats it through the conventions of the horror genre. And yet, that super­natural curse is not the source of horror.

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The true horror lies in the characters’ aggression fueled by toxic masculinity. The ghosts may as well be figments of their imaginations. But as in The Shining, ­these ghosts look and act like real-­life ­human beings—­not as the kind of translucent figures depicted, for instance, in Poltergeist (1982, Tobe Hooper). The film’s motifs also echo Deliverance (1972, John Boorman), another cinematic classic dealing with vio­lence and toxic masculinity. Like Deliverance, The Damned is structured as a road movie, pitting a small group of men against a hostile environment. The journey unleashes the worst in them, leading to deception and murder. The brutal developments in Deliverance are foreshadowed early in the plot, when the city outsiders encounter a mentally disabled boy playing the banjo. Contrary to the usual associations of childhood with innocence, the encounter is foreboding. The boy’s distorted face gives the scene an eerie feeling. When the characters spot him ­later, he seems like an apparition. The juxtaposition of deluded outsiders drunk on their own masculinity and the haunting presence of the strange child is echoed in The Damned. The Damned reflects the influence of Israeli army comedies but less so than other Israeli horror films set in the IDF. Like Hill Halfon ­Doesn’t Answer, another film set in a remote army base in the desert, the dialogue relies on characteristic army humor and slang. But where Hill Halfon is a broad comedy, in The Damned the humor only offsets the seriousness of events. Like Driks’ ­Brother, The Damned juxtaposes an Ashkenazi weakling and Mizrahi bullies. But where Driks’ ­Brother satirizes army mores with its cult of military manhood, The Damned extends its indictment to society as a ­whole: no one is exempt from responsibility for wrongdoing. Toxic masculinity and the bourekas-­like dynamic between Mizrahi and Ashkenazi Israelis are thematized but are not the crux of the ­matter.

Welcome to the Gates of Hell The film opens with an allegedly Bedouin proverb, “God created hell; man found a way ­there,” which hints at ­human rather than super­natural responsibility for the events to come. The sound of wind on the soundtrack connects the intertitle to a long static shot of vast desert vistas. This introduction asks us to contemplate the formidable space of the desert, establishing it not only as a setting but also as a landscape. Theorizing cinematic space, Martin Lefebre distinguishes between a setting—­a backdrop to the events and characters—­and a landscape, “space freed from eventhood” that constitutes “a completely distinct aesthetic object.”140 The narrative construction and cinematography of the film turn the setting into a landscape by encouraging an “autonomizing gaze,” directing our attention to the exterior space itself rather than t­ oward the action taking place within it.141 In The Damned, the desert appears both as a setting for the plot and a symbolic space with its own significance: it is an inner landscape of the protagonists’ existential state, a vast space of emptiness and fear. The desert landscape plays a central role in the film, becoming, in the filmmakers’ words, the fourth character.142

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The desert view switches from landscape to setting, when, in a wide shot, a car appears on a road. An Israeli rock’n’roll song playing on the radio gets louder as the car approaches. When the car stops at an abandoned rest stop, a young pale guy in white underwear gets out. He opens the trunk, in which a close-up shot reveals his army uniform and a camera. Aviv (Amit Rahav) is on a mission to film a combat unit for the office of IDF Spokesperson. He changes into his khakis, transforming from a civilian to a soldier, and walks ­toward a dilapidated structure. As he urinates against the wall, a young boy appears in a win­dow above him and giggles. Aviv attempts to look in the win­dow, but the boy wearing a long white thobe, traditional Bedouin clothing, runs away. Aviv then walks around, looking for an entrance to the structure only to find it barred, as a hum on the soundtrack signals that something unnatural is happening. This encounter announces the main horror motif of the film: haunting. The desert harbors ghosts. The scene also sets a juxtaposition between an Israeli and a Bedouin and between a soldier and a child. The soldier represents the army, society, and civilization; the child belongs to the realm of nature: the desert, an archaic landscape existing outside h ­ uman time and evoking, in the words of Ranen Omer-­Sherman, feelings of eternity and fatalism.143 The scene of Aviv’s arrival at a remote army outpost sets up another contrast—­ between him, a quin­tes­sen­tial jobnik stationed in an office in Tel Aviv for whom fatigues are a professional uniform to don as needed, and the hypermasculine ­ ese combat fighters are members of the Givati soldiers he meets at the outpost. Th Brigade, a unit notorious for its use of excessive force against Palestinian civilians.144 Aviv is equipped with a camera, whereas the other soldiers carry ­rifles. They ham it up for Aviv’s camera, laughing and teasing each other and engaging in physical ­horse­play, both aggressive and affectionate. “Every­one pays for sex; Givatis get it for f­ree!” they shout in unison. Sexism is another ele­ment of their male solidarity. The only soldier not participating in the fun is Tomer Aboutbul (Daniel Gad). He volunteered for Givati ­because, he says to Aviv’s camera, “I wanted to contribute to my country.” With his clean-­cut good looks, patriotic motives, and aspirations to become an officer, he is a blast from the past, harking back to the films of the heroic-­nationalist genre that pre­sent characters of larger-­than-­life fighters sacrificing themselves for the Zionist cause. But as a Mizrahi (his last name indicates his origins), he would never m ­ easure up to ­these Ashkenazi icons. As an ­eager colonial subject caught in the act of mimicry, he would always be, in the words of Homi Bhabha, “almost the same, but not quite.”145 The film shows that Tomer is out of sync both with his time and with the other soldiers, especially with Yuval (Nimrod Hochenberg) who is nicknamed Barhash (gnat) for his constant clowning. The images on screen shift between the omniscient camera of the film’s narration and the subjective perspective of Aviv’s diegetic camera. Like The Blair Witch Proj­ect, The Damned adopts “the aesthetics of observational documentary cinema’s handheld camerawork.”146 Paradoxically, this technique creates a sense

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of realism and breaks the fourth wall. As Peter Turner observes, “To a con­ temporary audience, an awareness of the camera’s presence is increasingly an impor­tant part of creating the ‘real­ity’ effect. The audience is conscious that the footage is not real life but is also attentive to the fact that a camera operator was pre­sent in the diegesis.”147 The footage of the diegetic camera, marked by a grainy texture and a red recording indicator, appears to be more “real” than the polished look of the film’s omniscient camera. Aviv’s footage then acts as a reliable witness to the events. As in The Blair Witch Proj­ect, the diegetic camera has its own grammar, conveying the operator’s feelings. According to Turner, “Dropping the camera implies a lack of control, shakiness suggests uncertainty and fear; quick pans or tilts can reveal fright or edginess and zooms demonstrates an interest in an object.” The disintegration of the camera work signals a complete loss of control.148 Aviv with his camera is assigned to accompany Tomer and Barhash on a five-­ hour navigation exercise in the desert. As an officer explains, they need to map the terrain that the IDF has not stepped on in forty years. Tomer leads the briefing: “Not far from ­here is Jabl Kanier, a former Bedouin settlement; ­there is nothing ­there now. In the War of ­Independence, the IDF went in and evacuated all the Bedouins.” As Tomer is speaking, an old Bedouin ­woman in black (played by Palestinian Israeli actor Abeer Haddad) appears in the frame ­behind him. ­ a’am, please stay out,” Tomer tells her. But the “This is a military zone, m ­woman keeps walking and, ­after reaching him, digs her nails into his arm. “My boy, my boy!” she screams in Arabic, “Where is he? I’ve been looking for him all day!” ­A fter the soldiers pry her away from Tomer, she collapses. A wide shot of the old w ­ oman wailing on the ground, surrounded by a group of young men with guns, establishes the power misbalance. “God w ­ ill avenge you,” she says rocking hypnotically, “The land ­will devour you. Welcome to Bab Jahannam!” As she is welcoming them to the Gate of Hell, the soldiers grow serious, as shown in the reaction shots. “­Every dog has its day!” the ­woman prophesies, as Aviv’s camera closes in on her.149 “Turn off the camera!” the officer yells at Aviv, his order reflecting the IDF’s increasing concern with visual evidence of its vio­lence against Palestinian civilians.150 He ­orders the soldiers to remove the ­woman, and as they drag her away, Tomer rolls up his sleeve to reveal nasty wounds where her nails pierced his skin. The curse of the Bedouin w ­ oman taps into the horror figure of a witch avenging injustice, like in Sam Raimi’s Drag Me to Hell (2009). But it has a much less fantastical resonance in an Israeli context. In ­later dialogue, Tomer fills in more details about the events of 1948: “­There ­wasn’t a b­ attle. The IDF came; the Bedouins fled. ­Later they said their ­children ­were killed, their wells ­were poisoned, crap like that.” Tomer’s words sum up both the historical events that took place in 1948 in the Negev (Naqab in Arabic) desert and the Israelis’ dismissive attitudes to this history. The population of Negev Bedouins in 1948 was approximately 100,000.151

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During the 1948 War, nearly 90 ­percent ­were expelled by Israeli forces or fled in terror.152 The few who remained ­were forced to live u­ nder military administrative control in one area of the Negev. The state declared owner­ship of much of the rest of their land in the desert, turning large portions into closed military zones, like the one depicted in The Damned. Even a­ fter military control was abolished, the situation of the Bedouin community did not improve much. According to Israeli law, they no longer held rights to their ancestral lands.153 As ­legal disputes stalled in the courts, Bedouins have remained on the lands to which they are linked by collective memory and historical ties. Yet Israel considers their settlements “unrecognized villages” and has pressured Bedouins to give up their land claims and resettle in state-­built towns.154 Many have refused. Of the current population of 250,000 Bedouins, about 100,000 continue to live in the “unrecognized villages” in dire poverty and without access to government infrastructures.155 ­These Bedouin villages are “invisible” in Israel, and their residents are “transparent” to other citizens.156 The villages themselves are left off official Israel’s map, their existence disavowed, their presence ghostly. With the Bedou­ etaphor ins’ loss denied and their trauma unacknowledged, haunting is an apt m for their situation in Israel. Freud famously relied on the language of haunting to account for the return of repressed memories from an individual’s unconsciousness.157 Avery Gordon approaches haunting as a sociopolitical-­psychological state in which “a repressed or unresolved social vio­lence is making itself known.” She sees the appearance of specters or ghosts as a sign “that what’s been concealed is very much alive and pre­sent, interfering precisely with t­ hose always incomplete forms of containment and repression ceaselessly directed ­toward us.” ­These ghosts appear in a society in the moments “when the trou­ble they represent and symptomize is no longer being contained or repressed or blocked from view.”158 Gil Hochberg also approaches haunting as a social phenomenon. According to her, haunting expands the realm of the vis­i­ble and shows the erasure itself. In the context of Israeli culture, where historical vio­lence against the Palestinians is suppressed, it “finds its way into the Israeli visual field as a haunting presence of a vis­i­ble invisibility.”159 In other words, the Palestinian past haunts the Israeli pre­sent. The Negev Bedouins share the fate of other Palestinian citizens of Israel, but the state recognizes them as an ethnic minority, treating and perceiving them as “loyal Arabs” who are less threatening to the state of Israel and its Jewish citizens than other Palestinians.160 Yet, since the First Intifada (1987–1993), the Bedouin community has experienced an increase in religious fundamentalism and ­political radicalization through closer connections with Palestinians from Gaza and the West Bank. As the Bedouins have started to emphasize the Palestinian dimension of their identity, they have been subjected to collective othering in Israel.161 The Bedouins living in “unrecognized villages” are called polshim (Hebrew for trespassers), a term suggesting that they “are seen as a hostile ele­ ment and a threat to law and order for the Jewish population of the Negev and,

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more broadly, for the state.”162 ­Because of this perception, the Negev region has become known in Israel as “the Wild South.”163 The Damned gives expression both to the current fears under­lying this hostility and the denial of responsibility for the historical crimes that Israel committed against the Bedouins. Like most Israelis, the soldiers on screen are ­either oblivious of this history or in denial about it, illustrating the condition of “vis­i­ble invisibility” of Palestinians (including Bedouins) in Israel.164 The rest of the film depicts the soldiers’ journey, relying on the conventions of a road movie. In such films, the road functions “as an alternative space where isolation from the mainstream permits vari­ous transformative experiences.”165 Significantly, ­these experiences in the film take place in a desert, a site with profound resonance in both Jewish and Israeli contexts. According to Yael Zerubavel, ever since the biblical Exodus story, “The desert has often served as a site of memory associated with symbolic passages and traumatic encounters with death.”166 In Jewish sources, “the desert serves as a liminal space that allows divine revelations and is essential for experiencing profound transitions.”167 In the Zionist era, the meaning of the desert changed, being defined then in opposition to Jewish settlement. If Jewish settlement is understood as “the familiar, safe, and historicized place,” the desert is the land outside of it.168 That empty undifferentiated space of a desert can take a dual meaning “as both nonplace associated with mythical origins and the hostile counter-­place opposing the settlement.”169 Both meanings are actualized in The Damned. Initially, the desert appears as a nonplace, a setting for a routine army exercise. But as the events pro­gress, the desert becomes a counter-­place, a hostile and dangerous terrain beyond the pale. The three protagonists Aviv, Tomer, and Barhash, are a microcosm of the Israeli army: they are, respectively, a jobnik, a hero, and a clown. Predictably, Aviv quickly proves inept: he does not think to bring ­water on a long desert trek. The upright Tomer shares his canteen flask with him. (In contrast, Barhash would ­later prefer to drain off his last drops of w ­ ater than share it with Aviv). Meanwhile, Barhash pesters Aviv and nicknames him Bronchitis, a­ fter Aviv explains that he has asthma, thus justifying his jobnik assignment. Barhash keeps clowning for the camera. His antics are intercut with the contrasting shots of a vast desert landscape that put the soldiers in perspective. The three are shown from the back as they contemplate the view and direct our attention ­toward it (figure 4.3). The landscape shifts back into a utilitarian setting when Tomer looks at it through his compass. The camera shows his subjective viewpoint. By that time, it is almost dark, and the yellow tones turn an otherworldly grayish blue. The desert is awash in crepuscular light, between day and night, indicating the liminal space in which the characters find themselves. The change of light and color signals that the transformation is about to begin. As they descend into a cave that Barhash found, they are on the precipice of something: possibly they are entering the Gate of Hell, as promised by the old Bedouin ­woman.

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FIGURE 4.3  ​The three soldiers looking over the desert. A screenshot from The Damned.

The cave is dark save for Tomer’s flashlight and Aviv’s camera’s flash. The light illuminates cryptic drawings on the wall, and Aviv’s camera captures figures caught in a violent attack. Some are painted red to indicate blood. Another wall is covered with handprints, like the walls of the witch’s ­house at the end of The Blair Witch Proj­ect. Aviv and Tomer are spooked, but Barhash keeps clowning. First, he jumps at them and scares them, screaming, “Bab Jahannam! Slaughter the Jews!” lampooning their (and the Israeli audience’s) fears. The soldiers leave the cave only ­after Aviv’s camera malfunctions, capturing his face as he tries to fix it. As they exit, the omniscient camera glides over the head of the Bedouin boy who spooked Aviv at the rest stop. He is watching them. The boy’s mysterious appearance miles away from where he was first seen reinforces the idea that super­natural forces are at work. Outside, the soldiers radio headquarters but get no response. Aviv’s phone has no reception. When they try their radio again ­later, it only picks up a mournful song, which sounds like a broadcast from a ghostly realm. The song is in Arabic, suggesting that this is the language of the ghosts. The soldiers are now in total darkness, cut off from the world; the lighting and soundtrack imply that the characters have crossed into another realm where the usual rules do not apply. This suspicion is confirmed when Tomer reveals that, in addition to the expulsions of 1948, other disturbing events took place at the site. In 1970s, ­there was an accident ­there in which two soldiers ­were killed. “­Didn’t the Bedouin ­woman say that this place is evil or something?” asks Aviv. The nonplace has become a counter-­place. As expected in a cursed place, t­ hings do not go well. Like in The Blair Witch Proj­ect, the characters squabble with each other; their spat is only interrupted when Tomer hears something. Aviv activates the night vision on his camera, which colors the on-­screen darkness a fluo­rescent green. As we follow Aviv’s camera panning over the desert, a large black dog runs in from nowhere and lunges at him. The diegetic camera falls, signaling Aviv’s loss of control. Tomer shoots the dog; it lies whimpering on the ground. The soldiers are shaken up, but their

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dif­fer­ent responses are telling: Aviv suggests calling a veterinarian, Tomer mocks him and says to move on, and Barhash simply shoots the animal. In contrast to the Mizrahi combat fighters, Ashkenazi Aviv’s response appears both morally superior and hopelessly naïve: it is a nod to his privilege. Accompanied by a threatening hum on the soundtrack, Aviv looks up from the dog; a long low-­angle shot then reveals the silhouette of a Bedouin boy, his white thobe luminous in the moonlight. When Aviv zooms in on the boy, we see that his dress is soaked in blood and that he ­mumbles repeatedly, “­Every dog has its day,” echoing the words of the Bedouin ­woman. He speaks Arabic, the language of the ghosts in the world of the film. Tomer, however, is not interested in what the Bedouin boy has to say; instead, he ­orders Aviv to stop filming and erase the footage of the dog being shot: this is the film’s commentary on the army’s concern with “optics,” the bad publicity that may result from the graphic depiction of vio­lence against Palestinian civilians. Bad omens continue: the soldiers’ wristwatches stop working and they lose track of time. Fi­nally, at sunrise they reach the army outpost, which is now empty. Without tents, vehicles, and soldiers, it looks like what it is—­a ruin, a vestige of a Bedouin settlement, destroyed or abandoned in 1948. Such ruins, caused by ­human vio­lence, writes Dylan Trigg, are sites haunted by a traumatic past.170 In Israel, according to Gil Hochberg, they “function as a reminder of the open secret situated at the heart of the Israeli national narrative”; they are vis­i­ble traces of what remains invisible: the Nakba.171 Ruins ­here are a ­metaphor for haunting. Tomer rationalizes that the unit must have been called urgently to Gaza, but we know that more than a sudden security operation is b­ ehind the strange disappearance. He strives to remain in control but he is disoriented, and the wounds on his arm, as the close-up reveals, are festering. As the soldiers march on, the camera shows them in a long shot as tiny figures in the desert; the desert fills up the entire screen, cutting off the sky. Such shots create the disturbing sense of “claustrophobia within agoraphobia” that the filmmakers want to convey.172 The space is vast, but ­there is nowhere to go. ­Things turn for the worse when, dehydrated and exhausted, they find ­water. Barhash dismisses Tomer’s warning and starts drinking from a puddle like an animal. Aviv joins in, and soon Tomer dips his flask into the w ­ ater too. Barhash strips to his underwear and splashes in the puddle. “Film me, Bronchitis; it ­will get the girls interested!” he calls to Aviv as he moons for the camera. But soon Barhash grows serious. Standing knee-­high in ­water, he offers Tomer and Aviv what he calls a “joke”: “This guy, a virgin, used to tell jokes about fucking. Fucking, fucking, fucking, all the time. But actually he h ­ asn’t seen a single pussy in his entire life.” As the camera zooms on his face, he starts crying: “And then, all of a sudden, he dies.” Barhash’s strange story sounds both like a confession and a prophecy, heightening the sense of objectless paranoia associated with the counter-­place. The danger is everywhere and nowhere. That sense is conveyed again and again by long shots showing the desert filling up an entire frame, accompanied by a low threatening hum on the soundtrack.

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As the soldiers trudge through the desert, they look increasingly unwell. Their sweaty foreheads and blank stares are distended by a fisheye effect, intensifying the sense that something is wrong. “I feel funny,” shares Aviv. “Me too,” confirms Barhash. Their voices are distorted too. “Maybe we d­ idn’t drink enough,” suggests Aviv. “Maybe we drank too much,” says Tomer. When Barhash vomits, and Tomer and Aviv collapse, it becomes clear that they ­were poisoned. Aviv’s camera falls on the ground along with him. The screen now shows only what is accidentally in focus: bodies passed out on the ground. The operatorless camera, a trope of found footage films, both indicates a loss of control and heightens the illusion that what we see is “real.”173 The frame then shakes, as if the camera is being dragged away. A giggle on the soundtrack sounds like the voice of the Bedouin boy e­ arlier. Was the poisoning his ghostly revenge for the Bedouin wells that the Israeli army poisoned back in 1948? Or was the puddle from which the soldiers drank one of ­those wells? As the frame switches to an omniscient POV, the soldiers slowly come to themselves. They are in an entirely dif­fer­ent place. An overhead shot shows the three lying in a gray field, each surrounded by rock formations tracing their bodies. ­These formations call to mind both police chalk outlines and the mysterious rock piles in The Blair Witch Proj­ect. The eerie sound effects indicate that they are now in a super­natural realm, subject to unknown forces. Tomer attempts to lead them, but t­ here is no road in sight. His compass is of no use, and when he finds out that Barhash misplaced the map, they start fighting, like the characters in the same situation in The Blair Witch Proj­ect. They are distracted from the fight only when a black dog appears, the same one that Tomer shot ­earlier. Although it may simply be a dif­f er­ent dog, in the context of the narrative, it is a ghost, a part of the super­natural realm. The encounter with the dog undoes Tomer. He starts shooting, and as the dog runs away, he chases a­ fter it, disappearing into the desert. In the next scene, he is alone, crying in frustration. At this low point, the radio, which he had turned off ­earlier, comes alive: “Are you lost?” asks a male voice. “Negative!” denies Tomer. “You are lying to yourself; you ­don’t know where you are,” says the voice on the radio. As the dialogue goes on, the voice gets distorted, echoing like it is coming from everywhere but airing Tomer’s innermost doubts: “Are you crying? What are you, a ­little girl?” questions the voice. “Negative, sir,” says Tomer, sniffling. “Then start taking responsibility for your actions!” booms the voice, “And catch that fucking Bedouin dog!” As in other New Israeli Horror films, the scene of the alpha male’s disintegration is a satire of toxic masculinity. The veneer of the patriotic hero comes off to reveal Tomer’s profound insecurities and misguided priorities that underlie his vio­lence. Aviv and Barhash follow Tomer’s footsteps, but all they find are his ­rifle and the radio, strewn in the sand. When next they come across a rusted, overturned army car, the remains of the 1970s accident, we understand that they are now at the very heart of the cursed place. They discover Tomer’s other equipment inside

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the car, covered with blood, as if past and pre­sent have been disarranged. They panic and run away, with shaky operatorless shots of Aviv’s camera conveying their terror. As they trudge on, like Tomer did, they start hearing voices. Barhash stops when he hears a whistled melody, the same one they whistled together happily at the beginning of their journey. But now it is haunting them. When they turn on the radio, it plays the tune too, like in a nightmare. Barhash smashes the radio. The melody that drove him mad is a motif from the 1984 song “Goldberg’s Fields” by the famous Israeli singer-­songwriter Meir Ariel. The song, as its title indicates, is his response to an iconic Hebrew poem by Leah Goldberg, “You ­Will Walk in the Fields.” Written in 1943, the poem was a reaction to the horrors of World War II and the Holocaust. Its central image of a ­woman walking alone in the fields is a promise of healing, a sign that love ­will be pos­si­ble in the face of trauma. In his reworking, written at the time of the First Lebanon War, Ariel warns, “Do not go in the fields alone!” Instead of hope, ­there is a sense of danger and cynicism. His song’s warning resonates with the film’s themes, both literally and ­metaphorically. A tracking shot continues to follow Aviv’s and Barhash’s trek through the desert, alone in the arid space. As night descends, the two find themselves back at the cave entrance. They are walking in circles. Adding to their terror are new markings on the wall—­three dark figures traced by dots in the same way their bodies ­earlier ­were outlined by rocks. They recognize themselves in the figures. Moving along through an otherworldly moonlit landscape, they come across Tomer’s khaki shirt spread on the ground. On the fabric lies a live heart, covered in blood. Tomer sits nearby. The scene is hallucinatory: Tomer is awash in blue crepuscular light. He is half-­dressed and is petting a dead dog. “I killed it. Once again,” he says. In the shaky gait of the reanimated dead, he stumbles forward, dips his fin­gers into the still-­beating heart, and draws two stripes on his shoulder with blood, effectively appointing himself first lieutenant.174 In this perverse way, he accomplishes his aspirations: “I’m an officer,” he says, laughing. The close-up of the blood stripes is a sinister symbol—­a ­metaphor of military vio­lence—­that functions as the film’s indictment of the IDF. But Tomer now looks nothing like an officer. He walks with a zombie-­like gait. He wears no pants or boots. The wound on his arm has worsened, and the blood has seeped through his shirtsleeve. He trails b­ ehind Barhash and Aviv, who are more repelled than scared ­until Tomer suddenly lunges at Aviv. A ­ fter the attack, Barhash marches Tomer in front of them, holding him at a gunpoint. ­Whatever solidarity they shared as combat fighters in the same unit is gone. The camera now shows the three in separate close-­ups—­each man for himself, lost in the same lunar landscape. A fight soon breaks out between Tomer and Barhash. A close-up shows Tomer’s diabolical eyes and his mouth dripping with blood like a vampire. Barhash smashes a rock against Tomer’s head, killing him in the same barbaric fashion as Pini kills Mickey in Rabies. The camera looks

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away at the last moment. Significantly, the killer is Barhash, not Tomer, who is the one affected by the super­natural forces. It is one Israeli soldier killing another Israeli soldier. Like in other New Israeli Horror films, aggression turns on itself. Aviv and Barhash leave the corpse ­behind and march on. They may be together, but ­there is no trust between them, only fear. The radio comes on, and a real officer, not a ghost, asks for their coordinates. “Fire a flare,” he o­ rders. But Barhash ­will only do it if Aviv agrees to confirm that he killed Tomer in self-­defense and ­will delete any incriminating footage. Aviv complies, yet we see that he just plays with the zoom, instead of deleting the footage. Barhash attacks Aviv, and another fight between two IDF soldiers ensues. ­Running away from Barshash’s bullets, Aviv descends into the cave they explored ­earlier. Barhash taunts him: “Look at you run! D ­ on’t you have asthma? And where is your inhaler?” This is a significant moment: we might be inclined to empathize with Aviv ­here, who hitherto was constructed as a moral character, but the film does not let anyone off easy. While Tomer’s heroic masculinity is bankrupt, and Barhash’s machismo is murderous, Aviv is also morally compromised. Not only did he lie about his health to acquire a cushy job but he also deceives Barhash in their final fight. He tricks Barhash into shooting at his boot that he placed as a decoy, while he hides in the opposite corner of a cave so he can get a clear shot at Barhash. When Barhash realizes his ­mistake and turns, Aviv fires. Barhash’s body undulates in a hail of bullets before collapsing. Now Aviv is a killer too. Covered in Barhash’s blood, hobbling in one boot, Aviv looks deranged: he is both a victim and a killer. This is how he appears when he comes across some ­human remains—­a small skull and a thobe strewn over bones. They are evidence that the Bedouin boy, whose ghost chased the soldiers across the desert, died a violent death in that place many years ago. The desert is cursed b­ ecause it bears the bodies of the Bedouin victims of Israel’s vio­lence, still unacknowledged and unatoned. Aviv’s real­ity unravels. The m ­ usic in the background sounds increasingly like an Arabic chant, and shadows on the walls move like a ghostly pro­cession. Aviv shoots at them, but t­ here is no hitting the shadows. “I’m not!” he screams in terror. Alas, the shadows are not ghosts but a group of soldiers looking for him. As the soldiers realize that Aviv killed Barhash, they stare at him in shock. He tries to explain what happened but makes no sense. Then he reaches out for his camera to show them his footage, but the screen displays a “data error” sign and goes blank. Ironically, the diegetic camera, which the audience is conditioned to trust as capturing unmediated real­ity, turns out to be an unreliable narrator. At that moment, tapping into the conventions of what Thomas Elsaesser calls the “mind-­ game film,” The Damned asks us to doubt the entire story.175 Was t­ here a ghost boy, or was it just a Bedouin kid, possibly playing a prank on the soldiers? Was t­ here ­ ater cursed, or did they a ghost dog, or was it simply another animal? Was the w simply drink from a contaminated puddle? Put like that, all the mystical theories fall apart, and ­every super­natural phenomenon can have a rational explanation, with the ghosts serving as an excuse for the characters’ vio­lence.

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As the soldiers carry Aviv out of the cave, he m ­ umbles, “­Every dog has its day,” repeating the words of the Bedouin from the e­ arlier scenes. In the distance, the black dog keeps watching. Aviv is subdued, shown in an upside-­down overhead shot; like that shot, Aviv’s world has been overturned. He overhears an officer on the radio reporting his arrest and the discovery of a child’s bones in the cave. As Aviv lifts his head, the camera follows his gaze to an old Bedouin ­woman, walking across the sand as her black dress flutters in the wind. Then the camera turns back to Aviv, who is carried away by the soldiers. The film ends in the same way it began—­with static shots of the vast landscape. Only instead of the swish of the wind, ­there is loud, disturbing ­music in the background. ­Whatever haunted the soldiers is still out t­ here, be it ghosts or their own aggression. Th ­ ere is no narrative safety; the curse continues.

The Damned in the Context of Israeli Cinema Yael Zerubavel notes that the desert plays a critical role in Israeli films “by virtue of its mythical role as a liminal territory of passages and transitions in Jewish memory that has been incorporated into Israeli memory.”176 However, the meanings and functions of the cinematic desert change with time. In early Israeli films, “the passage through desert transforms the survivors into a committed Zionist group entitled to earn entry to the Promised Land.”177 Nothing of that sort happens in The Damned: the characters cannot even pass through the desert, ­going in circles instead. Two of them die t­ here at the hands of their own comrades. The last survivor, arguably, loses his mind. Entry to the Promised Land is thus denied. But the desert’s meaning on Israeli screens is also determined by its status as a liminal space that offers a chance to encounter the Other. According to Anat Zanger, in pre-1948 films, “the desert landscape is associated with the natives, the Arabs,” but “their place is taken by the Hebrew pioneer, who in turn becomes a ‘native’ by transforming the desert into a flourishing garden.”178 In The Damned, the desert remains the desert, with no promise of blooming. ­Later Israeli films featuring the desert differ in the ways they approach encounters with the Other. The films set in development towns deny the presence of the indigenous population, keeping the Arabs invisible. But the films that thematize desert journeys do acknowledge their existence and depict encounters between Israelis and Palestinians or other Arabs.179 Such depictions also have changed over time. In ­earlier Israeli films, such as Scouting Patrol (Sayarim,1967, Micha Shagrir), the desert is depicted as an e­ nemy land, where the characters of Arabs appear as one-­dimensional and evil.180 In ­later films, such as Avanti Popolo (1986, Rafi Bukai) the repre­sen­ta­tion is more complex, offering a depiction of the desert as a liminal space in which Arabs appear to be more personable and sympathetic characters. Sharqiya (2012, Ami Livne), featuring a Bedouin as a main character, has continued this trend.

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But most con­temporary Israeli films do not create a space for desert encounters. Th ­ ose that follow in the tradition of development town films, such as Turn Left at the End of the World (Sof ha-­ulam smola, 2004, Avi Nesher), depict an entirely Judaized desert space with no Bedouin characters or traces of Palestinian presence. ­Those rare Israeli films that place a Bedouin community in the center of the narrative, such as Sand Storm (Sufat chol, 2016, Elite Zexer), feature neither Israeli characters nor the violent legacy of past encounters. The Damned, then, is unique among Israeli desert-­set films. Not only does it thematize an encounter between Israeli soldiers and Bedouin civilians but it is also one of the few Israeli films that focuses on the violent uprooting of the desert’s indigenous population. The Damned makes the Bedouins vis­i­ble (at least as ghosts), disrupting the Israeli practice of the systematic, symbolic erasure of both the ­people and the memory of their past. In that way, the film engages with the memory of the Nakba, a subject rarely represented on Israeli screens. The few films that broach the subject are made by iconoclasts who are e­ ither working largely outside the Israeli system, like Amos Gitai (Ana Arabia, 2013) and Udi Aloni (Mekhilot [Forgiveness], 2006), or ­political outliers, like Ram Loevy (Ha-­ metim shel yafo [The Dead of Jaffa], 2019).181 None of ­these films is particularly ­popular in Israel. Significantly, two of ­these films thematizing the memory of the Nakba, Forgiveness and The Dead of Jaffa, also draw on the motif of haunting.182 “What’s distinctive about haunting is that it is an animated state in which a repressed or unresolved social vio­lence is making itself known,” writes Avery Gordon.183 By relying on the trope of haunting, The Damned taps into a broader cultural sensibility, a perception of the Palestinian victims of 1948 as specters of vio­lence existing in the shadow of Israeli nationalism. This is not surprising given that the Nakba is an unpop­u­lar and uncomfortable subject in Israel, equally absent from historical narrative and public discourse. Israeli authorities have systematically attempted to conceal archival documents on it.184 Local ­organizations promoting memory activism, such as Zochrot, have ­little public support in Israel, where their mission is considered too radical for most Jewish Israelis.185 Moreover, “the Nakba law” prohibits using public funds to commemorate the Nakba, effectively banning any such commemorations.186 The Palestinian collective memory in Israel is subject to what Ilan Pappe calls “memoricide,” the systematic extinguishing of memory.187 By using the trope of haunting, The Damned brings the dark past to light.

Reception The Damned premiered in Israel on November 23, 2018, followed by a theatrical release and a special screening at the Utopia festival. Interviews with the filmmakers appeared in local media, including Russian-­language newspapers, TV, and radio. Russian-­language media in Israel is culturally conservative and po­liti­cally hawkish, so the coverage of a horror film thematizing the memory of the Nakba

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is out of character. But ­because Evgeny Ruman is identified with the immigrant community, which is proud of his accomplishments as an Israeli director, his new film was newsworthy. When a reporter of the major Russian-­language ­ hether the film is a mouthpiece of leftist idenewspaper Vesti cautiously asked w ology, Ruman dismissed the question: “I’m not giving any prescriptions and not suggesting any manifestos. I ­don’t like manifestos in general.”188 The mainstream media, however, was also concerned with the film’s politics. In one way or another, its politics defined the overall negative reception of The Damned. Only a few critics of the youn­ger generation embraced the film, but even they tried to sidestep its politics. Raphael Timnah of the film review website Seret objected to reading The Damned as an expression of “right-­or left-­w ing ideology.” Instead, he saw the film as “an artistic attempt to reveal . . . ​the difficult truths that lurk beneath the surface of Israeli society, of the IDF combat experience . . . ​and of the experience of masculinity anywhere e­ lse.”189 Orr Sigoli of Globes acknowledged that in the current p­ olitical climate, The Damned would be seen negatively for its portrayal of the IDF. He suggested instead looking “at The Damned as a film, and not necessarily as a key to a broader discussion of sacred blue-and-white cows” (an allusion to the Israeli flag) and praised it for impressive direction and cinematography.190 By contrast, ­senior critics lambasted the film. Tomer Kamerling of Mako acknowledged the sophisticated cinematic language of the film yet claimed that The Damned “just does not work.” According to Kamerling, The Damned ­ought to be a story of “Jews in a hostile environment whose failure lies in the fact that they attack each other rather than unite against the e­ nemy.”191 Instead, the filmmakers got it wrong, exposing “the original sin ­towards the Indians—­ sorry, the Bedouins—­for which the white, sorry, Jewish, hegemony pays.” Meir Schnitzer of Maariv acknowledged that the film connects “the memory of the 1948 Nakba and the socio-­political situation of Israeli society ­today,” and called it “daring.” Yet he dismissed the film for its lack of a “relevant script, coherent directing, reasoned photography, reasonable rhythms in editing or acting with some logic.”192 Shmulik Duvdevani of Ynet called The Damned “one more meaningless IDF horror film.” He was particularly critical of the way the film represents the Bedouins and the condescending attitudes of the Israeli soldiers t­ oward them.193 He failed to see such repre­sen­ta­tion as critical of Israeli society and of its denial of the atrocities committed in 1948. Even Uri Klein of Haaretz, a supporter of New Israeli Horror, saw The Damned as “an amateur attempt” to achieve “too much that accomplishes too l­ittle.” According to him, the film si­mul­ta­neously tried “to deal with Israeli-­style masculinity, with the terror of the military s­ ervice, and with the injustice done in the past and pre­sent to the members of the Bedouin community.” He claimed that “­these issues do not fit together in a stable analytical way.”194 One won­ders ­whether panning the film was a defense mechanism that let ­senior critics avoid engaging with the subject of the Nakba. Its treatment in a horror film was

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particularly confounding for critics. Horror was a new genre in Israeli cinema, and at that point, most of the New Israeli Horror films w ­ ere comedies. It is as if the critics lacked the interpretive tools to approach a serious horror film, let alone ­process its difficult message. Given the denial and silencing of the Nakba in Israel, it is no surprise that The Damned did not resonate with critics. Its meditation on the repressed memory of the Nakba and its per­sis­tent haunting was out of sync with the Israeli public too. Following the unfavorable critical reception, The Damned did not stay long in theaters in Israel, selling only 10,000 tickets.195 As of this writing, ­after appearing at genre film festivals, The Damned’s worldwide distribution is being handled by Jinga Films, a boutique British com­pany specializing in horror.

IDF Horror and Other Films The four films analyzed h ­ ere—­Poisoned, Cannon Fodder, Freak Out, and The Damned—­are horror films set in the IDF that thematize the connection between vio­lence and masculinity. But e­ very major New Israeli Horror film has featured Israeli soldiers and army themes ever since early precursor of the current wave Night Soldier, in which a serial killer dons IDF fatigues and goes on a rampage killing soldiers. In Rabies, an unknown psychopath wears army overalls, implicating the IDF in his vio­lence. In Big Bad Wolves, the torture is informed by the practices learned by the characters during their army s­ ervice. In Jeru­Zalem, as we ­will see, the initially sympathetic IDF soldiers turn out to be cowards who abandon civilians in the quarantined city. In ­Children of the Fall, the mass murderer, who wears an army uniform, justifies his killings by citing national values. Similar themes appear in short horror films, such as Watch over Me (Shmor Alai, Mish Rozanov, 2010), which reimagines IDF soldiers as homophobic vampires. All ­these films are preoccupied with the way the IDF channels and perpetuates toxic masculinity. In each, a violent society turns on itself. Several other films draw not only on ­these motifs but also on horror tropes (without being horror films per se). A thriller Anthrax (2017), directed by Tel Aviv University gradu­ate and Hamorotheque alum, Shai Scherf, and written by Yael Oron (Poisoned), relies on the found footage trope. Based on real-­life events, it dramatizes the scandal involving biological weapon experiments that the IDF conducted on soldiers. The thriller Land of the ­Little ­People (Medinat ha-­ gamadim, 2016) by Yaniv Berman, another Hamorotheque veteran who studied film at Tel Aviv University, centers on a clash between a gang of c­ hildren and two army deserters hiding in their compound. The soldiers, who sought refuge from the war, find themselves in a showdown with a group of c­ hildren, which turns out to be no less violent. It is not clear what is more disturbing: the soldiers battling ­children or the ­children outperforming them in vio­lence. ­Family (Mishpaha, 2017), a German Israeli coproduction directed by Veronica “Roni” Kedar, is a dark psychological drama with horror motifs. The plot

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follows the young w ­ oman Lily, who goes to her therapist to confess murdering her ­family: an abusive ­father, a drugged-­out depressed ­mother, a mentally ill ­sister, and a b­ rother who attempts to sexually assault her. The story works as a macabre take on a f­ amily drama, a p­ opular genre in Israeli cinema, depicting the demise of each ­family member by murder or suicide. The entire ­family is dysfunctional, but the origin of the abuse can be traced to Lily’s ­father, who is the picture of toxic masculinity. His possession of a handgun signals his connection to the military. In fact, the only ­thing he can teach Lily is how to shoot this gun—­the very gun that she ­later turns on him. Lily’s ­brother, who is an IDF soldier, follows in the f­ ather’s footsteps. He tried to force Lily to commit suicide with his IDF-­issued gun and then kills himself. Cats in a Pedal Boat (Khatulim be-­sirat pedalim, 2011, Yuval Mendelson and Nadav Hollander) is a comedy that parodies horror tropes and the Israeli military ethos. A ­couple’s nature outing goes wrong: they face dangerous pollution, murderous mutant cats, and a villain called Admiral. A team of sea scouts, modeled on paramilitary forces, comes to their rescue. They wear uniforms, speak an army-­like code, and discuss their heroic missions. But despite their machismo, the scouts fail to help the c­ ouple, perishing one by one. The death of the first scout is marked by a military-­style funeral, satirizing the Israeli cult of fallen soldiers. The dominance of the army theme in Israeli horror films is not surprising. It reflects the army’s central place in Israeli cinema since the 1940s. Indeed, it is difficult to find an Israeli film without an army reference. If a character is not enlisted in the army, they have served in the past, have reserve duty, meet up with friends from their unit, deal with war trauma, or worry about a loved one on the frontline. ­Because the army looms so large in society, the soldier appears as a key figure in Israeli film. To be sure, the figure and its meaning in Israeli culture have changed over time. Eran Kaplan identifies four stages in repre­sen­ta­tion of the soldier. In the 1950s and 1960s, when films of the heroic-­nationalist genre, such as Hill 24 ­Doesn’t Answer (Giv’a 24 Eina Ona, Thorold Dickinson, 1955) supported the new state’s agenda, the dominant image of the Israeli soldier was that of a hero prepared to sacrifice his life for the sake of the state collective and national revival.196 In the 1970s and 1980s, a time of mounting criticism of the military and its violent legacies following the wars of 1973 and 1982, the image of the soldier changed. Israeli films start presenting “the soldier not as a moral hero but rather as an agent of rage and vio­lence,” warning that Israeli Jews who embrace the culture of militarism and nationalism “can easily find themselves the oppressors, the perpetrators of indiscriminate vio­lence.” At that time, films, such as Paratroopers (mentioned ­earlier), call for “renouncing the hero worship of soldiering.”197 The 1990s, a period of post–­Oslo optimism, was a time of hope for the peace ­process and normalization. The perception of the army changed again, reflecting the rise of individualist and cap­i­tal­ist values. According to Eran Kaplan, “the military was no longer seen as an arena for fulfilling one’s collective duty but

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rather as a place to maximize one’s individual potential.” In this context, Israeli films, such as Operation Grandma (Mivtsa savta, 1999, Dror Shaul), portray a soldier as a loafer “who is interested not in the overall mission of the military but rather in his own personal fate.”198 The 2000s was a time when, following the Second Intifada, ­there was a sense of lost hope for peace and renewed fears of war and terror among Jewish Israelis. The emblematic films of that era, such as Beaufort or Lebanon, reflect the image of the Israeli soldier that “came to symbolize the prevailing national sentiment: feeling like helpless victims of irrational and indiscriminate vio­lence.”199 Boaz Hagin notes that the influential film Walk on ­Water (Lalechet al ha-­maim, 2004, Eytan Fox) acknowledges Israel’s “passion for suffering” and upends it, calling critical attention to the per­sis­tent sense of victimhood as a basis for Israeli identity.200 The IDF horror films from the 2010s signal a new stage of repre­sen­ta­tion, reflecting an era when Israeli society is stuck in an ideological crisis, headed by leaders whose authority is compromised by corruption or ­political gaming. This is a time when the Israeli regime’s claims of democracy, social justice, and equality appear increasingly dubious, especially given the expanding occupation. In New Israeli Horror films, the Israeli army is a self-­destructive perpetrator—­ killing, poisoning, or other­wise destroying its own citizens. Th ­ ese films are also cynical in tone and attitude. Their unhappy endings and black humor testify that, even though the old value system is no longer valid, nothing has emerged in its wake but profound nihilism. The recent horror films depart from and continue ­earlier trends. Ido Rosen suggests that the horror films set in the IDF are profoundly influenced by Israeli war films and their “military pedagogy.”201 But the New Israeli Horror films go beyond that influence to revise or reframe the issues that are at the center of Israeli war films. They continue to sound warnings about the dangers of militarism and toxic masculinity, like the films of the 1970s to 1980s, but they are also cynical about the army like the films of the 1990s. Although they portray ruthless vio­ lence, the Israeli soldiers are depicted as aggressors, not victims, like in the films of 2000s. The IDF horror films of 2010s pick up on the vio­lence, criticism, and cynicism found in the ­earlier films and take ­these subjects to a new level. Other continuities persist, particularly in the repre­sen­ta­tion of gender. Like ­earlier army films, the New Israeli Horror films are made by male directors and center on male characters. As Anat Zanger argues in her analy­sis of Israeli war films, female characters, even if active, are still no more but a means for constituting male subject.202 To the degree to which ­women appear in the films discussed in this chapter, they serve instrumental roles—to explore the male characters and to define their masculinity—­even when it is compromised. In that sense, with all the transnational influences and aesthetic innovations, not much has changed since the earliest Israeli films portraying the army.

5

The Jewish Super­natural JeruZalem The films discussed in the previous chapter “convert” horror tropes by setting their plots in the IDF in the con­temporary Israeli real­ity. JeruZalem takes a dif­ fer­ent approach. Set in present-­day Jerusalem, a symbolic location in Judaism, its horror themes draw on the Hebrew Bible and the Talmud. JeruZalem charts a new ave­nue of conversion that can be described as “Jewish super­natural.” Yoav (b. 1976) and Doron (b. 1978) Paz, aka the Paz b­ rothers, grew up in cinema. Their ­father Jonathan Paz is a veteran Israeli filmmaker, having worked in­de­pen­dently since the 1980s. The b­ rothers grew up on their f­ather’s movie sets and ­were extras in his films as kids. As teen­agers, they shot their first horror shorts with his video camera.1 Like other filmmakers discussed ­here, the Paz ­brothers loved genre films. Unlike their contemporaries, they did not take part in the Hamorotheque screenings nor ­were part of the cohort of like-­ minded students at Tel Aviv University.2 Doron never went to film school. Yoav enrolled at the Tel Aviv University Film School only a­ fter years of production experience, first for the Air Force’s film unit and then for cable TV. He credits his work on the Israeli soap opera Hasufim (Exposed; HOT, 2008–2009) as his “real film school.” ­There he learned to shoot daily, work with multiple cameras, create dramatic action, and maintain an intense pace—­skills that became crucial once the ­brothers started working on their own proj­ects. In 2009, the Paz ­brothers premiered Phobidilia, their first feature, which they shot on a micro-­budget and which was mostly in­de­pen­dently funded. A psychological study of an agoraphobic recluse (Ofer Schechter, who would go on 118

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to star in Rabies), the film played for a year on the international festival cir­ cuit. The ­brothers, however, ­were not satisfied: “The film was an artistic success but not a commercial one. We knew it would remain esoteric. We wanted to make movies for audiences—­big audiences.”3 Their first big audiences came with ­television: the ­brothers worked as second directors on the hit Israeli buddy comedy Asfur (HOT, 2010–2011) and then directed Metim Le-­rega (Temporary Dead; HOT, 2014), a hospital show with sci-fi and super­natural ele­ments that was a mash-up of Flatliners (1990, Joel Schumacher) and Misfits (E4, 2009–2013). Fast-­paced and fun, the series was a success, inspiring a Dutch remake (Proj­ect Orpheus, 2016, Avrotros) and earning a second season that premiered on HOT in 2016–2017. Temporary Dead, with its genre ele­ments, was a step ­toward their new proj­ect.

JeruZalem: The Making Of ­A fter gaining experience directing TV shows, the ­brothers wanted to make a horror film like the American ‘80s movies they loved but one that would be recognizably local. To convert the horror, to give it cultural specificity, they de­cided to set the film in the Old City of Jerusalem. Yoav told me, “We are not religious, but we wanted Jewish my­thol­ogy—in the same way foreign filmmakers use their own mythologies—so we went to our sources, the Bible and the Talmud. We thought that Jerusalem was the best setting for a biblical catastrophe, an apocalypse.”4 The ­brothers are no Talmud scholars, but Google gave them enough material to Judaize the horror by tapping into—­and reinventing—­the Jewish super­natural. They set their film not only in Jerusalem but also on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar. They also de­cided to make the film predominantly in ­English (with snippets of Hebrew and Arabic dialogue for color) to appeal to international audiences. And so, they focalized the action through the point of view of an outsider—­a visitor to Jerusalem with whom the audience could identify. The ­brothers set out to make a fun film. Yoav recalls, “Most horror t­ oday is comedy, and we wanted pure fun, black humor.”5 For them “fun” required that the film be apo­liti­cal. This position might seem surprising for an apocalyptic story set in Jerusalem, but it aligns with the mindset of other Israeli genre filmmakers who rebel against the conventions of local p­ olitical drama. As Yoav shared with me, “We ­didn’t want a ­political statement, and we hate it when they take our film to t­ hese places.”6 Despite the filmmakers’ intentions, however, Jeru­ Zalem is undeniably ­political, as I discuss l­ ater. The other key component of the Paz b­ rothers’ concept was technology. Their original idea was to make a POV film, shot from the subjective perspective of a character, like in found footage films, especially [REC] (2007, Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plazaand) and Cloverfield (2008, Matt Reeves). But they wanted a unique a­ ngle. “In 2012 ­there was a buzz about Google-­Glass; ­after we read about

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it, t­ hings clicked into place,” recalls Yoav. “Now that we are so used to seeing the world through the screens of our gadgets, that technology is a perfect fit for a POV film. Audiences can experience what the character on screen experiences.”7 The action in the film is seen through a Smart Glass (their name for the device to avoid licensing issues). The Smart Glass allowed on-­screen superimposition of GPS, facial recognition software, social media, Wikipedia, and video games, thus making technology an integral ele­ment of the plot. The ­brothers wrote the script, originally called Glasses, and then started applying for public funds, as is the norm in Israel. But a horror script featuring the rise of the undead in the Old City did not appeal to conservative jurors. Like other New Israeli Horror filmmakers, they made their film in­de­pen­dently, investing their own funds and recruiting the help of their friends and ­family, especially their ­father, who was credited with providing both production management and emotional support. The production schedule was challenging: the film was shot in about twenty days, which w ­ ere staggered over a year and half for lack of funding.8 Although the film is set entirely in Jerusalem’s Old City, the logistical difficulties of shooting t­ here necessitated filming some scenes in other locations with a similar atmosphere: Nazareth, Jaffa, Ramla, and Beit Jamal. The key exterior scenes, however, ­were filmed on location—at the iconic sites of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Via Dolorosa, Damascus Gate, the Tower of David, King Solomon’s Quarries, and the Western Wall. This required ingenuity and the use of both conventional and guerilla tactics. Scenes needing multiple extras and special lighting, such as a night scene at the Tower of David, ­were shot by a large crew with official permission. Other scenes, set in the narrow alleyways and crowded markets of the Old City, w ­ ere shot with a hand-­held camera by a small crew. This approach had its advantages: used to cameras, the locals paid no attention to them, and the extras ­were ­free: “they ­were just ­people walking in the street.”9 For a scene at the Western Wall, the filmmakers had to give up even a small crew. The only shooting permission that they could obtain at such a sensitive site was for a documentary.10 Consequently, ­those scenes w ­ ere shot by the actors themselves.11 The Paz b­ rothers’ decision to make a POV film created an additional technical challenge: they had to figure out how to convey the subjective point of view of the main character, played by Danielle Jadelyn. ­There ­were no pre­ce­dents for ­doing this in Israeli cinema. To prepare for shooting, the director of photography (DP) Rotem Yaron closely watched and analyzed the camera work in [REC] and Cloverfield, experimented with dif­f er­ent cameras, and even rigged a camera to a helmet that Jadelyn was to wear. But it was too complicated to shoot the entire film like this, recalls Yaron. Instead. they used a custom-­rigged hand-­held camera and supplemented it with a small helmet-­mounted camera only when necessary (Figure 5.1). Yaron had to figure out solutions for ­every POV shot: “When the heroine looks down, we see her hands, her body in her clothes—we had to

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FIGURE 5.1  ​Production still of Rotem Yaron with a hand-­held camera, shooting from the point of view of Danielle Jadelyn’s character Sarah (standing right ­behind him). (Courtesy of Yoav and Doron Paz.)

work on the technique ­there. In a scene when her glasses fall and flip over, we had to build a kind of contraption for a camera and roll it, to create this impression.”12 The POV technique presented challenges not only for Jadelyn who, though she is barely captured on camera, still needed to act: the other actors—­Yael Grobglas (who also starred in Rabies), Yon Tumarkin (Israeli teen TV series Split and The Island [Ha-­e], HOT, 2007–2009), and Tom Graziani (A Place in Heaven [Makom Be-­Gan Eden], 2013)—­had to get used to looking into the camera and not at each other. It took the Paz ­brothers a year to raise funds to finish the film. The breakthrough came thanks to Epic Pictures, a U.S.-­based production and distribution com­pany. Its Israeli cofounder Shaked Berenson made a concerted effort to support young genre filmmakers ­limited by the Israeli funding system.13 Along with financial backing, Epic Pictures offered advice and a professional network. Berenson hosted a test screening for a group of friends who know horror, including Oren Peli (Paranormal Activity), Neil Marshall (The Descent), Mike Mendez (Big Ass Spider!), and Erin Maxwell (then a reviewer for Variety). They all responded positively to the film’s innovative use of Jerusalem’s Old City as a horror setting, which helped the filmmakers realize that this was the film’s main selling point and that their original title Glasses did not represent it. The ­brothers then reedited the film, adding more city footage, and changed the title to JeruZalem. Berenson recalls, “We w ­ ere brainstorming titles. The Z was ­there to signal it is a zombie movie.”14 “They ­were so right,” says Yoav. “We had on our side

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someone with experience.” Once the end was in sight, the Israel State Lottery (Mif ’al Ha-­Payis) and the Ra­bino­vich Foundation’s Cinema Proj­ect Fund gave modest support as well. And so, on a ­budget of $160,000, JeruZalem was born.

JeruZalem: The Jewish Super­natural The film opens with a prologue set in the past, which serves as the story’s thematic blueprint. On screen appears the quote: “­There are three gates to hell: one in the desert, one in the ocean, and one in Jerusalem.” (Jeremiah 19, Talmud).15 A montage follows of black-­and-­white photos of distorted bodies; portraits with ­ nglish, and Arabic; religious painteyes gouged out; religious texts in Hebrew, E ings; and pictograms of winged creatures. “­There ­were signs everywhere,” explains the narrator. This sequence is reminiscent of the final shots of [REC] when the characters discover a mysterious lair before being killed. In contrast to [REC]’s Catholic references, JeruZalem draws on Judaism and the real­ity of modern Israeli society. On-­screen, an iconic view of the Old City changes to scenes of ­political vio­lence: crowds of ultra-­Orthodox Jews, a Palestinian street protest, and Israeli rocket fire. The narration continues, “Eventually, it all comes down to this city, where t­ here is so much hatred it runs deep into the ground, waking up the dead.” This introduction sets the stage for the second part of the prologue, which tells a story of mysterious resurrection. The e­ arlier images, familiar to us from art history and news footage, make the fictional story seem real. The voiceover sounds like the narration in a documentary. The resurrection is depicted in old grainy footage, shot with a shaky camera, for the sole purpose of documentation. This film-­within-­the-­film introduces found footage as a central trope in Jeru­ Zalem and reinforces the illusion of veracity. The prologue’s events unfold in 1972 Jerusalem, on Yom Kippur Eve, when a ­ oman rises from the dead and turns to vio­lence. The camera deceased Jewish w captures the ­woman’s ­family, a husband and a teenage son, and then cuts to a scene of exorcism. The ­woman is surrounded by rabbis, priests, and imams. She is chained by her neck, vomiting worms in response to the ecumenical incantations of the holy men. The visual image is that of demonic possession, like in The Exorcist (1973, William Friedkin). The ­woman, covered in blood and bile, embodies what Barbara Creed calls the “monstrous-­feminine” from a presymbolic realm that is juxtaposed to the world of the symbolic, represented by the priest-­as-­father.16 But the men of the cloth cannot contain this w ­ oman: she turns into a winged monster. A priest shoots her, and she falls over; only her bare legs remain vis­i­ble within the frame. The symbolic order fails in the face of the inchoate dark forces. This unsuccessful exorcism also recalls “The Dybbuk,” the Jewish possession story, thereby linking the possession trope of American horror films to a super­natural figure of Jewish folklore.17 The prologue concludes with the title credit: JeruZalem. The large red “Z” dominates the black screen,

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visually echoing the title credit of World War Z (2013, Marc Forster), another apocalyptic zombie film set in part in Jerusalem. Like other New Israeli Horror films, JeruZalem draws on global horror tropes—­found footage, possession, and a zombie apocalypse—to create its own “converted” version of the genre. Its monsters, sourced from Jewish tradition, are of two kinds: the resurrected dead (like the ­woman in the prologue) and the biblical Nephilim (whom we glimpse l­ater in the film). Although t­here are no winged zombies in Jewish scripture, resurrection has been a fundamental tenet of Judaism for more than two thousand years. It is mentioned in the books of Isaiah and Daniel, codified in the Talmud (Mishnah Sanhedrin 10:1; BT Sanhedrin 90a–92b), and reaffirmed in daily prayer. The belief is that in the Messianic Age, the dead ­will rise and gather in the Land of Israel; ­those buried in Jerusalem ­will be the first to rise.18 Of course, the traditional belief envisions a collective resurrection, not a zombie eruption. Still, JeruZalem’s story is grounded in the Hebrew Bible and the Talmud. Nephilim also originate in the Hebrew Bible, where they are mentioned twice. In Genesis 6:1–4, Nephilim appear to be the offspring of the “sons of God” and the “­daughters of men” before Noah’s flood. In Numbers 13:32–33, Nephilim are fearsome ­giants seen by the spies in Canaan. Chris­tian­ity, following the Genesis reference, usually understands Nephilim as fallen angels. This idea has been circulated widely in ­popular culture, including in the biblical fantasy novel series Chronicles of the Nephilim, the “All Souls” episode of The X-­Files (1998, Fox), and many colorful conspiracies circulating online. In contrast, the Nephilim in JeruZalem are destructive ­giants, in line with the version in Numbers. The film thus draws on the tropes of demonic possession, zombie invasion, and apocalyptic destruction derived from the Christian universe and converts them into the Jewish super­natural derived from the Hebrew Bible, Talmud, and Jewish folklore. The locus of this conversion in the film is Jerusalem, the symbolic heart of Judaism. Jerusalem has been “the ground zero of Jewish holiness and Hebrew imagination” since at least the first ­century of the common era, as seen in Psalm 137 and the Song of Songs.19 Over the millennia rabbis and poets i­ magined Jerusalem as an omphalos—­the eye of the world—or as an axis mundi of the heavenly and the earthly.20 As Philip S. Alexander explains, “The ­Temple in Jerusalem and ­ emple and the heavenly JerusaJerusalem itself stand over against the heavenly T lem; Jerusalem, the terrestrial midpoint, corresponds to Jerusalem, the celestial midpoint. Jerusalem also corresponds, in a downwards direction, to Gehenna, the center of the underworld, an entrance to which is located near the Holy City.” In sum, “Jerusalem is a point where heaven, earth, and the underworld meet.”21 In stark contrast to this mythological concept of Jerusalem, the ­actual city is rife with ­political and economic tensions. In 1949, the State of Israel proclaimed Jerusalem as its capital, even though East Jerusalem and the Old City ­were then ­under Jordanian rule. In the 1967 War, Israel annexed ­these parts of the city

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u­ nder the auspices of “reunification,” but the divisions between East and West Jerusalem remain. East Jerusalem is severely underfunded, under-­resourced, and underdeveloped. Its Palestinian population has only l­ imited civil rights; expression of Palestinian nationalism is suppressed. Given its national, religious, and cultural importance, Jerusalem remains a core issue in the Israel-­Palestinian conflict. With no resolution in sight, tensions boil over—­whether in the wave of suicide attacks in the mid-1990s, the al-­Quds Intifada in the early 2000s, or protests against moving the U.S. Embassy to Jerusalem in 2018. Although the Paz ­brothers did not intend for JeruZalem to be a ­political film, the legacy of entrenched conflict undergirds its dramatic tensions: between Israeli and Palestinian characters, and between the mythological idea and the lived real­ity of the city.

New Technology, Old Fears ­ fter the documentary-­style prologue, JeruZalem switches to a POV perspecA tive. In the opening shot, a wi-fi icon appears at the bottom of the screen. “Looking for Network,” reads a caption, and then “Connected.” A shaky frame reveals a package labeled “Smart Glass.” The wearer is an American young w ­ oman, Sarah Pullman (Danielle Jadelyn). The gadget is a gift from her f­ ather (Howard Rypp) for her upcoming trip to Israel. Sarah is grieving the loss of her ­brother Joel, and the trip is meant to help her heal. Sarah appears in frontal close-up only briefly, providing enough time for the device to ­process “facial recognition.” From then on, every­thing on screen is filtered through Sarah’s glasses, allowing us to see the world through her eyes. She is a constant but mostly invisible presence, her voice functioning as an acousmêtre not only when she engages in dialogue with other characters but also when she talks to herself or to her Smart Glass. As Sarah explores the gadget, application win­dows—­Facebook, m ­ usic and video players, maps, Skype, WhatsApp, and video games—­open on the screen. Sarah starts playing “Die, Zombie, Die,” an augmented real­ity first-­person shooter game, and eviscerates zombie figures that are superimposed on her living room. The zombies combust and dis­appear when she cuts off their heads with a virtual sword. “This is so cool,” giggles Sarah. As is common in horror films, this moment near the beginning foreshadows the horrors to come. Stylistically, JeruZalem’s cinematography and editing draw on found footage. However, the film offers no framing or explanation as to why we are witnessing the events: we are just t­ here. JeruZalem, then, is better understood as observational horror, which Matthew J. Raimondo defines as films “that appropriate the aesthetics of observational documentary cinema’s handheld camerawork” and include the camera in the diegesis.22 The diegetic role of the camera has impor­ tant implications for the audience’s experience: it makes the relationship with the viewers more intimate, inviting identification with the world of the film and

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minimizing “the screen’s existential barrier.”23 In JeruZalem, this effect is even more palpable ­because we see images on screen not through a camera but through the character’s glasses, which become our surrogate eyes. The film brings the audience inside the lead character. Importantly, the lead is a ­woman; by taking her perspective, JeruZalem subverts the male gaze of classic cinema.24 We not only see through Sarah’s eyes but also virtually inhabit her body, even glimpsing her hands and feet, the way we might see our own. This embodied experience gives a sense of being ­there, creating a stronger identification with her than pos­si­ble in a found footage film, let alone a film shot from an omniscient perspective. We watch videos, chat online, or read maps not just with Sarah but as Sarah. Our perspective is ­limited: we only see what she sees, and our imagination must fill in the rest. Use of the POV camera—­its shakiness, abrupt zooms, and swish pans—­causes the frame to be unstable and permeable, with action often taking place in the periphery of the screen. According to Cecilia Sayad, t­ hese characteristics make the frame a key device in the film’s generation of fear: “The genre may invite us to anxiously scan the image for threatening presences as often as it may force us to do the opposite: to look away from certain ele­ments in the frame.”25 The POV camera makes the on-­screen action seem more real, and at the same time it makes us palpably aware that we are watching the film, a mediated production.26 In JeruZalem, the Smart Glass—­our win­dow into the world of the film—­heightens this awareness, making hypermediacy an impor­tant feature of the film.27 The glasses play a key role in the narrative as they are taken on and off by dif­fer­ent characters, function or malfunction, and provide invasive input via vari­ous apps. In its preoccupation with media and technology, JeruZalem announces its affinity to a recent trend of digital horror. According to Linnie Blake and Xavier Aldana Reyes, digital horror is characterized by “a purposeful embodiment, at the level of both form and narrative, of the technological innovations of the digital age.”28 Digital horror films are often preoccupied with fears regarding the digital technologies themselves, exploring “the dark side of con­temporary life in a digital age governed by informational flows, rhizomatic public networks, virtual simulation and visual hyper-­stimulation.”29 But some horror films adapt digital tools simply as a stylistic feature.30 JeruZalem is a case in point: the film makes digital technology central to its narrative and style without warning of its dangers. If anything, JeruZalem embraces new technology. ­Television news has been featured in horror films at least since The Night of the Living Dead (1968, George A. Romero), and recent found footage films add internet news (The Diary of the Dead, 2007, George A. Romero), time stamps (e.g., Paranormal Activity, 2007, Oren Peli) and YouTube, Skype, and Facebook (Unfriended, 2014, Leo Gabriadze). JeruZalem adds other layers of digital technology that serve multiple functions in the film. Facial recognition opens up narrative possibilities. Time stamps and interactive maps establish and maintain spatial and chronological

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continuity of the unfolding action. App win­dows in the periphery of the screen require our constant scanning of the frame, enhancing our involvement. Importantly, by using apps familiar to the audiences from their own mobile screens, the filmmakers further heighten the sense of real­ity and increase our visceral identification with the main character. Applying Matt Hills’s term, ­these on-­ screen apps can be understood as a part of “intertextual subcultural capital” that contributes “to the realist illusion that audiences and characters inhabit the same cultural real­ity.” Sharing such capital is one of the ­pleasures of horror.31

Between Tourism and the Super­natural Like other New Israeli Horror films, JeruZalem takes some time to establish its world. The first part looks like a promotion for Israeli tourism. In fact, Sarah watches an ­actual promotional video featuring Tel Aviv’s beaches and parties, sent by her friend Rachel (Yael Grobglas). By way of an introduction, the Smart Glass offers us Rachel’s Facebook profile with party snapshots, characterizing her as wild and promiscuous. She complements the more reserved Sarah as together they are heading for an adventure. The adventure starts on the flight from the United States to Tel Aviv, when the girls meet Kevin (Yon Tumarkin), an anthropology student on a research trip. Rachel teases him, “What are you? Some sort of Indiana Jones?” “Exactly,” replies Kevin, putting on his cowboy hat. “Only much better looking.” Flirtatious dialogue and references to other films (like Spielberg’s Raiders of the Lost Ark) make the first part of JeruZalem seem like a teen sex comedy or a postmodern horror comedy like Scream. But the themes of the prologue are apparent even now. Kevin shows Sarah a book about mysterious figures that he plans to research in Jerusalem. While Sarah is looking at a drawing of a winged skeleton like the ones we saw in the prologue, a bout of turbulence shakes the frame. Kevin and Sarah hit it off, and the girls decide to join him in the Old City of Jerusalem instead of staying in Tel Aviv. Their banter keeps the atmosphere light, but the ­political tensions and historical depth introduced in the prologue still surface. A cab driver (Ami Smolarchik) jokes with them, but when they pass an ancient Jewish cemetery, he says “This is the entrance to the city—­a graveyard. Very symbolic, ah? We have a beautiful tradition of killing each other.” Two IDF soldiers patrolling the Old City, Tomer (Ori Zaltzman) and Yehuda (Yoav Koresh), serve as a reminder of present-­day ­political tensions. A man (Itsko Yampulski) in a flowing robe and plastic crown introduces himself as “King David,” alluding to ancient history. ­These and other colorful local characters speak to the Americans in accented E ­ nglish, ensuring that the film has an exotic setting while remaining accessible to international audiences. Showing Jerusalem through Sarah’s Smart Glass also enhances the film’s appeal to international audiences. Tracking shots, pans, and tilts create an illusion of “being ­there.” We enter the Old City through the Damascus Gate and

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then walk through the narrow market street, rich with colors and textures. The soundscape, which blends dialogue, street noise, and a muezzin’s calls to prayer, reinforces the immersive effect. The scenes at the hostel (shot at the Fauzi Azar Inn in Nazareth), which is presented as a kind of Oriental palace, add to the exotic atmosphere. The el­derly ­owner wears a traditional keffiyeh. His son Omar, in contrast, looks like a playboy (his Facebook profile, offered by the Glass, includes drink emojis and party photos). Although Omar is attractive and charming, he is presented in a ­stereotypical manner: he speaks with an exaggerated Arabic accent and flirts with blond Rachel in a way that signals licentiousness. In contrast to the el­derly ­owner who is played by Palestinian Israeli actor Fares Hananya, his son Omar is played by a Jewish Israeli actor, Tom Graziani.32 This casting replicates an outdated tradition in Israeli cinema of what Carol Bardenstein calls “downward cross-­casting.”33 Omar takes the three friends on a Jerusalem adventure full of historic sites by day and parties by night, immersing us in the location and keeping us on our toes with jump-­scares and red herrings. Sarah’s backpack gets stolen. Chasing the thief, she trips. The image blurs, and a “Fatal Error” message appears on the screen, signaling that the Smart Glass has been damaged and warning that perhaps the entire trip was a ­mistake. ­Later, Sarah and Rachel catch hostel guests watching disturbing news on TV; images of blood and flashing police cars appear on the screen. Omar reassures the girls that every­thing is fine but when they meet “King David” ­later, he warns them, “You must leave before Yom Kippur!” No one takes him seriously, but the sense of unease gradually increases. The sightseeing scenes ground the film further in local real­ity, converting the genre and providing an international audience with a primer on the city’s politics and history. Pointing out a magnificent view, Omar offers Sarah, Rachel, and Kevin both hashish and a tour-­g uide commentary. “A church, next to a synagogue, next to a t­ emple, all stuck together,” he says. “No won­der you all hate each other,” Sarah muses quietly. But a packed bar promises equal opportunities for ­people swaying to live m ­ usic. Jews and Catholics, Israelis and Palestinians party side by side. Rachel chats with IDF soldiers and then makes out with Omar. Sarah flirts with Kevin and lets him try on her glasses. The glass exchange gives the film a chance to step outside Sarah’s body and see her from the outside, the way other found footage films allow us to meet their leads when they speak to the camera. ­Here, though, Sarah is not alone with the camera; she is with Kevin, which shifts the perspective to the male gaze and involves us in the voy­eur­is­tic act of looking at Sarah’s sexualized body. Dressed in a revealing dress, Sarah kisses Kevin in an extreme close-­up; then the camera tilts down, letting us see her unbuttoning Kevin’s jeans. In the following sex scene Sarah takes off her glasses and sets them aside, allowing us to see both lovers from the omniscient perspective, as if she must surrender her gaze agency for the benefit of our voy­eur­is­tic ­pleasure. We return to her point of view only ­after the sex is over, and another premonition sets the stage

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for horrors to come. This time, it is Kevin who is spooked by suspicious noises. To explain his fears, he shows Sarah a video, which we recognize as the exorcism from the prologue. “The undead, the dark angels, the Nephilim,” he mutters. Sarah reads up on resurrection, opening Wikipedia in the Smart Glass. One of the images that pop up is a pictogram of a winged figure, which we also recognize from the prologue. As the sightseeing continues, the premonitions grow darker. Th ­ ese scenes set up the proverbial Chekhovian guns that ­will fire once the horrors start. The first stop is a ­mental asylum. The film converts this well-­worn horror trope by focusing on “Jerusalem syndrome,” a real-­life religious-­themed psychosis triggered by visiting Jerusalem.34 “This city can bring a lot of madness for the ­people,” Omar explains, foreshadowing ominous events. They then walk to the Western Wall. “This is the holiest place in Israel,” says Rachel, cueing in audiences unfamiliar with its significance. As is the Jewish tradition, the girls write notes with their wishes and stick them into the Wall’s cracks. “Bring me back my ­brother, asshole,” writes Sarah. As if in response, a disturbing rumbling sounds over the praying voices. Sarah looks up, and the camera tilts to reveal a large flock of black birds rising over the wall, another instance of foreshadowing. Tension escalates at the next site, the King Solomon Quarries. According to the legend, t­ hese quarries ­were used to hew stones to build the T ­ emple. ­Today the quarries are tourist attraction, but in the past locals considered the caves dangerous.35 Even now, visitors need to put on helmets. As the friends enter the caves, they pass by a knight’s armor—­a prop for tourists. But the atmosphere intensifies as they descend deeper. Dark under­ground passages illustrate the idea of the axis mundi, the intersection of my­thol­ogy and real­ity or heavenly and earthly realms. Kevin finds mysterious pictograms on the walls depicting winged creatures, like ­those in his book. “I c­ an’t breathe h ­ ere. . . . I’m g­ oing to the city archives to check the books,” he tells Sarah and dis­appears into the brightly lit tunnel exit. The premonitions start coming true ­later that night, on the eve of Yom Kippur—­a holiday when, according to Jewish tradition, each person’s fate for the next year is de­cided by divine judgment. Setting the action on Yom Kippur increases the emotional tenor of the scene when Kevin barges into the girls’ room to urge them to leave Jerusalem immediately. He looks deranged as he cries out a prophecy: “­There is not ­going to be a tomorrow night!” Omar and his ­father take him away to be treated for Jerusalem syndrome. Omar explains, ­ ere: if you are talking to God, it’s good. But if God is talking “We have a saying h to you, then you have a prob­lem,” citing verbatim lines from the “All Souls” episode of X-­Files.36 In the next scene, as three stars appear in the darkening sky (indicating the start of Yom Kippur), Sarah sees military jets zoom by. An explosion follows and sirens go off. Frightened, Sarah and Rachel go down to the hostel lobby, where ­people gather around the TV, as in the ­earlier scene. But now the situation is

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serious. The news in Hebrew shows ambulances, injured bodies, police, and medics. A group of p­ eople watching disturbing news is a universal trope widely used in horror, from The Night of the Living Dead to Cloverfield, which influenced JeruZalem. But set in Jerusalem, this scene evokes local traumas—­the suicide bombings of the 1990s and 2000s covered by ­television news in endless cycles. Sarah opens news in E ­ nglish on her Glass, only to be interrupted by a Skype call from her ­father. “­Daddy, I’m scared,” she says and then the power goes out. “Fatal error,” appears on screen, this time not as a premonition but as a statement. Chaos ensues at the hostel. The soldiers who have barged in radio for help but get no response. Public announcements order p­ eople to leave the Old City immediately: the authorities are closing the gates. Every­one rushes out and starts ­r unning. Long subjective shots track their movement through dark, narrow streets. The picture is blurry and at times obscured, the lighting is poor, and the ­angles change abruptly, as Sarah turns to look around her. On the soundtrack, ­helicopters, gunfire, and sirens mix with snippets of Hebrew, Arabic, and E ­ nglish. Although ­these scenes draw on the cinematic language of found footage horror, as in [REC], the nature of the attack is unclear.37 It is only in the following scenes, more than halfway into the film, that the action fi­nally turns to super­natural horror. The plot now retraces the characters’ footsteps, returning to the sites they visited as tourists, and the Chekhovian guns ­ ental asylum where Kevin is hospitalized. Sarah start firing. They go first to the m goes to retrieve him and convinces the two soldiers, Tomer and Yehuda, whom the girls met ­earlier, to come with her. The depiction of the asylum’s interior taps into the horror trope of a scary m ­ ental hospital, with deserted, debris-­strewn hallways and patients hooting and cackling ­behind barred doors, some in straitjackets. Sarah’s heavy breathing on the soundtrack telegraphs her terror. When the damaged Glass starts playing loud rock ­music, the tension ramps up. She ­orders it to stop, but the Glass does not recognize her voice. Over the invasive soundtrack she hears the soldiers leaving: “I’m not d­ ying ­here t­ oday,” says Tomer. This antiheroic portrayal of IDF soldiers resonates with other New Israeli Horror films. But it is also a nod to the horror trope of failing or incapable societal institutions that require characters to act on their own. Sarah rises to the challenge. When she finds Kevin, he is b­ ehind a locked door. As she rummages for the key in a dark office, she hears an inhuman snarl. She turns to see a winged figure, the same one as in the prologue and in the pictograms, framed by the hallway win­dow. This is the first time we see this kind of monster—­a cross between a demon and a zombie—­live in the film. It is not only ­ ater (2002, Danny Boyle) and World fast moving like the “infected” in 28 Days L War Z but also has wings and can fly—an innovation of the genre. Its webbed wings look sinister, indicating its dark origins. The monster lunges at Sarah, letting us glimpse its decayed face. As is the convention in first attacks, she succeeds in escaping and saving Kevin.

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The m ­ ental asylum offers a chance for a return of another character, as Sarah finds “King David” hiding ­there. “I saw this already,” he whispers to her, “It’s happened all before. I was ­little, a kid. My mommy died. We buried her and then she came back.” We realize that he is the young boy in the exorcism video. This is an impor­tant moment that explains to us the nature of the monster as a resurrected corpse. Although it would be a stretch to read the flying zombies as examples of biblical and Talmudic resurrection, as noted before, the monsters do have Judaic origins. In the next scene, ­after Sarah, Kevin, and “King David” run out of the asylum, we meet the second type of monster populating JeruZalem. Hearing a roar in the distance, Sarah looks up, and the camera tilts to reveal a ­giant monster moving between buildings. The shot composition alludes to a similar scene in Cloverfield, but unlike other g­ iant cinematic monsters, the ones in JeruZalem have a biblical pedigree. “The Nephilim, the mighty ­g iants,” explains “King David.” By the time the three join a crowd trying to leave the Old City, the IDF has locked the gates and put the city u­ nder quarantine. As in [REC], quarantine stands for betrayal by the authorities. This idea is reinforced when “King David,” who aims his slingshot at the soldiers like his biblical namesake, is shot by the army. This time Goliath wins. The army continues shooting into the civilian crowd. As in other New Israeli Horror films, the IDF ­here fails in its role of protecting its ­people. That their first victim is “King David,” metonymically connected to the very core of Jewish peoplehood, makes a particularly strong statement. This theme of the IDF failure continues in the next scene when the main characters confront Tomer and Yehuda. The action unfolds in a beautiful church where Omar, his ­father, the Americans, and the soldiers are hiding from the winged zombies. The camera pans over the candlelit arches and tilts up to dwell on the frescos—­a fitting setting for religious and ideological strife.38 Rachel and Omar pressure the soldiers for answers. Secular, macho Tomer assures them that the army is equipped to deal with the situation. Religious Yehuda disagrees. He reminds them that it is Yom Kippur: “But it’s not the sky that is opening ­tonight. It’s the ground.” Once again, the dialogue reinforces the conversion of the trope whereby a zombie outbreak is given a Jewish religious (and super­natural) context. Another conflict, which grounds the action in the local real­ity, unfolds between Tomer and Omar. Omar screams at him: “My ­family is ­here for twenty generations! Where did your grand­mother come from?” “You shut up, you Arab fucker!” Tomer responds, his language indicating to us that he and the army he represents are in the wrong. The argument ends when Omar’s f­ ather suggests a route out of the Old City. He can take them out through the under­ground passages he used as a child. Ironically, help comes not from the Israeli army but from the old Palestinian man, whose native knowledge predates the State of Israel. The group’s route takes them along Via Dolorosa, the iconic path of suffering, where they are subjected to a winged zombie attack. Rachel becomes the first victim. She survives seemingly unscathed, but ­later Sarah sees a gash on Rachel’s

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neck. When Rachel starts vomiting blood, it is clear that she is infected. The soldiers cock their guns, but Kevin shields her. Then Omar pulls out a pistol and ­orders the soldiers to put the guns down, giving this horror scenario a ­political spin. Their standoff is interrupted when another zombie rips Tomer apart, delivering the first graphic kill. They enter the under­g round passages via King Solomon’s Quarries, which they visited ­earlier. They put on the same helmets. As they pass the knight’s armor, Sarah takes its sword, holding it like in her video game. The group pushes on through dark tunnels, like the characters escaping through the subway tunnels in Cloverfield. Rachel now looks less ­human, her eyes black and expressionless. She murmurs to Sarah, “I’m afraid I’m g­ oing to hurt you.” Indeed, she soon attacks. Another zombie arrives. The chaos is conveyed by Sarah’s screaming and her loss of control of the Glass. The images on the screen are jumbled, leaving it to our imagination to fill in the blanks. Something shatters, and from the upside-­ down operatorless shot, we understand that the Glass is on the ground. When Sarah puts it back on, the image is split by a crack: distortion enhances the terror as Sarah looks around her, at Yehuda’s corpse, and then at Rachel, who is now barely recognizable. However, as is common in the repre­sen­ta­tion of zombies, she still retains shreds of humanity. Rachel takes Yehuda’s gun, and at the very moment that she sprouts wings (like the w ­ oman in the exorcism scene), she shoots herself. The survivors push on in darkness. Sarah walks with her sword in front of her, like in her video game ­earlier. Only now, instead of destroying augmented real­ity zombies, she accidentally kills Omar’s ­father. Light falls on his stunned face as the sword pierces his throat. Now only three of them are left. Scared, they start praying quietly, each to their own god, another nod to the local real­ity of Jerusalem as a city of three religions. Omar’s Arabic prayer overlaps Sarah’s in Hebrew and Kevin’s in ­English. Then Omar puts his pistol in his mouth and kills himself. The screen goes black. The lighting is so low that the camera conceals more than it reveals. On the soundtrack, Sarah is crying, and the roar of the monsters is growing louder. As Sayad notes in her analy­sis of [REC], when sight is removed from our viewing experience, it leaves us with nothing but whimpering, growling, and screaming—­making our experience all the more terrifying.39 In that moment of terror, Sarah spots another winged zombie, but it does not attack. Scanning its face, the Glass identifies it as Joel, Sarah’s deceased b­ rother. “Joel, is that you?” she asks. The zombie does not answer but moves away as if beckoning them to follow. Sarah mutters, “I missed you, Joel.” This is a callback to the scene when Sarah grieves for her b­ rother, and a chance to bring new technology in touch with the super­natural. In contrast to digital horror, technology ­here is not a threat. In fact, the Glass offers a connection to Sarah’s beloved ­brother and, through this connection, a promise of salvation. “Joel” leads Sarah and Kevin out of the under­ground—­they see a light at the end of the tunnel. Kevin enters the tunnel but Sarah starts coughing and slows

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down. Her voice becomes a demonic growl. The camera reveals a gash on her leg that is already crawling with worms, and then pans to show her hands that are decaying rapidly. She retches blood. Sarah’s last ­human words, “What’s happening to me,” are drowned by the sound of her unfurling wings. The camera tilts down to show that Sarah has taken off into the air, the edges of her wings vis­i­ble on screen, like her hands ­earlier. She rises higher and higher, leaving Kevin, who follows her flight with mouth agape, ­until his figure becomes tiny and then dis­ appears from view. An aerial perspective shows Sarah flying over Jerusalem, as pillars of smoke rise from the Old City and flocks of flying zombies take off into the sky. The dramatic ending sets the stage for a sequel—­another trope of con­ temporary horror. Epic, has in fact, greenlit JeruZalem 2, but as of this writing it has not been made.

A Broken Axis Mundi The cinematic space of JeruZalem is a combination of several locations, some historic and au­then­tic, and ­others fictional. But the idea of the axis mundi undergirds this construction of space from rooftop views to under­ground tunnels, from the holiest sites of three major religions to the abject places connected to body and sin—­the bars, bathrooms, and bedrooms. The juxtapositions of holy and unholy, of sacred and sinful, are characteristic of other recent Israeli films set in Jerusalem. According to Anat Zanger, t­hese films pre­sent the relationship between heavenly and earthly planes as out of balance; the meta­phorical axis mundi is broken. Zanger reads the repeated images of disease, corpses, prisons, and sewage in t­ hese films as a sign that the sacred is overwhelmed by the abject. This imbalance is the premonition of the End of Days.40 JeruZalem goes further: the action takes place during the apocalypse. Importantly, the invasion of the undead in JeruZalem is not a punishment for traditional sins like promiscuity or blasphemy. In the film’s moral universe, it is Israeli-­Palestinian strife that precipitates the apocalypse. In the words of the prologue, “­There is so much hatred—it runs deep into the ground, waking up the dead.” ­These ideas resonate with other New Israeli Horror films. JeruZalem opens on Yom Kippur 1972, one year before the 1973 War that, ­metaphorically speaking, unleashed national monsters and woke up ghosts that had lain dormant since 1967. In contrast to the swift triumph of the 1967 War, the 1973 War resulted in a large number of Israeli casualties and led to the sense of a loss of control. It was the first war to undermine Israeli public’s confidence in the IDF and its moral superiority. The fictional Jewish ­woman who ­rose from the dead in 1972 could very well be read as the darkest side of the Israeli psyche that, once awakened, became a violent monster that the entire ecumenical team of exorcists could not heal. At least, in 1972 they could contain the evil by killing the monster. In contrast, by the end of the film, which is set in the pre­sent, the evil cannot be contained. It spreads rapidly as swarms of zombies fly out of the Old City. ­Here, like

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in other New Israeli Horror films, the monsters come from within Israel—­from within Judaism, from the heart of Jerusalem, the most sacred place for Jews and Jewish history. This may sound like ­political critique, but that was not the Paz ­brothers’ intention. Their aim was to make a fun horror film that would appeal to global audiences. They relied on Jewish my­thol­ogy and a Jerusalem setting to give their film local character, not to make a statement. However, as the ­brothers ­were adapting horror tropes, the horror tropes adapted them—­and changed their film. The tropes of contagion, quarantine, and zombie apocalypse once adapted to the local setting disavowed their seemingly apo­liti­cal agenda, resulting in a grim view of Israel and its ­future.

Reception In July 2015, JeruZalem premiered almost si­mul­ta­neously at the Fantasia Film Festival in Montreal and at the International Film Festival in Jerusalem, where it won the Audience Award and the Best Editing Award in the Israeli feature film competition.41 The local film establishment was fi­nally recognizing the horror genre. JeruZalem went on to play at more than twenty international festivals, including such established genre venues as BIFAN, Sitges, and Frightfest, as well as at Jewish film festivals in the United States and United Kingdom (which was exceptional for a horror film). It was sold to nearly all major markets, including the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, Germany, and France, as well as to the Philippines, Cambodia, Singapore, Japan, Venezuela, and India—­ untraditional markets for an Israeli film. During its festival run, critics embraced the film, which Variety described as a “ ‘Euro Trip’-­‘Dawn of the Dead’ mashup.”42 Screen Daily praised the film for offering “a satisfyingly large-­scale demonic incursion,” noting its preoccupation with the Jewish super­natural: “Given the wealth of Jewish lore and legend, and its use in vari­ous versions of the golem and dybbuk legends, it’s a surprise that it’s taken so long for a demonic horror movie to come out of Jerusalem.”43 The Hollywood Reporter noted JeruZalem’s “low-­budget limitations” but praised it for “the creepy evocativeness of its superbly utilized setting” and its “haunting final shot.”44 But once JeruZalem went into theatrical release in North Amer­i­ca, the tone of the reviews changed. Variety called the scenes set in the Old City “impressive” but sneered at “the movie’s occasional stabs at ­political commentary.”45 According to the New York Times, “the filmmakers leave assorted plot possibilities underexplored,” including “the religious intersections of the faiths that call Jerusalem home.”46 The film’s “unique setting,” complained the Canadian Globe and Mail, “simply serves as the backdrop to some rampaging CGI demons and half-­baked theology about the gates of hell.”47 In other words, ­these reviews read the film through a ­political lens.

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­These reviews w ­ ere out of sync with horror fans. At least 1.5 million p­ eople saw the film in theaters or streamed it legally, even before it went on Netflix.48 In January 2016, JeruZalem reached the #2 spot on iTunes’ horror list. Millions more pirated the film, including in places like Iran or Saudi Arabia where Israeli films are generally boycotted. Fans wrote enthusiastic reviews on horror blogs, discussed the film on social media, and posted clips of themselves discussing the film on YouTube. The Paz b­ rothers ­were so captivated by the way audiences the world over embraced their film that they edited a short tribute video citing their fans in the Philippines, Cambodia, Thailand, Turkey, Rus­sia, Japan, Bolivia, ­ orea, as well as the United States, the United Brazil, China, Laos, and South K Kingdom, France, Germany, and Holland; they posted it online, which fed back into the cycle.49 Before JeruZalem opened theatrically in Israel, it was already a worldwide hit. The prob­lem was that by that time, July 2016—­exactly a year ­a fter its festival premiere—­every­one who wanted to see it had already seen it online. Conse­ ere mixed, quently, box office ticket sales ­were disappointing.50 Local reviews w the only unifying theme being the film’s unpre­ce­dented worldwide outreach. Uri Klein of Haaretz was among the few critics who took the film seriously, reading it as an allegorical take on Jerusalem as a besieged city plagued by religious strife.51 Hannah Brown of the Jerusalem Post did not see JeruZalem as a ­political commentary, praising it instead as an entertaining local horror with an inventive ending.52 The ­popular film blog Srita applauded the film’s innovative approach to found footage and its POV perspective through the eyes of a tourist, offering “a glimpse into the social fabric and relations of power in Jerusalem, and through it, Israel in general.”53 Other critics ­were ambivalent. Makor Rishon praised JeruZalem as “zombie horror in blue-­and-­white” but questioned ­whether Israeli audiences would find the repre­sen­ta­tion of Jerusalem and local characters au­then­tic.54 The ­popular Mako news and entertainment portal read JeruZalem as not only “a fascinating cinematic exercise and an impressive international success” but also “a failed horror film full of clichés and bad special effects.” Echoing Woody Allen, the reviewer noted that JeruZalem was not good enough but left a taste for more.55 Yael Shuv of Time Out criticized JeruZalem for its “uninspired script” and “genre clichés.”56 Shmulik Duvdevani of Yediot Aharonot agreed. In his view the prob­lem was the filmmakers’ “lack of commitment to say something meaningful.” To wit: “For a moment you can suspect that the Paz ­brothers’ movie is an allegory of the danger of religious wars and the transformation of Jerusalem . . . ​ into an explosive barrel of gunpowder—­but this moment passes too fast and we are left with the basest film about demons.”57 Like Klein, Duvdevani read the film as a failed attempt at ­political commentary. The few negative reviews aside, JeruZalem was a resounding commercial success, opening doors for the Paz b­ rothers’ ­future films. Beyond their own ­careers, JeruZalem’s success was a promise for the ­future of genre filmmaking in Israel.

6

Slasher on the Kibbutz ­Children of the Fall ­ hildren of the Fall is a slasher film set on a kibbutz on the eve of the 1973 War. C Its director Eitan Gafny says the film is inspired by the story of his ­father.1 Gafny’s parents—­both c­hildren of Eastern ­European Jewish immigrants—­ grew up in Chile ­under the Pinochet regime. They immigrated to Israel in 1971, landing at a kibbutz in northern Israel. Gafny recalls, “My ­father had barely learned Hebrew when he went to fight in the 1973 War. Then a few years ­later—­Lebanon. My ­father came to this country as a Zionist idealist; instead he got to fight in war and see his friends die. For what? And they tell you, you won, but you lost. I grew up with his anger and disappointment.”2 Gafny wrote a first treatment of C ­ hildren of the Fall in 2009 before he made Cannon Fodder, and then developed the script with screenwriter and editor Daniella Danziger. They received modest funding from the New Fund for Cinema and ­Television, an Israeli foundation promoting social change, but Gafny felt that the proj­ect was too ambitious for a first feature. Instead, he focused on Cannon Fodder, returning to ­Children of the Fall a­ fter he had gained experience fund­ rais­ing and shooting on a tight ­budget. Gafny acknowledges, “My biggest talent is making ­things cheaply.” That talent would come in handy. When Gafny and Danziger finished the script, it had a projected ­budget of at least $1.3 million. ­Children of the Fall was ultimately made for less than a million dollars. Raising the money was not easy. The Israeli public funds refused. A juror of the Israel Film Fund said, “It’s not appropriate to make a horror film about the Yom Kippur War.” And so Gafny had to raise private funds. As he did with 135

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Cannon Fodder, he teamed up with his wife Yafit Shalev and cinematographer Tom Goldwasser: the three became co-­producers. Fortunately, the commercial success of Cannon Fodder put them in a relatively good position for pitching to private investors. By 2014, they had raised enough to start shooting—­including on location at Gan Shmuel, the kibbutz where Gafny’s parents landed in 1971. It took another year to raise enough private funds to finish the film. The production was far from smooth. As Gafny was getting ready to shoot a film set on the eve of the 1973 war, another war interfered with his plans. On July 8, 2014, Israel launched a military campaign, known in Israel as Operation Protective Edge, against Hamas-­ruled Gaza. The fighting, which ended with a ceasefire in late August, made Israel appear unsafe, and an Australian actress cast in a lead female role and another international actor bowed out. ­These cancellations caused a delay, during which Michael Ironside’s schedule freed up. Gafny jumped at the chance to work with a veteran actor familiar to international audiences from such genre classics as David Cronenberg’s Scanners (1981), Tony Scott’s Top Gun (1986), Paul Verhoeven’s Total Recall (1990), and Starship Troopers (1997). Among the Israeli cast, the most recognizable face was Aki Avni, known internationally for Time of ­Favor (2000, Joseph Cedar) and ­Free Zone (2005, Amos Gitai) and locally for a t­ elevision series Basic Training (Tironoot, Reshet, 1998–2001). The young actors Yafit Shalev and Yotam Ishay had appeared in other Israeli genre films. It was the first major role for Noa Maiman, the female lead. In 2016, ­Children of the Fall premiered at the Jerusalem International Film Festival. ­A fter the screening, Gafny realized that his film needed more editing, which meant more fund­rais­ing. But since the film needed only finishing funds, he was able to secure a small subsidy from the Israel Film Fund. To make it last, the crew worked nights and weekends in addition to their day jobs. It took nearly six months to edit the film and cut it by eight minutes. Even in its shorter version, the film strug­gled. In 2017–2018, ­Children of the Fall was screened at the Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival in Estonia, the Utopia in Tel Aviv, and a few other smaller international genre festivals. Only specialized blogs paid attention.3 An Ophir nomination in the makeup category was encouraging but the film did not win. Ultimately, ­Children of the Fall was not theatrically released in Israel. In 2018, it screened on the Israeli cable Channel 10, and as of this writing it is only available on the local Cellcom VOD ­service. It did not fare much better internationally. Its sales are currently handled by Shaked Berenson’s Horror Collective distribution com­pany and is available only on the Hoopla streaming platform. The fate of ­Children of the Fall is not unique. With a ­limited audience, a finite number of screens, and a few distribution companies holding a mono­poly over film markets in Israel, some i­ ndependent films simply do not get released. ­Children of the Fall is not a perfect film, but it deserves to be seen and discussed. This is why this chapter focuses on its unique attempt to set a slasher on a kibbutz.

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A Slasher on a Kibbutz The title of the film, C ­ hildren of the Fall, rings differently in Hebrew and in ­English. The Hebrew title, Yeldei hastav, is a play on the title of the iconic song “­Children of Winter 73” (Yeldei horef 73), which evokes the national trauma of the 1973 War.4 Written in 1993, a year of hope for the peace ­process, the song was initially controversial; ­today it is often performed on Yom Ha-­Zikaron, the national day of remembrance for Israeli soldiers killed while on active duty. Whereas the film’s Hebrew title has profound cultural resonance, its ­English title alludes to the Hollywood horror film ­Children of the Corn (1984, Fritz Kiersch), which is based on Stephen King’s story about a murderous child cult. ­Children of the Corn is a tale of ­fanaticism and intolerance, which are also themes in Gafny’s story. The film’s epigraph also differs in its Hebrew and E ­ nglish versions. The Hebrew text reads, “Ve ata calba, ve hika le shunra; Ve ata hutra, ve hika le calba” (literally, “The dog came and beat the cat; the stick came and beat the dog”).5 Although not attributed, the quote is a modified stanza of “Chad Gadya” (One Little Goat), a song in Hebrew and Aramaic that has been sung at the end of the Passover seder since the ­Middle Ages. Though traditionally interpreted as a historical allegory of the Jewish ­people, it can be also understood as describing the cycle of vio­lence.6 This latter meaning is emphasized in a famous version of “Chad Gadya” by Israeli musician Chava Alberstein, which is controversial in Israel for its antiwar message. Alberstein’s version is featured in the soundtrack of Amos Gitai’s ­Free Zone, in which the lead Natalie Portman leaves her fiancé, played by Aki Avni, ­after he admits raping a Palestinian refugee during a mili­ ese intertextual meanings of the song in Jewish tradition and tary operation. Th Israeli culture set the tone for the social criticism in C ­ hildren of the Fall. In contrast, the ­English version of the epigraph, “Know [who] you terrorize; And who terrorizes you,” has no par­tic­u­lar Jewish and Israeli meanings, thereby fixing the audience’s expectations on horror. Like the epigraph, the film is bilingual, with most of the dialogue and soundtrack in ­English. This choice reflects the filmmaker’s interest in appealing to international audiences. It also signals a strategy of conversion. In the same way in which Gafny superimposes ­E nglish on the Hebrew normally used in Israeli films, he places the slasher scenario at a kibbutz. As with several other New Israeli Horror filmmakers, this setting was a conscious decision. As Gafny points out, “In genre films, national distinctions bring a unique point of view. Israeli genre movies must engage with the local real­ity.”7 What can be more characteristically Israeli than a kibbutz? The kibbutz, conceived as a radical social experiment, is emblematic of Israeli Zionism. Both in Israel and abroad, it has been celebrated as the vanguard of the society, guided by princi­ples of community, equality, and democracy. Despite this idealizing rhe­toric, in real­ity the benefits and resources on a kibbutz ­were shared

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only by its members. The socialist utopia was intended for Ashkenazi Jews: Mizrahi Jews, Palestinians, and other non-­Jews need not apply.8 Moreover, many kibbutzim ­were established on confiscated Palestinian land or on land purchased by the Jewish National Fund from absentee landowners. ­A fter the 1967 War, kibbutzim hired Palestinians as a cheap workforce, in a departure from the original values of socialism and Hebrew l­abor. In the 1980s, many kibbutzim privatized and focused on industries or ­services, abandoning agriculture altogether. Yet, despite all its complicated legacies and contradictions, the kibbutz is still seen as symbolic of Israeli society and takes a central place in many Israeli films (as I discuss l­ater). At the same time, for international audiences, the kibbutz in ­Children of the Fall also functions as an exotic setting, constituting what Thomas Elsaesser calls self-­exoticization wherein “the ethnic, the local, or the regional expose themselves, u­ nder the guise of self-­expression, to the gaze of the benevolent other.”9 Gafny de­cided to set the film in the past: “I knew that it had to be historical— in the world before cellphones, b­ ecause you throw a cellphone into the picture and nothing works. Then I also knew we need a holiday—­a big one, like Passover or Yom Kippur. Once I started thinking of Yom Kippur, which is a g­ reat slasher setting, then why not set it in 1973? Then t­ hings fell into place.”10 In the same way in which Halloween is a generative setting for American horror, Yom Kippur, with its themes of sin and repentance and the par­tic­u­lar way in which Israeli life comes to a standstill on that day, is a fitting backdrop for an Israeli horror—­indeed, ­Children of the Fall is not the only New Israeli Horror film to be set on Yom Kippur. Focusing on the Yom Kippur of October 6, 1973, the day the war started, heightens the Israeli character of the film and gives it a ­political dimension. In this way, the historical setting of the film also confirms the strategy of horror conversion. The 1973 War, known in Israel as Yom Kippur War, played a significant role in Israeli history and culture. Historian Anita Shapira explains, “The Yom Kippur War was the reverse of the Six-­Day War: instead of a swift, dramatic victory, ­there ­were large numbers of casualties, loss of control and misreading of the battlefields, in-­fighting among generals, and absence of credibility. Every­thing that could go wrong did.”11 Although the war ended with an Israeli victory, it undermined public confidence in the IDF and raised questions about Israel’s sense of moral superiority. The massive numbers of fallen and wounded induced a national trauma that still looms large in Israeli society and has far-­reaching p­ olitical and ­ abor Party was lost, laycultural consequences. Faith in the leadership of the L ing the groundwork for a ­political transfer of power from the socialist Left to the right-­wing Likud; this in turn sparked a gradual transition to a free-­market economy, a decrease in state involvement, and prioritizing of individual rights and freedoms.12 The national anxiety gave rise to Gush Emunim, an ideological vanguard of the settlement movement fueled by belief in God-­given rights to the land. Thus, the trauma of the war led to strengthening of the Jewish messianic

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movement.13 Additionally, the 1973 War’s trauma became enmeshed with the memory of the Holocaust as the historic national trauma, which was then recruited to serve ­political purposes. As Sidra DeKoven Ezrahi explains, “From the late 1970s on, led by right-­wing governments and the growing religious sector, the unburied ­European past was summoned for its most public task: to explain and navigate the conflict in the Holy Land.”14 In the words of Idith Zertal, this recruitment construed a “link between the Holocaust and Israeli power in the context of the Israeli–­Arab conflict.”15 All t­ hese complex legacies of the 1973 War play out in the film. ­ hildren of the Fall does not aim Despite its specific historical setting, C for historical accuracy. Its themes of racism, national entitlement, and societal vio­lence, especially against minorities and ­women, are distinctly con­ temporary. Thus, the film’s plot, characters, and references are deliberately anachronistic, which allows it to both comment on present-­day Israel and to jibe with slasher conventions. Gafny signals the historical setting by giving the film a distinctive 1970s look. Shooting with a vintage anamorphic lens (­Japanese Kowa) resulted in a characteristic wide-­aspect image, horizontal lens flares in night scenes, and slight visual distortions. Con­temporary technology enables the flares and distortion to be edited out in post-­production, but Gafny chose to keep them and even insisted on emphasizing the flares through color manipulations. He felt that ­these effects not only grounded the world of the film in the 1970s but also made it look more epic and more cinematic.16 Using the anamorphic lens was Gafny’s tribute to the paradigmatic slashers, Halloween (1978, John Carpenter) and Friday the 13th (1980, Sean S. Cunningham), and to classic Westerns, which ­were also invoked in the film’s color palette, costumes, and soundtrack. The lighting, especially the way the lights are directed at the camera in the night scenes, is a nod to Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) and E.T. The Extra-­ Terrestrial (1982).17 The film’s mise-­en-­scène and dialogue reference classic slashers, including Halloween, Friday the 13th, Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974, Tobe Hooper), and Sleepaway Camp (1983, Robert Hiltzik). ­These tributes, which Gafny calls “winks to genre lovers,”18 bridge the global tradition of cinematic horror and the local world of the film. Gafny also makes references to other New Israeli Horror films, especially Rabies. Unlike Rabies, however, ­Children of the Fall follows the strategy of conversion. Where Keshales and Papushado subvert slasher conventions, Gafny relies on them to create a film deeply rooted in local issues. Although an avid horror fan, Gafny’s main interest lies in Israeli society and the prob­lems plaguing it. In ­ hildren of the other words, even though he modified some slasher conventions, C Fall is fundamentally an Israeli slasher, a film that belongs to the slasher horror subgenre but is at the same time a profoundly Israeli film in terms not only of its setting but also its central themes and cultural references. Gafny calls it “the thinking person’s slasher.”19

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The Thinking Person’s Slasher The opening titles of the film read “Northern Israel. October 1972. Yom Kippur,” as lightning lights up the night sky to reveal a farm. It is raining heavi­ly. A young ­woman cries for help in German; ­later we ­will understand her to be an international volunteer at a kibbutz. As she runs t­ owards us, the camera remains immobile, increasing our tension and involvement in the scene. The ­woman reaches a statue in the corner of the frame, commemorating t­ hose “fallen in Israel’s ­battles, on its land and in the camps.” She grasps the statue in desperation, rain streaming down her long hair. Dressed in shorts and a ­t-shirt, she could be a character in an American summer camp slasher. As is expected in such films, a dark figure comes from ­behind and kills her, spearing her with a pitchfork. This murder weapon echoes both slasher films (such as The Prowler, 1981, Joseph Zito) and kibbutz-­set Israeli films (Adama Meshugaat [Sweet Mud], 2006, Dror Shaul). The prologue not only establishes ­Children of the Fall as a slasher but it also grounds the action in a specifically Israeli time and place: it is not merely northern Israel but is a kibbutz, and it is not just any day but Yom Kippur. Moreover, the prologue also indicates the film’s preoccupations with Israeli collective memory: the statue’s inscription that groups together Israel’s defenders and Holocaust victims comments on the way that the Zionist narrative appropriated the memory of the Holocaust.20 The next scene contrasts sharply with the prologue’s darkness. To the tune of “The Change,” a 1971 song by American singer-­songwriter Tony Joe White, establishing shots capture a wide landscape of mountains and valleys, reminiscent of American Westerns. ­These shots also invoke the importance of the land in the Zionist narrative; local landscapes have been featured prominently in Israeli films ever since the propaganda docudramas of the 1930s, such as The Land of Promise (1935, Judah Leman) and Avodah (1935, Helmar Lerski). The camera turns from the sabra cactus, symbolic of Israel in the Zionist narrative, to the open road stretching to the horizon, a nod to Americana.21 Combining the visual language of the Western with that of Zionist symbolism—­a motif throughout the film—­draws parallels between American expansion and Zionist settler colonialism, asking us to rethink national foundational myths.22 ­These shots also signal that this is a story of an American in Israel. The American in question is the main character Rachel (Noa Maiman), who has just arrived to volunteer on a kibbutz. Events are focalized from her point of view. The camera first reveals only her feet on the road then gradually shows her entire figure, as in the famous opening shots of Avodah, thus establishing her as a Zionist pilgrim. Like the victim in the opening scene, she is young and attractive, dressed in summer clothes. “One year ­later,” announces the title on the screen, grounding the further action in 1973. Hitchhiking like other slasher heroines, Rachel gets a ­ride with an Israeli ­couple (Noa Koler and Alon Newman). The driver asks ­whether she is scared to

Slasher on the Kibbutz • 141

FIGURE 6.1  ​R achel enters the kibbutz passing through a eucalyptus grove. (Photo­g raph by Tom Goldwasser, courtesy of Eitan Gafny.)

be on the road alone. He means to invoke the threat of the Arab enemies, even though the slasher genre suggests other dangers. Rachel is unafraid, citing the victories of 1967 as a source of her confidence. Once she enters the kibbutz, non-­ diegetic nostalgic ­music indicates that this is a personal homecoming for her. As she walks by eucalyptus copse, the trees that Zionist pioneers planted to transform the local terrain, the landscape connects her to the national past, as immortalized in the iconic Zionist song by Naomi Shemer, “The Eucalyptus Grove” (figure 6.1). But Rachel does not receive a warm reception at the kibbutz. Soldiers guarding the gate harass her. The kibbutz secretary (Anat Atzmon) is unfriendly. As Rachel waits to talk to her, the camera pans along with Rachel’s gaze to reveal a period setting with Zionist slogans and portraits of Golda Meir and David Ben-­Gurion on the walls. In the background, a radio announces the names of persons missing in the Holocaust; the camp names Sobibor and Dachau are audible over the clicks of the typewriter. Such broadcasts ­were typical in post-­ Holocaust Israel, as depicted in several impor­tant films, such as Summer of Aviya (Ha-­kaits shel Aviya, 1988, Eli Cohen).23 With that, ­Children of the Fall establishes its world: it is a slasher with the visual ele­ments of a Western, set in Israel on the brink of the 1973 War but extending further into the traumatic national past. The kibbutz h ­ ere functions both as a site symbolic of Zionism and as an unfamiliar new place—­the social terrain the character needs to navigate, much like the summer camp of American slashers. An overly intrusive medical examination establishes Rachel’s ambiguous status as a slasher heroine. When the male doctor asks her about her sexual life while examining her vaginally without gloves, she answers, “Not for a while now.” She is neither a virgin nor a slut: in slasher conventions, she is neither Final Girl nor the first victim. The next scene, in which Rachel meets Yaron (Aki Avni), who coordinates the volunteers, nods to cinematic genres and grounds the action in local real­ity. ­ a’am,” he says to her in American E ­ nglish. With his cowboy “Howdy, m

142 • Conversion

hat, checkered shirt, and Southern twang, he might as well be a character in a Western (his previous roles as IDF fighters make his character seem even more masculine). “Your name is Rachel Strodensky,” notes Yaron, ­going over her file. “Strode,” she corrects, her name referencing Jamie Lee Curtis’s character in Halloween. “Your ­father’s name, Abraham,” Yaron continues, emphasizing the Jewish name. The ­daughter of a Jewish ­father and non-­Jewish ­mother, Rachel is not Jewish according to Jewish law. Still, her Jewish roots are enough for Yaron to take her ­under his wing. “­Don’t worry, you are in the right place. You are home,” he says, echoing the Zionist narrative of Jewish homecoming. But Rachel’s relationship with Judaism is complicated. As we learn from flashbacks ­later, she believes her teenage rebellion against her ­father’s Judaism caused his fatal heart attack. With Rachel’s f­ ather dead, Yaron takes on the role of f­ ather figure. To socialize her into kibbutz life, he gives her a kova tembel hat. This kind of bucket hat was ­popular among the early Zionist settlers (“pioneers” in ideological lingo), and over time, it became a symbol of Israeli collectivity, appearing not only in Israeli films but also in Hollywood vehicles like Exodus (1960, Otto Preminger). But wearing the kova tembel is not sufficient to make Rachel part of the collective, and Yaron pushes her to convert to Judaism. “­People ­here have been through a lot,” Yaron tells her. “For some of them it’s not easy to trust strangers.” He thus rationalizes the “us versus them” mentality of the kibbutz. ­These scenes establish Yaron’s character. Cowboy hat aside, he is a nationalist, fixated on national-­religious purity. Indeed, Gafny envisioned him as straddling two worlds: “Yaron is both a cowboy and a character from the Israeli movies of a bygone era, He Walked through the Fields or Hill 24 ­Doesn’t Answer.” Both films belong to what Ella Shohat calls the “heroic-­nationalist genre,” establishing the Zionist narrative of the 1948 War, known in Israel as the War of ­Independence.24 The parallel between ­these films and the Western is not accidental: much like the Israeli heroic-­nationalist films that promoted Zionist ideas, the classic Westerns reflect the Frontier myth and the ideology of Manifest Destiny underpinning it.25 In addition to ­these historical references to colonialism, the character of Yaron, with his American ­English and his militant nationalism, also represents Jewish American immigrants who established illegal settlements in the West Bank (or as they call it, Judea and Samaria) in the post-1967 era.26 Yaron introduces Rachel to other kibbutz volunteers: Martin, from Germany (Yotam Ishay), his French girlfriend Susan (Ronny Dotan), Annike (Tal Mahin) from Sweden, Bobby (Danny Leshman) from the United Kingdom, Natalya (Tamara Klingon) from Belarus, and Jeff (Iftach Ophir), an American. Every­ one is young and attractive. The oldest and wisest of the group is Salina (Yafit Shalev) from Spain, who also acts as a mouthpiece for the filmmaker. Salina asks ­ ere? What are you r­ unning from?” To Rachel’s protests, Rachel, “Why are you h she explains, “Niña, this is a country for refugees. Every­one ­here is r­ unning from

Slasher on the Kibbutz • 143

something.” The volunteer scenes look like a summer camp slasher, as the young ­people hang around the campfire, singing, smoking, getting high, teasing each other, and flirting. The only person not taking part in the banter is Bobby, whom the film establishes as a virgin and thus a potential Final Boy. Yaron’s dialogue also references the world of the slasher, as when he disciplines Jeff: “Sometimes, it’s like a summer camp around ­here.” Slasher allusions aside, Gafny constructs the volunteers’ stories as deliberately anachronistic to make ­political points. Natalya could not possibly have come to volunteer at a kibbutz from Belarus in 1973, b­ ecause Belarus was then part of the Soviet ­Union, which was po­liti­cally and ideologically hostile to Israel. Similarly, a Spanish volunteer would be unlikely not only ­because Spain at the time was still ruled by the Franco regime but also ­because Spain was historically not a typical country origin of volunteers.27 Gafny references both countries ­because of their ­political resonance: “In some ways ­these countries are like Israel: ­there is dictatorship, but also a conversation about nationalism and ­independence, and in the case of Belarus, a fight for i­ ndependence.”28 Russian-­speaking Natalya also represents a mass post-­Soviet immigration wave (known in Israel as “­Russian”).29 Spanish-­speaking Salina is a nod to the story of Gafny’s parents’ immigration to Israel. Regardless of their countries of origin, all the volunteers represent outsiders at the kibbutz and in Israeli society writ large. The first scare of the film proves to be a red herring. Jeff proposes a “night adventure” to steal marijuana from the yard of an old man rumored to have killed ­ ouse on the outskirts of the kibbutz, the his wife. When they approach the h nighttime sounds grow sinister. The full moon throws light on an animal skull on a fence, like in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. As Jeff reaches for a plant, he nearly falls into a bear trap, like Pini in Rabies. Next, a shotgun is shoved into his face. It belongs to Sam (Michael Ironside), an old man in a checkered shirt who confronts the thieves like a homesteader in a Western. Rachel talks Sam down. “­There is no reason anyone should get hurt for a l­ittle bit of weed. A ­ fter all, ­these are the ten days of repentance,” she reminds Sam of the upcoming holiday. This scene, with its spooky sound effects, bear trap, and shotgun, does not deliver in terms of body count, but it implies that the danger on the kibbutz ­will not come from an outsider. In fact, Sam w ­ ill ­later become Rachel’s friend and her other guide to kibbutz life. “It’s like the Wild West ­here, but with yarmulkes,” he tells her. A non-­Jew, he married a kibbutz w ­ oman, but the locals never accepted him, and he was forced to live on the kibbutz outskirts. As for the marijuana, he grew it for his cancer-­stricken late wife. Sam’s liminal status and his marijuana characterize him as a kind of a rebel, as someone who lives by his own laws. But given the film’s themes, a reference to cancer also alludes to a recent p­ olitical scandal, when Miri Regev, an Israeli right-­wing politician, called African mi­g rants “a cancer” on Israeli society.30 Speaking in the voice of the filmmaker, Sam compares Israel’s social ills, its wars, and aggressions to cancer before delivering his main prophesy:

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“A lot more blood is ­going be spilled on this ground before they realize ­they’ve got to find a common end.” ­Children of the Fall offers more sharp commentary on Israeli society in the scene in which Rachel chooses where she ­will work. This is the film’s opportunity to give viewers a ­grand tour of the kibbutz to the accompaniment of a cheerful Zionist song glorifying work. The scene teems with irony: ridiculing the dictum of “Hebrew l­abor,” we see only non-­Jewish volunteers toil. The kibbutzniks are shown yelling or making lewd gestures at ­women, contradicting the kibbutz’s claim to radical gender equality. Rachel chooses to work at the orange grove, a site symbolic of the Zionist enterprise with its myths of heroic pioneers. In fact, the Zionist citrus industry first marginalized and then replaced the Palestinian industry that predated it.31 Rachel picks an orange and turns to Yaron and Galia (Noa Lazar), his lieutenant. “This is the Israel my dad told me about,” she says. Pointing ­toward the kibbutzniks who had just leered at her, she adds “That ­isn’t.” Yaron goes ­after the men, establishing himself as a man who stands against sexual harassment. “Every­thing that your f­ ather promised is true,” Galia assures her, “and the Israeli sun ­will do you good.” The next scene, set in the kibbutz dining hall, makes the film’s most impor­ tant ideological statement. It opens with routine announcements before Yom Kippur, the Jewish holiday of atonement and repentance, begins. But when Yaron takes the mic, the conversation turns to the Holocaust. A ceremony follows, with the lighting of candles and singing “Eli, Eli,” both canonical rituals at Holocaust commemoration events in Israel.32 The camera pans over the room, dwelling on an old man with a number tattooed on his arm, tears streaming down his face. A close-up shows a similar tattoo on Yaron’s arm, as he speaks: “On that day, we are asked to forgive. Even them. But I, personally, d­ on’t plan to forgive, and certainly not to forget.” By conflating Yom Kippur, a religious holiday, with Holocaust Remembrance Day, a public observance established by the State of Israel, the film critiques the appropriation of Holocaust memory for nationalistic purposes. As Gafny explains, “Yaron is using ­every opportunity to exploit Holocaust memory, even ­doing a Holocaust memorial ­service at Yom Kippur. Like Bibi Netanyahu, he is manipulating us with fear.”33 The volunteers, meanwhile, argue about their treatment at the kibbutz. Natalya accuses kibbutzniks of sexual harassment, ­labor exploitation, and racism. Jeff and Rachel defend them. Channeling con­temporary advocates of Israel, Jeff cites the trauma of the Holocaust to justify the be­hav­ior, while Rachel reminds every­one that Israel is a democracy. Yet Natalya keeps challenging them: “How come that this country that’s supposed to be a home for tolerance and peace rejects anyone who is not a Jew?” Kibbutzniks who overhear her are outraged. A man in an IDF shirt leans in threateningly and tells her in Hebrew, “Shut up, you stupid cunt.” A fight erupts. Yaron arrives to save the day like a sheriff in a Western. He sends away the locals, but it is too late for Natalya. “I’m done with this shitty kibbutz,” she declares, “I am

Slasher on the Kibbutz • 145

leaving.” “Fine,” replies Yaron, with rage in his eyes. “Just finish your shift in the kitchen.” This depiction of the conflict between kibbutzniks and volunteers has some basis in real­ity. Volunteering at a kibbutz started as an ideological enterprise of Zionist youth groups. It gained popularity a­ fter Israel’s victory in the 1967 War, peaking in the 1970s when thousands of volunteers arrived annually, the majority not Jewish.34 ­Whether Jewish or not, they came to support Israel and to experience the communal lifestyle of a kibbutz. Consequently, Israel saw ­these volunteers as public ambassadors who performed “soft diplomacy” for the state.35 But on the ground, kibbutzniks often treated them with suspicion and condescension, causing volunteers to feel excluded and marginalized. Some complained of kibbutzniks’ xenophobic attitudes.36 The conflict at the kibbutz reflects present-­day Israeli debates about the treatment of O ­ thers, such as mi­grant workers and African refugees who, according to Israeli law, lack a path to citizenship and, as non-­Jews, threaten the state’s ethnonational identity.37 In fact, the parallel between volunteers and mi­grant workers is not far-­fetched: in ­today’s kibbutzim, hired mi­g rant workers from Thailand, Sudan, and Eritrea have come to replace volunteers.38 The fight between volunteers and kibbutzniks marks a turning point in the plot when the slasher begins in earnest. Each kill delivers its ­measure of gore and black comedy. Natalya, who provoked the fight, is the first victim. The scene opens when she is cleaning the kibbutz kitchen ­after dinner, her job assignment. It is late and Natalya is alone. Standing on a crate to reach inside a ­giant pot, she does not see the hooded figure who appears in a corner of the frame and lingers in the shadows. He topples Natalya off the crate and, like the killer in Sleepaway Camp, empties the ­giant pot over her and then uses it to crush her as she thrashes around. Gradually her movements subside, and the camera lingers on the pool of blood and steaming ­water around her. This is a classic slasher moment, but Israeli signifiers convert it to the local real­ity. The pot is marked “kosher.” The ­killer’s identity is unknown, but as in other New Israeli Horror films, he is a soldier. In fact, his face is concealed not by a mask (like in Halloween or Scream) but by the hood of his army coat. Martin and Susan are killed next. Predictably, they are murdered while having sex. The ­couple makes out in the chicken coop where they work during the day, surrounded by caged chickens; this setting evokes The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. They are naked, their ­faces covered by the black respirators they wear to work, but that now look like fetish masks. Susan is killed by a metal rod that pierces her body as she straddles Martin. Then the hooded killer attacks Martin, who screams in German, “Jews, help me!” an ironic Holocaust reference in a slasher scene. Once the murders are complete, the killer grabs a chicken. Holding it by its legs, he circles it over his head, performing kapparot, a Jewish atonement ritual for Yom Kippur in which a person’s sins are symbolically transferred onto a chicken. This ritual observance shows that the killer is not only an IDF

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man, but also a Jew, who is perversely concerned with morality and religion. By converging the slasher world and Jewish ritual, the film satirizes Israeli attitudes ­toward inflicting vio­lence on ­others. This scene is intercut with the murders of Jeff and Annike, which also rely on slasher tropes. As the ­couple fools around in the haystacks, Annike lowers her top to expose her breasts and asks Jeff, “See anything you like?” a line from Halloween. A spooky sound alarms her. When Jeff goes to check it out, the killer in the army coat murders him with garden shears like in The Burning (1981, Tony Maylam). In a moment of black humor, Annike sees Jeff’s severed head fly into the frame. She tries to flee, but the killer slashes her throat with a knife to the sounds of a nearly operatic score, his movements choreographed for comedic effect. In her last moment alive, she turns her head, looks at the killer, and recognizes him. He is not just someone Jewish and Israeli but also someone from the kibbutz. The next slasher sequence unfolds in a m ­ usic hall, where Rachel asks Bobby, an aspiring musician, to sing for her. Bobby goes backstage and returns with his face painted white, like a mime or Pierrot in commedia dell’arte. He grabs an electric guitar and does a rendition of the lyrical “Love Song,” from the 1989 ­album by the British band The Cure. Rachel is the only member of the audience. When the song ends, the killer waits in the back of the hall. When Bobby attempts to confront him, the killer throws a knife that hits him in the chest, spraying blood onto Rachel. She tries to escape, and the killer runs a­ fter her. In a scene referencing Wes Craven’s Scream 2 (1997), the killer chases her through the empty rows of seats, with Rachel barely escaping his clutches u­ ntil she is able to run outside. The camera follows Rachel through the empty kibbutz and then through the dark woods, as in Friday the 13th (or just about any other slasher). She reaches Sam’s cabin, and he comes out. It looks like she w ­ ill be saved. But as is expected in a slasher, the killer appears from ­behind, piercing Sam with a pitchfork. Sam collapses, and the killer goes for Rachel. At a moment when seemingly nothing can stop him, an explosion throws him off her. Distant sirens grow louder and a fire erupts. Another explosion signals that the 1973 War has started.39 The worlds of a slasher and Israeli history collide, converting global genre tropes to local real­ity. The killer limps off, leaving a shell-­shocked Rachel covered in blood. When she gets to her room, she finds Salina slaughtered in the shower. As is the rule in slashers, nowhere is safe. Even Yaron is now suspicious: when he enters the room, she initially rushes to hug him. He wears an army uniform, with a gun slung over his shoulder. Instead of his cowboy hat, he has a yarmulke (literalizing Sam’s ­earlier summation of Israel). As in Avni’s roles in other movies, Yaron is the picture of a soldier and protector. But his be­hav­ior does not add up. He locks the door from the inside and has unexplained wounds. Rachel, suspecting that he is the killer, backs away. “­There’s a war!” he yells at her, “It’s a holy war! It has to be

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done!” His words refer not to the military attack but to the murders of the volunteers. Rachel throws scalding tea at him and runs out. The next scene, once again, places a slasher situation in an Israeli setting. On the run from Yaron, Rachel begs kibbutzniks for help. But no one pays attention to her: the men are leaving for war and the ­women are bidding them farewell, as in Israeli realistic war dramas. Like Laurie in her suburban neighborhood in Halloween, Rachel remains helpless even as she is surrounded by ­people. Fi­nally, a soldier comes to Rachel’s aid and brings her to the kibbutz infirmary. But neither the soldier nor the doctor understands the source of Rachel’s distress. The doctor simply gives her sedatives. When Rachel comes to, she sees a wounded soldier on a cot next to her. He is a victim of the war, and she is a victim in a slasher. Both are drenched in blood. The visual worlds of a horror film and a war drama fuse, as in other New Israeli Horror films, where victims of fictional horrors resemble war victims, and vice versa. When Yaron finds her in the infirmary, she escapes thanks to the intervention of the same soldier who helped her e­ arlier. As Yaron pursues her, another hooded figure in an army coat attacks the soldier. This time, the camera reveals the face ­behind the hood: it is Galia, Yaron’s lieutenant. She is the second killer (like in the Scream franchise), which explains who murdered Salina while Yaron was killing other volunteers. The rest of the action unfolds ­under the sunlight like in Rabies. The Israeli sun, ­after all, did not do Rachel any good. Fleeing Yaron, Rachel comes to an abandoned train depot and hides in an old train car, a setting that evokes the Holocaust. Yaron, despite his injuries, is unstoppable, as is expected from a killer in a slasher. More than a slasher villain, he is also a nationalist fanatic, as shown by his appeal to Rachel when he finds her in the train car: “It’s not just the Arabs against us. It’s anyone who pollutes our dreams, our home.” As Rachel listens, she sees the corpses of her friends piled up in the corner of the car. The image echoes Holocaust iconography, especially the shots of Nazi victims in documentaries of camp liberations (such as Nazi Concentration Camps, George Stevens, 1945). As the camera pans around his burned face, Yaron continues, “It’s a holy sacrifice, and sacrifice is painful! But we are together in this pain, and we w ­ ill ­ ere, the film returns to its critique of Holocaust appropriation not apologize!” H in Israel. Yaron’s invocation of the holy sacrifice represents what Idith Zertal describes as “the ­process of sanctification—­which is itself a form of devaluation— of the Holocaust.” This p­ rocess “coupled with the concept of holiness of the land, and the harnessing of the living to this two-­fold theology, have converted a haven, a home and a homeland into a ­temple and an everlasting altar.”40 The danger of that sanctification, demonstrated by the character of Yaron, is that it fuels the ideology of right-­wing groups like Gush Emunim, whose members see themselves “as the last fighters on the wall, the handful of ghetto rebels, expecting their lonely doom in an ocean of Nazi-­like hatred shared by the entire world, Gentiles, Arabs, and non-­settler Israelis included.”41 This position

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produces, in the words of Sidra DeKoven Ezrahi, a “toxic narrative” that leaves its adherents with “only two alternatives: to sacrifice or to be sacrificed.”42 Yaron chooses to sacrifice, with the kibbutz volunteers taking the place of ­ hildren of the Fall shooting, Yaron’s refusal to symbolic Jews. At the time of C apologize carried additional local meaning: it echoed a 2015 campaign slogan by Naftali Bennett, then leader of the nationalist-­religious Jewish Home party, who called on his constituents to “Stop apologizing!” When Yaron enters the car, he pins Rachel to the floor and continues his speech. The camera cuts between his drooling face and Rachel’s hand grappling for a weapon. She grabs a stick and, like Laurie in Halloween, stabs Yaron in the neck and then kicks him out of the car. “It’s my home too,” she says standing over him, bringing the slasher scene to a conclusion that comments on local Israeli politics. In the final scene, Rachel hobbles back to the kibbutz, but Yaron is still alive and continues to follow her. He lifts his gun, but now she picks up a r­ ifle too. As they aim at each other, another bomb explodes, and every­one falls to the ground. The camera follows Rachel’s gaze to reveal Yaron’s body held by Galia in a pietà-­ like tableau. He is fi­nally dead, but Rachel is also d­ ying. Her ambiguous status as a potential Final Girl is resolved. To the beat of an optimistic 1972 song “­Don’t Let It Get to You” (by the UK band Spirogyra), the camera slowly rises, revealing Rachel’s body in a pool of blood near a dead soldier. An orange and a gun, both objects symbolic of Israeli Zionism, lie between them. This ending resonates with other New Israeli Horror films that do not offer happy resolutions. Yaron, embodying the danger that comes from within Israel, is dead, but another murderer Galia is alive and unrepentant. But the film is not without its final survivor. A post-­credit scene shifts back to the ­music hall, where Bobby had sung for Rachel. He has regained consciousness and pulled the knife out of his chest, with blood streaming down his ­t-shirt. With his face still painted white, he examines his mirror reflection as “Love Song” starts playing in the background. He likes his new look. As this scene suggests, Bobby Smith would become Robert Smith, the lead singer of The Cure, known for his iconic makeup. This tongue-­in-­cheek reference explains why Bobby sang The Cure’s 1989 hit ­earlier, the song that he, in the film’s logic, conceived back in 1973. As in Rabies, the Final Girl is actually a Final Boy. But if in Rabies this subversion of the genre convention serves to satirize Israeli masculinity, in ­Children of the Fall, it is just an inside joke for both horror and Cure fans.43

­Children of the Fall as an Israeli Film ­ hildren of the Fall is not the first instance in the Israeli cultural imagination of C kibbutz-­based murders. Precursors include Batya Gur’s detective novel Lina Meshutefet (Murder on a Kibbutz, 1991) and Savion Liebrecht’s short story “Kibbutz” (2002). In both works of lit­er­a­ture, murders are committed by

Slasher on the Kibbutz • 149

salt-­of-­the-­earth kibbutzniks who, like Yaron, are fueled by chauvinist ideology. In Murder, a veteran kibbutznik goes on a killing spree when she believes that the traditional collectivistic way of life is being threatened. In “Kibbutz,” kibbutzniks kill a developmentally disabled ­couple. This short story, like ­Children of the Fall, alludes to the Holocaust, drawing parallels between the historical perpetrators and the kibbutzniks committing—­and then silencing—­the crime.44 This dark repre­sen­ta­tion is a far cry from the ­earlier image of the kibbutz. Israeli cinema also demonstrates this trend. According to Eldad Kedem and Gilad Padva, in early films beginning with Sabra (1933, Aleksander Ford), the kibbutz is idealized as an embodiment of the Zionist revolution, with its themes of return to the biblical promised land, agricultural ­labor, community, and nation-­building. For Holocaust survivors like t­ hose in Beit Avi (My F ­ ather’s ­House, 1947, Herbert Klein), the kibbutz is a haven capable of healing their trauma. The heroic-­nationalist films of the 1950s to early 1960s construct the kibbutz as a part of the frontier narrative, mythologizing it as the nation’s place of birth. At that point, the kibbutz was established as a “familiar brand,” signaling heroism and sacrifice.45 But from the mid-1960s on, this cinematic image started losing its power, leading to increasingly satirical or critical interpretations, such as in Sallah Shabbati (1964, Efraim Kishon) and Hor Belevana (Hole in the Moon, 1965, Uri Zohar). In the 1980s and 1990s, films set in the past begin exploring tensions between the collective values of the kibbutz and the individual’s desires and needs; for instance, in Noa Bat 17 (Noa at 17, 1981, Yitzhak Yeshurun). At that time, “the kibbutz becomes a conflicted site of quarrels and fights, a space in which the utopian dreams of social justice have degenerated into a violent, destructive society.”46 This depiction was part of a broader moral crisis in Israel, leading to a critical reexamination of its past, with the kibbutz functioning “as an available platform for a projection of historical lessons.”47 In more recent films, ­these trends have intensified, with the kibbutz emerging as a site of loss and trauma, conveying a sense of decline and dead ends.48 As Kedem and Padva conclude, “The deconstruction of the kibbutz, as reflected in Israeli cinema, offers a problematic deconstruction of basic moral values in Israeli society.”49 This critical stance receives dif­fer­ent expressions from the comedy Eskimosim BaGalil (Galilee Eskimos, 2007, Jonathan Paz) that satirizes current Israeli individualism to Sweet Mud, a dark drama bordering on horror.50 Themes of death, suicide, and moral corruption in Sweet Mud suggest “a heart of darkness within the pastoral lineaments of utopia.”51 In many ways, ­Children of the Fall fits into this picture. Despite being a slasher—an antirealist genre—­the film approaches the kibbutz as a microcosm of Israeli society. As in other recent Israeli kibbutz-­set films, ­Children of the Fall’s setting thematizes trauma, displacement, destruction, and moral crisis. But unlike most kibbutz repre­sen­ta­tions, it portrays the kibbutz from the point of view of outsiders. The only kibbutznik we get to know is Yaron; all the other central characters are foreigners. Moreover, if ­earlier critical kibbutz films ­were

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preoccupied with tension between the individual and collective, in ­Children of the Fall, the tension is between insiders and outsiders. In other words, the main preoccupation of the film is with racism and nationalism. In this context, the absence of Palestinians in ­Children of the Fall is particularly glaring. Where are they? Yet, Palestinian absence in a film set on a kibbutz stands to reason. As in the society that a kibbutz represents, Palestinians are invisible. Like other fictional Israeli kibbutz films, C ­ hildren of the Fall does not bring up the Palestinian question, be it the morally fraught legacy of kibbutzim founded on Palestinian land, or the current exploitation of Palestinians for cheap ­labor and their continuing exclusion. Instead, through the figures of volunteers, the film ostensibly represents the new ­Others—­the mi­grant workers and the African refugees. But at a deeper level, Palestinian absence haunts the film. Yaron’s rhe­toric of “holy war” replicates the deep structure of Israeli thinking ­because it refracts the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict through the lens of Holocaust memory. In the mythic thinking of nationalist ideologues like Gush Emunim and many right-­wing Israeli politicians, the political-­military conflict is interpreted in religious and messianic terms.52 In that approach, the Jews are eternal victims persecuted by the biblical Amalek, be it Hitler, Yasser Arafat, or just about any Palestinian. Thinkers on the opposite ideological spectrum (such as Yeshayahu Leibovitz), see Israelis acting like Nazis in their role as occupiers, with Palestinian Arabs taking the place of Jews as innocent victims.53 Embodying toxic mythic thinking, Yaron becomes an ideological killer, a kind of Yigal Amir, the right-­wing assassin of Yitzhak Rabin—­leaving ­behind him corpses that look like Holocaust victims. In an act of traumatic substitution, the volunteers become surrogates not just for the mi­grant workers and African refugees but also for the ur-­Others of the Israeli psyche, the Palestinians. Thus, although the figures of ­actual Palestinians are absent from C ­ hildren of the Fall, structurally the Palestinian question is at the core of its narrative, in contrast to most Israeli kibbutz films.

Part 3

Aversion

7

Escaping Israel Another World, Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, and The Golem Whereas the strategy of subversion explores how local sensibilities undermine global genre conventions, and the strategy of conversion combines the local and the global, the aversion strategy aims to disavow the local. Filmmakers choosing this path try to make “universal” horror films—­those that could be made anywhere and presumably could appeal to audiences everywhere. As I show, this is the most fraught strategy. When a film eschews the local environment, it usually fails to arrive at the global genre and instead ends up in a vacuum. Its attempt to talk to every­one makes it too generic to appeal to anyone. Conversely, when a film fueled by aversion works, the strategy itself is compromised, resulting in an ambivalent aversion that cannot escape the Israeli context. In their attempt to disavow the local, films end up speaking to Israeli issues despite themselves.

Another World: Successful Strategy—­Failure of the Film Another World (Ulam Aher), shot in 2010, was supposed to be the first Israeli zombie film, as well as its first 3-­D movie, and thus it was highly anticipated.1 But post-­production turned out to be more costly and complicated than expected. Even though the filmmakers abandoned the plan for 3-­D, Another World took four years to complete.2 By the time it premiered at the Utopia festival in 153

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2014, Poisoned and Cannon Fodder had beaten it to Israeli screens, and excitement fizzled. The film was the brainchild of Eitan Reuven, a computer programmer and self-­taught filmmaker who directed and co-produced the film. Its b­ udget, reportedly one million dollars—an impressive amount for any Israeli production, let alone a horror film—­came entirely from private investors, having been uniformly rejected by the Israeli film funds.3 One pos­si­ble reason was that unlike other New Israeli Horror filmmakers, Reuven aimed exclusively at international audiences. He de­cided to film entirely in E ­ nglish and to cast a mix of largely unknown international and Israeli actors, all native or fluent ­English speakers. The most recognizable was Carl McCrystal, a British actor who appeared in the 1999 James Bond film The World Is Not Enough (Michael Apted). Every­one on screen speaks with a dif­fer­ent accent, creating an ambiguous setting. Although ­budget limitations dictated that the film be shot in Israel, the filmmakers selected locations that could convey a generic postapocalyptic city: under­ ground garages, abandoned apartments, a deserted hospital, and an industrial plant.4 They also eschewed establishing shots as to avoid recognizable Israeli locales. Like other New Israeli Horror films, Another World was influenced by international genre classics; in this case, 28 Days ­Later (2002, Danny Boyle) and The Matrix (1999, Lana and Lilly Wachowski). As in 28 Days, the catastrophe is triggered by a biological warfare experiment gone wrong, and the characters are now facing hordes of the “infected”: rapidly moving, murderous zombies. Like The Matrix, Another World attempts to engage with existential questions, mainly through dialogue. It also tries to add gravitas to on-­screen action by intercutting intertitles with quotes from Genesis to divide the film into six chapters, corresponding to the six days of creation. Set in a postapocalyptic world, Another World follows four lone survivors battling the zombie hordes. The film’s nameless characters are drawn in broad strokes, representing ste­reo­t ypically gendered archetypes, rather than ­human beings: Wizard (Zach Cohen) is an inventive genius, ­Colonel (Carl McCrystal) is a professional soldier, the female Doctor (Susanne Gschwendtner) is compassionate and nurturing, and ­Daughter (Davina Kevelson) is fun and artsy. ­Colonel makes statements like “the essence of life is murder and suffering,” whereas the Doctor says, “­There is nothing ­else but love.” Wizard and ­Daughter bond over their creativity and become romantically involved. In between attacks, the four argue philosophy or listen to mysterious radio broadcasts in which a male voice pontificates about the nature of extinction. As the characters strug­gle to survive and make sense of the situation, they find another survivor intent on revealing the truth b­ ehind the zombie apocalypse (David Lavenski). They learn from him that the biological weapons experiment that infected ­humans was ­Colonel’s idea and that the Doctor worked at the hospital, which was his research fa­cil­i­ty. Both die, leaving Wizard and ­Daughter as the sole survivors. Despite ­Colonel’s responsibility for the catastrophe, the two disregard the danger of a zombie attack to

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pay their last re­spects to him. They perform a Viking-­style funeral, sending him off in a boat, dressed in full regalia. It is not always clear what the characters are d­ oing or why. In one scene they are in their urban hideout, and then suddenly, they are shown in a school or at a plant. They escape a flaming city, only to return to it without any explanation. The discontinuity of action, along with the forced dialogue and stilted acting, undermines the dramatic tension. Another World tries to compensate for the dearth of genuine story with plenty of action—­shooting, explosions, ­running, and screaming. It does not work. Of course, cultural specificity does not guarantee a ­great film. Yet it appears that avoiding it ensures a weak one. By averting the local context, Another World fails to arrive at the global genre; instead it ends nowhere. Indeed, its screening at the Utopia festival went unnoticed, with only one festival review commenting on the film’s failed attempt “to deal with universal existential issues detached from our local contexts ­here in Israel.”5 Another World did not have a theatrical release in Israel, but it did better abroad. It picked up the Best Picture award at the Rhode Island International Horror Film Festival and continued to Sitges and a few other festivals. It ultimately sold in several international markets, including the United States, United Kingdom, Japan, France, Germany, and Rus­sia, where it went to DVD and straight-­to-­digital release. Its only reviews appeared in specialized horror blogs, where even die-­hard genre fans had mixed reactions to the film. As of this writing, Reuven and his team have not made another film.

The Perfect Imperfect: Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club and The Golem The two much more successful films that attempt the aversion strategy share several commonalities. Both are adaptations of iconic literary texts: in the case of Madam Yankelova a Hebrew classic, and in the case of The Golem, a Jewish legend. Both texts have roots in Jewish tradition. That alone undermines the strategy of aversion in the two films, ­because Jewish tradition and Israeli culture, notwithstanding the tensions between them, are profoundly connected.6 More significantly, both films end up “disclosing” deep Israeli meanings inherent in them despite their best efforts to avoid Israeliness.

Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club The idea for Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club grew out of a private joke, says the filmmaker, Guilhad Emilio Schenker: I used to go over for dinner to my close friend and muse, Sigal Rosh, who is a single ­woman in her 50s. ­She’d make schnitzel and we’d have deep conversations about relationships. Once, ­a fter she had a painful breakup, I asked what happened to her ex. She just nodded at the schnitzel. We had this r­ unning

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joke—­that in her freezer she keeps the bodies of men ­she’d killed. My idea grew out of this story. Then I got reminded of Agnon’s Hebrew classic about a cannibal ­woman, the only ­thing from high school that stuck with me. I reread it and it became a basis for the film.7

The resulting film drew its inspiration from the iconic short story by a Hebrew writer S. Y. Agnon’s “The Lady and the Peddler” (Ha-­adonit ve-­ha-­rokhel). The film is a dark Gothic story of a women-­only cult, intent on enacting murderous revenge against men.8 Essentially, it retells Agnon’s classic story from the perspective of its female antagonist. The Real­ity of Fantasy. Guilhad Emilio Schenker (b. 1986) was born in Caracas, Venezuela, to Argentine parents whose families fled antisemitic persecution in ­Europe. He became an immigrant himself at age ten, when they moved to Israel. The adjustment was difficult, and it did not get any easier a few years ­later when he realized that he was gay.9 He grew up an avid film lover, watching and rewatching on video ET, Back to the ­Future, Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, and other ­popular Hollywood movies of the 1980s. But in 1993, he saw Kika, his first Almodovar film, and became obsessed with the director. What he particularly admired was the film’s focus on female characters. “I grew up in a ­house of a lot of w ­ omen, and a lot of telenovelas,” Schenker says. “It was natu­ral to me to center on ­women in my work too.”10 He went on to study film at Tel Aviv University but was not a part of the Hamorotheque crowd. In his first year, he met another student Yossi Meiri, and the two became close friends. They collaborated on Schenker’s graduation proj­ ect, Lavan (2010), which Meiri shot and edited. The horror plot is set in a sterile space of a prison or a hospital, where two uniformed female attendants torture a naked male prisoner confined to a gurney. The attendants, however, behave differently: one (Sigal Rosh, of the schnitzel anecdote), revolts against the sadism of the other (Razia Israeli, who would go on to costar in Madam Yankelova). Lavan was a success, participating in dozens of festivals around the world and bringing Schenker early recognition. This striking first short already reflects Schenker’s unique sensibility and marks the themes ­later developed in Madam Yankelova: investigating gender and power relations within the generic confines of fantasy and horror. Marek Rozenbaum, a renowned Israeli producer who taught Schenker and Meiri at Tel Aviv University, was impressed by Lavan and invited them to come to him with their first feature. They co­wrote Madam Yankelova and started applying for funding, only to face rejection ­a fter rejection. Eventually, they received modest support from the Rabinovich Foundation (about $100,000). This would be insufficient even for a realistic film, but Schenker and Meiri envisioned a Gothic horror in the style of Tim Burton. Their ­budget was so inadequate for their vision that Rozenbaum thought they ­were living in a fantasy world

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themselves. He told Schenker, “You are a character from Tim Burton, not a filmmaker in his style!” Only l­ ater did they receive additional funds from the Israel Film Fund, Israeli cable channels, and the Israeli lottery (Mif ’al Ha-Payis). But the overall ­budget was miniscule.11 What made Schenker’s endeavor seem particularly outrageous was that even with this tight ­budget, he planned to cast the most acclaimed Israeli actors: Keren Mor (famous as a member of the hit sketch comedy group Ha-­hamishiya Ha-­ kamerit), Hana Laszlo (who appeared in dozens of iconic Israeli films and ­television shows, starting with Halfon Hill ­Doesn’t Answer), Leah Koenig (nicknamed the First Lady of Israeli Theater for her numerous roles on stage and on screen), Razia Israeli (Fill The Void [Lemale et ha-­halal], 2012, dir. Rama Burshtein; Schindler’s List, 1993, dir. Steven Spielberg), Ania Bukstein (who, in addition to her role in Rabies, appeared in many successful Israeli and international productions, including HBO’s Game of Thrones where she plays Kinvara in the sixth season), and Yiftach Klein (Fill The Void; Policeman [Ha-­shoter], 2011, ­ ouse­hold Israeli names, like actor dir. Nadav Lapid). Schenker envisioned h Alex Ansky and comedian Tuvia Tzafir playing even the small roles. Schenker and Meiri wrote the parts with ­these specific actors in mind (and even kept some of their a­ ctual names in the film). The amazing t­ hing is that all of them came on board, virtually for ­free. “It was easy to get them,” says Schenker, “They saw Lavan, they read the script, and agreed.” What attracted ­these A-­list actors was an opportunity to act in a film unlike anything ­else they had seen on Israeli screens and to be cast in roles that ­were unusual for them.12 Schenker also talked the Raanana Symphonette orchestra into donating their time to rec­ ord the film’s score (written by composer Tal Yardeni).13 As usual with New Israeli Horror films, Schenker and Meiri shot Madam Yankelova guerilla style. They got ­free access to an abandoned ware­house that they could use as a studio but had no money to craft sets. They heard that Zaguri Empire (Zaguri imperia, 2014–2015, HOT), a p­ opular Israeli ­television series that had recently finished filming, had thrown away their sets. At night, they went with the crew to the dump, retrieved the sets, carried them to the ware­ house, and rebuilt them to fit their needs. ­Family and friends helped. Schenk­ other provided the er’s aunts and grand­mother ­were cast in the film, and his m catering.14 Ever the hustler, Schenker had several other positions and responsibilities while filming: he hosted a talk show where he interviewed some 300 Israeli filmmakers, ran the Tel Aviv Jazz Festival, and began a doctorate in Film Studies at Berlin University in Germany. ­Because their ­budget was so miniscule, Schenker and Meiri spent a year and a half on post-­production. ­Every shot needed to be pro­cessed to compensate for the imperfections of the production. They also had to eliminate any recognizable signs of con­temporary Israeli real­ity—­the film was to be set in its own world. Schenker recalls, “I wanted a disconnect from place and time ­because I think that realism is boring. Hebrew lit­er­a­ture has engaged with the mystical and the

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super­natural. But ever since the foundation of the State of Israel we became boring—we just keep telling the same story. I believe Israeli audiences deserve access to fantasy—so my style is my rebellion against the current norm.”15 Indeed, Madam Yankelova has a completely un-­Israeli look. For its visual style, Schenker and Meiri drew inspiration from Tim Burton, Jean-­Pierre Jeunet, Wes Anderson, and Guillermo del Toro, creating a distinctly Gothic setting for their darkly comedic tale. They also eschewed explicit gore, choosing instead to imply rather than show horror. The first shots establish the Gothic atmosphere, presenting a dark, ominous forest straight out of a ­European fairy tale—or a Tim Burton film. A raven silhouetted against the full moon crows to orchestral m ­ usic in the style of Danny Elfman, a piece that ­will return ­later as the main motif in the film. The raven takes off, and the camera flies along with it through and over the forest. The raven lands on the sign of a strip club, located incongruously in a wooden hut. This opening signals the film’s stylistic choices: it combines Gothic sensibility with horror-­ comedy to create a world that is not quite like our own and certainly is unlike con­temporary Israel. The film follows Sophie (Keren Mor), a librarian and literary scholar specializing in the writing of S. Y. Agnon. She is a member of a women-­only book club run by Madam Yankelova (Lea Koenig) and her deputy Razia (Razia Israeli) that meets once a week to read the same literary work, Agnon’s “The Lady and the Peddler.” The meetings take place inside a ­castle, its rooms lavishly decorated with oil paintings, where the members wear e­ vening gowns and enjoy live opera arias. Each member is required to bring a man, who is then ­measured to determine who is the best specimen. The member whose man receives the highest marks wins a trophy. Although at first, this looks like just a quirky literary club, l­ater in the plot we discover that, at the end of each meeting, the male guests are murdered and ground into hot dogs. Each club member’s aspiration is to win a hundred trophies, which ­will secure her a seat at the Lordesses’ ­House, the highest status in the club’s hierarchical system. (We get a glimpse at the luxurious life of leisure that Lordesses lead via a black-­and-­white newsreel screened at the meeting.) Sophie has won ninety-­nine such trophies but is finding it difficult to get the last one. She is aging, men no longer find her attractive, and she is struggling to lure them to the book club. Bombarded with messages about ­women being valued only for their youth and looks, she is feeling ­under pressure. If she fails to secure her last trophy, she ­will be demoted to the sanitation staff, as was her older friend Hannah (Hana Laszlo). Fed up with cleaning, Hannah meanwhile has met a man and fallen in love—­a forbidden act for club members—­and absconded from the club. Hannah’s disappearance makes Sophie a suspect in the eyes of the club leadership, who recruit her young pretty neighbor Lola (Ania Bukstein) to spy on her. This puts Sophie ­under even more pressure. Her prospects look grim.

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Hope arrives one day in the shape of a strapping man, Joseph (Yiftach Klein), who shows up at Sophie’s library to consult with her about Agnon. She, of course, invites him to come with her to the club—he is a guaranteed win. But over the next ­couple of days (or rather nights), she falls in love with him. She cooks for him, and they cite passages from Agnon’s story to each other. Now Sophie changes her mind about taking him to Madam Yankelova’s—­and hence to his death. What she fails to realize is that Joseph is an undercover cop. He works for Razia, who is a police commander by day and who sent him to track down Hannah. The prob­lem is that in the ­process of pursuing Hannah, Joseph discovered evidence of the club’s murderous enterprise. Razia tries unsuccessfully to thwart his investigation. Ultimately, Sophie sides with Joseph and turns on the club, stabbing Razia to death. In the last scene, the ­castle explodes, with all the members inside. Sophie and Joseph survive the blast and drive away into the night on Joseph’s motorcycle. From Hebrew Gothic to Hebrew Horror. Agnon’s “The Lady and the Peddler” is not listed in Madam Yankelova’s credits, and the only relation to the text is diegetic. Still, it is so central to the film that I read it ­here as a cinematic adaptation of the Agnon story. I follow the scholarship on film adaptation that has moved from the so-­called fidelity approach to the understanding of adaptation as transformation—as interpretation, mediation, or translation.16 Depending on the degree of transformation we may distinguish between literal (most meticulous), traditional (more selective and also the most common), and radical adaptations. A radical adaptation is a complete transposition of the original work, in which the time or place of action, meaning, tone, and mode may change.17 In that sense, Madam Yankelova is a radical adaptation, paying tribute to and playfully engaging with the iconic Hebrew classic.18 In Agnon’s story, Joseph, a Jewish peddler, seeks shelter at the ­house of a gen­ ouse, but l­ ater tile ­woman named Helen. At first, he does odd jobs around the h the two live together like husband and wife. He eats the nonkosher foods she makes for him and comes to accept her odd be­hav­iors, like never seeing her eat. Ultimately, he discovers her to be a cannibal-­vampire who devours her husbands and drinks their blood. She tries to kill him twice. First, she attempts to stab him in his sleep, but he is outside praying. L ­ ater, she bites him, but his Jewish blood poisons her and she dies. The peddler then continues on his way—­still a wandering Jew, no worse and no better off than before. As Karen Grumberg points out, “The Lady and the Peddler” is a Gothic story, “complete with a foreboding forest, a bloody dagger, and a murderous vampire.”19 Agnon’s text brings t­ hese aesthetic conventions into the context of Jewish culture and history, creating what Grumberg calls “Hebrew gothic.” Hebrew gothic “shapes the literary engagement with the Jewish past,” allowing Agnon to “revise

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the dynamics of powerlessness and victimization associated with the Jewish conception of history.”20 “The Lady and the Peddler,” which Agnon wrote in 1943 at a time of genocidal vio­lence against Jewish ­people, disrupts the Christian view of the Jew and “holds up a dark mirror to ­European antisemitism.”21 In Israel, the story is taught as part of the high school curriculum, where it is commonly interpreted as a cautionary tale against assimilation. The film, however, eschews ­these concerns. Like the story, the film has the tone of a dark fairy­tale with a hint of macabre ­ ouse in Agnon’s story humor. The setting is a secluded c­ astle, located like the h in the ­middle of the woods. The action takes place ­under heavy rain and often in darkness; in this atmosphere a love affair develops between a murderous ­woman and a man who is to be her next victim. As in the story, the man is named Joseph. The ­woman is not named Helen but is given another Greek name, Sophie. (Sophie is a derivative of Sofia, which means wisdom, a concept central to Hellenistic philosophy and religion.22) Their relationship starts when he begs her for shelter, and it deepens as he helps around the ­house (in the film Joseph repairs electrical prob­lems in Sophie’s apartment). Although Sophie, like Helen, is feeding Joseph (she makes him schnitzels), we never see her eating ­human food; the film draws attention to this peculiarity by citing Agnon’s dialogue. In both the film and the story, the ­woman, ­a fter falling in love with Joseph, fears that she ­will harm him. Helen tells Joseph as she is kissing him: “I’m afraid you ­won’t get out of my hands alive,”23 whereas Sophie withdraws her invitation to the club. In both cases, a knife is used as an attempted murder weapon and is prefigured in dreams in the best tradition of the Gothic mode. Agnonian Joseph dreams that the knife has been thrust into his heart, whereas Sophie dreams that she is about to stab Joseph: thus, the same event is presented from dif­fer­ent points of view. But the film also diverges from the story in impor­tant ways. Although events unfold in an undefined time and place both on page and on screen, Agnon’s story is set in the remote E ­ uropean past, whereas the film is set in a culturally and chronologically ambiguous place and time, juxtaposing old and new, Israeli and foreign, the familiar and the mysterious. It is a world with cars and landline telephones but no computers or cellphones. ­There is surveillance equipment, but messages are sent via ­telegrams or even carrier pigeons. Th ­ ese juxtapositions play with the audience’s expectations of realistic conventions of Israeli films, both creating a sense of alienation from Israeli real­ity and inviting immersion in the stunning visual world of Madam Yankelova. The settings, costumes, and props draw inspiration from eclectic sources. The exterior of the ­castle is reminiscent of the home of Edward Scissorhands (from the 1990 film of the same name by Tim Burton). The interior spaces are dark and ominous, as befitting a Gothic tale. The stylized mise-­en-­scène of the club evokes The ­Grand Budapest ­Hotel (2014, Wes Anderson), a film set in a fictional ­European town in the interwar period. The dining room is richly decorated with red wall­paper and oil

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paintings, each one depicting Judith beheading Holofernes, a biblical story of sex and vio­lence.24 The color palette, in which the reds on the walls are matched by the burgundy dress of an opera singer, is reminiscent of Almodovar’s films, in which the color red is often dominant. A round t­ able, formally set and decorated with an elaborate centerpiece, glows in the candlelight. The club members are dressed in the dark outfits of film noir femme fatales, hinting that ­these ­women ­will lead men to their destruction. The so-­called sanitation staff is decked out in ­European maids’ uniforms. The ­women and their male guests sit in high-­backed chairs of a distinct steampunk design, in the style of the evil machines of The City of Lost ­Children (1995, Marc Caro and Jean-­Pierre Jeunet). On Madam Yankelova’s cue, the secret mechanisms in the chairs are activated, trapping the male guests. ­A fter being gagged, the men’s heads are m ­ easured with calipers and their ­measurements compared to pseudoscientific data, evoking Nazi eugenics. The library where Sophie and Lola work is a stolid space dominated by browns and grays. Only a portrait of Madam Yankelova and green lampshades provide a touch of color. The library design and the movement of the camera are reminiscent of the library scene in Se7en (1995, David Fincher), a tense whodunit with a sadistic ending. The library functions as a man trap, a place to identify promising candidates and lure them to the club meetings. The librarians, Sophie and Lola, are seductresses, but they are decked out in uniforms indicating their ranks like in an army. The library is a setting for other literary allusions, introduced through the inquiries of the male patrons. One man asks for Elfriede Jelinek’s The Piano Teacher, a novel that centers on a sexually and emotionally repressed piano teacher who attempts to engage in a sadomasochistic relationship with her student.25 Another man comes in looking for the book I Was C ­ olonel Schultz’s Private Bitch. As the title indicates, it belongs to the genre of “stalags”—­Nazi-­themed porn paperbacks ­popular in Israel in the 1960s. Many of their plots featured female SS officers involved in sadistic sexual relations with a male prisoner.26 ­These intertextual connections point to the nature of relationships between men and ­women in the world of the film. Other scenes evoke film noir or spy thrillers. The librarians’ dormitory, from which men are forbidden, is also dark and sterile. The only decorations in the rooms are trophies and portraits of Yankelova. Alone at night, Sophie surreptitiously looks through the slats of her blinds at Joseph, who is waiting outside in the torrential rain; he is shown at an extremely high ­angle. The outside light coming through the blinds throws ominous shades on the wall, like in film noir. Sophie knows that while Lola is watching her e­ very action, she w ­ ill not be able to let Joseph come inside. To outsmart her, Sophie rigs a periscope-­like contraption to spy on Lola through her win­dow. The camera shows Lola sitting at her desk with headphones and a tape recorder, looking like a Cold War-­era spy. In another spy-­movie-­heroine move, Sophie drugs Lola so she can sneak Joseph into the building.

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None of the settings in which ­these events unfold in Madame Yankelova looks remotely like Israel—­and yet the police uniforms and insignia are unmistakably Israeli. In a scene set at the police archives, a real-­life police logo with a Star of David, a symbol of the State of Israel, is displayed prominently. The language of the film—­like that of Agnon’s story—is Hebrew, but it functions differently than in the short story. According to Gershom Scholem, Agnon’s language is steeped in Jewish tradition.27 In the film, however, the use of Hebrew is simply a function of ­convenience: it was shot in Israel where the actors are Hebrew speakers. As Schenker explained to me, “Honestly, I could have made the same film in Spanish or ­English.”28 In Madam Yankelova, Hebrew is an accidental language, with no historical or cultural associations beyond references to Agnon’s story. Moreover, the film deliberately avoids any Jewish meanings, treating Agnon as “a universal writer” and his story as “a part of world lit­er­a­ture.”29 Joseph and his lover are also transformed in the film. Agnon’s Joseph is obtuse, naive, and passive, yet the story is told from his point of view. The narrator’s voice is male, and his tone is subtly misogynistic. The film’s Joseph has nothing in common with the obsequious Jewish peddler of the story. Schenker’s Joseph is a picture of virile masculinity, an embodiment of the “New Jew” idea to the point that this adaptation could well be called “The Ladies and the Sabra.”30 The transformation is brought about by changes not only in Joseph’s character but also in the number of female cannibals: a single female cannibal in the story becomes multiple female characters in the film. From the malevolent Razia to the loving Sophie, they function as Helen’s incarnations. Importantly, the film narrates the events from a ­woman’s point of view, with the camera letting us identify with Sophie. If Agnon’s story, as Grumberg observes, “upends the notions of femininity and masculinity,” the film goes even further.31 We do not know why Helen is consuming her husbands, nor why Sophie and other ­women join the murderous club. Although Schenker worked with each actor individually to find the personal motivations ­behind her character,32 their background stories are left ­ omen are vicuntold. Yet the film hints at an explanation for their actions: the w tims of male vio­lence or sexism, and they murder men to avenge their mistreat­ omen’s place, where ment. Their revenge takes place in the kitchen, a traditional w the men’s bodies are pro­cessed into hot dogs—­a macabre repackaging of their masculinity into tiny phallic objects. Paradoxically, to wreak their vengeance, the club members rely on the power of seduction. They reduce themselves to their sexual appeal, exactly as the men did. By internalizing and conforming to that s­ tereotype, they attain power, the very power that becomes oppressive and then literally blows them to pieces at ­ omen turn from perpetrators the end of the film. The men who had mistreated w into victims, although the film implies that they fall prey to their own attitudes ­toward ­women as much as to Madam Yankelova’s murderous cult. The only survivors of this cycle of brutality are Joseph and Sophie.

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Their love affair is also re­imagined. In the story, a major divide between Joseph and Helen is that he is Jewish and she is not. Helen dies b­ ecause she cannot ingest Jewish blood: she is so-­to-­say, “Jew-­intolerant.” Agnon’s Joseph, as Robert Alter points out, is in danger ­because he strayed from obedience to God’s law and from the community of Jews. What saves him is a return to Jewish prayer and turning away from Christian symbols.33 Schenker notes that he could have easily made Sophie gentile and Joseph Jewish in the film.34 But he deliberately walks away from this choice: in the film ­there is no division into Jews and non-­Jews. ­There is no god, be it Jewish or Christian, no prayer, and no religious law. E ­ ither every­one is Jewish, if the action takes place in Israel, or no one is, if it is set in an alternate real­ity. That constitutes a paradox at the heart of the film: it is based on a classic work of Hebrew lit­er­a­ture, yet it disavows Jewish references and meanings. If Agnon’s 1943 story, as Grumberg claims, subverts anti-­Jewish s­ tereotypes and holds up a dark mirror to ­European antisemitism, the 2017 Israeli film resonates differently. It ostensibly mediates the current zeitgeist characterized by a preoccupation with gender and with anxiety about gender relations and gender roles. But despite its disavowal of Israeli real­ity, it does not escape local politics. ­There is darkness in the film’s depiction of young Israeli men pro­cessed into meat, an industrial operation covered up by an agent of the state. It is particularly sinister that ­these men are chosen based on numerical m ­ easurements that invoke both Nazi eugenics and the profile system of IDF recruitment. Before being assigned to army units recruits’ cognitive and physical fitness are quantified as a profile number ranging from 21 to 99.35 High numbers are required for assignment to combat units, the only soldiers that are likely to be killed in action: ­these men may become “cannon fodder” or, in Hebrew, basar tutakhim (literally, cannon meat). Thus, despite the film’s Gothic aesthetics and ambiguous setting, the film is still tethered to the world of Israeli meanings. Although it looks entirely dif­fer­ent from other New Israeli Horror films (let alone realistic dramas), it nevertheless operates within the same discursive field. Like other New Israeli Horror films, Madam Yankelova is a harsh indictment of Israel’s culture of militarism and toxic masculinity. Where Agnon’s story holds up a mirror to E ­ uropean antisemitism, Madam Yankelova holds one up to the collective Israeli self. Reception. Initially, Madam Yankelova enjoyed a very positive reception. It was nominated for six Ophir Awards, ultimately winning for Best Makeup and Best Costume Design. This was a remarkable achievement for a first feature, especially one that was so unusual in Israeli cinema. In October 2017, Madam Yankelova started its festival run at the Haifa International Film Festival, continuing ­later to the Utopia festival in Tel Aviv and to other festivals in Israel and around the world. The very first review in Dread Central was encouraging,36 but the biggest splash came with its international premiere at Fantastic Fest, one of the largest genre festivals in the United States, where the film stood out even on a crowded

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marquee. Screen Anarchy praised the film for “the attractive gothic vibe,” “striking production design,” and sharp editing.37 RogerEbert​.­com declared, “What makes this Israeli offering such a standout is its sharply satirical humor that spins the wildest misconceptions about feminists into hilarious caricatures of humorless, prudish, man-­hating spinsters.”38 When the film went into l­ imited release in the United States several months l­ater, the Hollywood Reporter gave it a big endorsement and even predicted an American remake. It praised the film for effectively combining “ele­ments of horror, romance, dark comedy and drama” to make “insightful observations about female sexuality and aging.”39 The review in the Jewish Journal, one of the largest Jewish weeklies in the United States, stated, “This deliciously macabre Israeli fantasy is surprising, darkly funny and has a lot to say about gender politics, ­women’s roles, aging and class divide.”40 The Los Angeles Times was less enthused, finding Madam Yankelova “too elliptical, remote,” and lacking in detail about the characters. But even this review acknowledged the film’s “distinctive look and worthy antisexism aims.”41 When Madam Yankelova went into theatrical release in Israel, its all-­star cast guaranteed strong media interest. At the premiere in June 2018, Keren Mor served hot dogs as a nod to the film’s macabre humor. Many cameras clicked. But the reviews w ­ ere mixed. For Avner Shavit, Madam Yankelova was unpre­ce­dented in Israeli cinema, “succeeding to tell the story and to build its own world.” Despite a low ­budget it “looks like something from the big league.”42 Orr Sigoli of Globes agreed that it was a film unlike anything made before in Israel and admired “the contrasts between old and new, Israeli and foreign, familiar and mysterious.” His only criticism was that it did not go far enough with “diving fully into the dark places.”43 Benjamin Tovias of Yediot Aharonot praised the filmmakers for the cinematic concept and meticulous sets, as well as for engaging with Agnon’s classic. Although, for this reviewer, the film was missing “an emotional punch,” he liked the way it mixed “foreign horror legends” with “Hebrew lit­er­a­ture and Jewish culture.”44 Other critics acknowledged the film’s style but took issue with its treatment of Agnon and its departure from the Israeli realistic tradition. Shmulik Duvdevani of Yediot Aharonot praised Madam Yankelova as exceptional in Israeli cinema, both in its aesthetics and its ability to build a world. Yet, he was troubled that the film used Agnon’s text solely as “a platform for stylized entertainment,” resulting in a film that was “very hollow, even if certainly enjoyable.” The main prob­lem for him was a lack of engagement with local issues, such as the theme of victimhood in Israeli masculinity, which was typical of Israeli films.45 Essentially, Duvdevani criticized the film’s artistic vision, its focus on w ­ omen, and its refusal to fall in line with Israel’s thematic approach to filmmaking, the very ­things that Schenker set out to do and that other critics admired. Tomer Kamerling of the Mako portal felt similarly: the film’s main flaw was that it did not raise any issues or serve as an allegory. Although he was supportive of Madam Yankelova’s attempt at fantasy presenting new aesthetics on Israeli screens, he found it to be

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“a convoluted and humorless movie that relies too heavi­ly on its impressive design,” making the film “a wrong step in the right direction.”46 Other detractors took similar positions. Meir Schnitzer of Maariv called it “a failed Israeli attempt to create a fantasy movie.” He was particularly displeased with the film’s interpretation of Agnon’s story that dared to step away from “the dynamics of the Holocaust or the assimilation inherent in modern Judaism.”47 The assumption under­lying this critique was the superiority of realistic cinema and hence conventional adaptations of Hebrew classics. Uri Klein of Haaretz, often a supporter of genre experimentation, described Madam Yankelova as “a bizarre and puzzling attempt to create a comic horror fairy tale.” He was equally disappointed by the film’s approach to its Agnon source material, which avoided engagement with Jewish and Israeli culture.48 Yael Shuv of Time Out had a dif­ fer­ent concern, caused by her misreading the film’s satire of gender relations as chauvinism. She characterized Madam Yankelova as “a film about pathetic ­women who have internalized the male-­chauvinist point of view on them, and define themselves and their value as ­human beings solely on the basis of it.”49 Following the flurry of reviews and other media coverage, about twelve thousand Israelis saw Madam Yankelova in the movie theaters, making it a moderately ­popular movie in a local market. As usual with genre films, many more ­people saw it online. In the United States, the film is streaming on several platforms. Schenker is planning his new film, M ­ other Must Die, a dark fantasy and ­ nglish. female-­driven melodrama, which he hopes to make in E

The Golem Stories of the golem, a magically crafted human-­shaped creature, originated in medieval Jewish sources. Since then, the legend, like the golem itself, has been transformed in dif­fer­ent ways with dif­fer­ent agendas: the golem’s body has been made from clay, wood, earth, or, in con­temporary versions, from metal and plastic (Gershom Scholem named the first Israeli computer Golem Aleph).50 In some stories it is human-­sized; in ­others, the golem grows enormously or is a ­giant from the start. Some golems appear mute and zombie-­like; ­others are more sentient, endowed with a gift of speech and even self-­reflection. Some golems are created as a metaphysical exercise with no practical purpose; o­ thers are fashioned as servants, protectors, or even lovers.51 In most versions, both the golems and their creators are male, with golems depicted as strongmen and their creators as wise rabbis. In the most famous iteration of the legend, the Rabbi Judah Loew of Prague, also known as the Maharal, fashions a golem out of clay to protect the Jewish community in times of danger. But ­things get out of hand, and the golem becomes violent and needs to be destroyed. This version was codified in early twentieth-­century Eastern E ­ urope, conveying, despite its historical setting, distinctly modern Jewish concerns from antisemitic persecution to self-­defense.52 In ­later iterations, ­whether written from Jewish or non-­Jewish perspectives, the

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golem story acquires new meanings, ranging from a ­metaphor of the relationship between the artist and their creation to a cautionary tale of artificial intelligence. ­These changing meanings reveal, as Ma­ya Barzilai argues, the cultural preoccupations at a given moment. However, ever since World War I, the vio­ lence of war emerged as the most pervasive meaning of the golem across varied cultural contexts.53 The Golem (2018) by Yoav and Doron Paz is the most recent Israeli adaptation of the famous legend: like Madam Yankelova, it is a radical adaptation. Although set in an imaginary East ­European Jewish past, the film uses the best-­known version of the legend as a launching pad to tell a very dif­fer­ent story. The Making Of. Despite its roots in the rich Jewish my­thol­ogy, the film did not originate with a high concept. Like a golem itself, it emerged to reflect its creators’ specific preoccupations. What started the ­whole enterprise was a meeting between the Paz ­brothers and a team of a writer-­director Ariel Cohen and producer Shalom Eisenbach. Both Cohen and Eisenbach are unusual characters in the Israeli filmmaking community. Coming from religious families, they specialize in making films for ultra-­Orthodox ­women, a unique segment of the market in Israel. ­These films are shot with an all-­female cast and are circulated through special screenings for female-­only audiences, held in accordance with religious prohibitions.54 Cohen and Eisenbach worked out a winning formula for making ­these films: they are melodramas with emotionally overwrought plots set in Jewish milieus. They are shot quickly on location in post-­communist Eastern E ­ urope, often repurposing preexisting sets. This allows them to cut costs and to rely on exotic locales to keep their audiences interested. Some of their productions have been so successful that they have crossed over to the general public, playing in regular movie theaters in Israel, as was the case with Takeh Mameh (2012). Through their work in Ukraine, Cohen and Eisenbach found an impressive set of a historical village, yet with the facilities of a modern studio, in the town of Nizhylovychi outside Kiev. It was originally built for a 270-­episode R ­ ussian period telenovela.55 But since the start of the Russian-­Ukrainian war in 2014, fewer and fewer productions w ­ ere shot ­there, and the prices dropped. The opportunity was too good to pass up, so Cohen and Eisenbach de­cided to make a film ­there. They thought that the sets would be perfect for a period Jewish horror film, like a tale of a dybbuk or a golem.56 This is why they reached out to the Paz ­brothers and invited them to tour the facilities in Ukraine. “We flew to Kiev, they gave us a tour of studios and locations, and our jaw dropped,” recalls Yoav Paz, “We saw what we can get ­there for an ­independent production.”57 Paz b­ rothers formed a partnership with Cohen and Eisenbach, and the four pitched in equally for a b­ udget of one million NIS (around $300,000), without even trying to apply for public funding in Israel. Epic Pictures, a U.S.-­based horror production and distribution group that had backed JeruZalem, came on board at the post-­production stage,

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bringing the total b­ udget to about $500,000: this was a relatively high ­budget for an Israeli horror film but still a miniscule one for a period feature. This collaboration between Cohen and Eisenbach and the Paz ­brothers was unusual: it was a match between entrepreneurs who specialized in a segment of the narrow ultra-­Orthodox Jewish market and horror filmmakers with clear ambitions to make films with universal appeal across international markets. But ­independent productions make strange bedfellows, and the resulting film reflected the strengths of all the partners. Cohen and Eisenbach brought not only their experience of production in Ukraine but also an understanding of Jewish tradition and a focus on a female heroine. The Paz b­ rothers contributed their passion for and knowledge of genre films, as well as their international ambitions. They settled on the golem legend. “­There ­hasn’t been a major golem film for nearly hundred years; it was about time,”58 noted Yoav Paz, referring to the iconic Weimar-­era film, The Golem, How He Came into the World (Der Golem, Wie Er in Die Welt Kam, 1920, Paul Wegener).59 “Golem is a brand,” added Ariel Cohen proudly.60 With the golem legend as the basis for the film, the filmmakers made a commitment to tell a par­tic­u­lar Jewish story. But they also made sure to tell it in ­English, the language that audiences worldwide would understand. The Paz ­brothers learned two ­things from working on JeruZalem. First, horror appeals to a worldwide audience. Second, their strength is giving universal horror tropes a culturally specific inflection; in their case, Jewish mysticism and my­thol­ogy.61 In terms of the horror subgenres, The Golem is a monster movie. But it is difficult to classify ­because the filmmakers draw on such a wide range of influences. Based on a Jewish legend and set in the past, The Golem combines folk horror with heritage film. It also features ele­ments of the Western, fantasy, classic horror tropes, and religious iconography. In just eight months, the filmmakers went from the initial idea to shooting.62 During this period, Ariel Cohen wrote the script, and the Paz b­ rothers, who ­were in constant dialogue with Cohen, flew back and forth to the location and worked on preproduction. In August 2017 the entire team gathered in Ukraine. Most of the cast and crew w ­ ere Ukrainian. The Paz ­brothers brought with them from Israel only a few actors and crew members. They included two well-­known Israeli actors: Hani Furstenberg (The Loneliest Planet, 2011, dir. Julia Loktev; Campfire [Medurat Ha-­shevet], 2004, dir. Joseph Cedar) and Ishay Golan (Prisoners of War [Hatufilm], 2009–2012, Keshet Group), who w ­ ere cast in the lead roles. Both are native ­English speakers with international credits to their name. The key Israeli crew members ­were cinematographer Rotem Yaron, who shot JeruZalem, and assistant director Roman Kruter, who had worked on the Israeli horror proj­ects Anthrax and The Damned. Kruter, who is Russian-­Israeli, was supposed to help bridge cultural and linguistic differences with the local staff. (­Russian and Ukrainian are mutually intelligible, and many ­people in Ukraine then still spoke ­Russian.)

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The Paz ­brothers ­were impressed with the local crew’s professionalism and discipline, but collaboration was challenging due both to dif­fer­ent languages and work cultures. “In Israel,” the b­ rothers said, “we can delegate some decisions to crew members like the art director or makeup ­people. In Ukraine, ­people expected us to be specific about ­every aspect of the film already at the preproduction stage.”63 Coming from the Israeli improvisational culture, the filmmakers ­were exasperated by the need for such precise planning. But as a payoff, the production went smoothly. They shot The Golem in six weeks (with a day of reshoots a year ­later). The ­brothers remember the time fondly: for two months the crew and cast stayed on location, removed from their busy lives. With no fam­ ere uniquely focused on their work: “It was ilies and other obligations, they w work twenty-­four hours a day, no rush, no distractions, complete immersion.”64 The Golem: Not Quite Averted. As is common in horror films, The Golem starts with a prologue set in the past. The scene opens inside the old synagogue in Prague, where an enormous golem murders its creator Rabbi Loew. The rabbi’s head explodes, and the blood splashes on a stained-­glass win­dow. The camera cuts to a young girl watching the scene in horror. She picks up a shard of glass, ready to kill the monster and succeeding presumably where the old rabbi failed. The screen fades to black, and the title announces “The Golem.” This prologue nods to the best-­known version of the golem legend but also indicates a departure from it: in this version, a young girl defeats the monster. In contrast to familiar cinematic monsters, the golem is sourced from Judaic arcana—­from “the darkest depth of the Kabbala,” as the voiceover explains. As in JeruZalem, the Paz b­ rothers Judaize the horror monster by drawing on Jewish my­thol­ogy and folklore. Despite this similarity, The Golem does not follow the strategy of conversion. Rather, like the other films discussed in this chapter, it sets out to eschew Israeli real­ity. With its ­English dialogue and Eastern ­European setting, it aims to be a universal film, rather than a specifically Israeli one. The story’s Judaic sources function as ethnic flavor, making the film exotic and in­ter­est­ing to international audiences in the same way as other “ethnic” horror films draw on their folk cultures (e.g., trolls in Norwegian film or djinns in Turkish).65 At the same time, like Madam Yankelova, The Golem is not a perfect application of the aversion strategy: it ends up “disclosing” its Israeli sensibility despite itself. The main action unfolds in 1673 in Lithuania, a few ­decades ­after the prologue. Even though the film specifies both the time and the place, it depicts an imaginary past, devoid of specific historical, cultural, or geo­graph­i­cal signifiers. In fact, the filmmakers acknowledge that they purposefully tried to create a universal setting. They chose to set it in Lithuania ­because they thought most ­people did not know much about the area or its history.66 Yet the past they create is not universal—it is a Jewish imaginary past. The main setting is a shtetl—­a Jewish village—­where Hannah (Hani Furstenberg) and her husband Benjamin

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(Ishai Golan) are part of a tightly knit community where life revolves around religion and ­family. The Jewish community is portrayed as mythical and primordial, living in harmony with nature. The rituals shown in the movie—­immersion in a mikvah, a wedding ceremony—­not only move the narrative forward but also function as set pieces that give the film a sense of both authenticity and exoticism. In its pursuit of exotic details, the script even invents Jewish ritual, such as a blessing said before engaging in sex. In this reliance on “domestic cultural traditions as marks of authenticity,” The Golem taps into the tradition of so-­called heritage films.67 Such films, according to Lutz Koepnick, “reinvent the national past with the help of an excessive accumulation of visual and sonic signifiers.” They provide “what foreign tourists expect to see when traveling to exotic locales: the ­pleasure of uncontaminated and perennial locality.”68 Curiously, the “exotic locale” in The Golem is modeled on the American Jewish imaginary past, pop­u­lar­ized by the films Fiddler on the Roof (1971, Norman Jewison) and Yentl (1983, Barbra Strei­sand). The idyllic shtetl scenes, with men studying in a synagogue and ­women immersed in domestic chores, might as well play to the tune of the iconic “Tradition!” The only exception from this idyll is Hannah, who, like Yentl, has been secretly studying sacred books. Notably, this imaginary Jewish past exists outside of time. Even though The Golem is set in seventeenth-­century Lithuania, its props, costumes, and sets are not culturally and historically au­then­tic. For instance, oil lamps (in­ven­ted only in the nineteenth ­century) and violins (which became an iconic Jewish instrument in the nineteenth ­century) channel an imaginary past familiar to us from Fiddler and Yentl, rather than ­actual period details. As Andrew Higson points out, in heritage films, “the reference point is not the past itself, but other images, other texts.”69 The landscape also plays a role. With its wooden huts, green pastures, and long-­lasting sunsets, The Golem creates what Higson calls “heritage space”— “a space for the display of heritage properties rather than for the enactment of dramas.”70 The heritage space of The Golem is the idealized shtetl of the American Jewish imagination.71 In some ways this repre­sen­ta­tion is a testimony to the lasting influence of films like Fiddler and Yentl, but mainly it is due to the absence of an Israeli model. Following a decades-­old Zionist repudiation of the diaspora, Israeli cinema stayed away from the shtetl: t­ here is no Israeli Fiddler on the Roof. Or rather, ­there was—­the 1968 Israeli-­German co-production, Tevye and His D ­ aughters (Tuvia ve-­bnotav, dir. Menahem Golan)—­but it is thoroughly forgotten in Israel ­today. ­Popular repre­sen­ta­tions of the Jewish past also inform The Golem’s portrayal of non-­Jewish Lithuanians: t­ here is nothing particularly Lithuanian about them. They are depicted as big, violent men invading a peaceful community—an archetype of the antisemite in the Jewish ­popular imagination. Their leader Vladimir has an iconic ­Russian name (the Lithuanian form would be Valdemaras) and speaks with a heavy Slavic accent, evoking repre­sen­ta­tions of pogroms in the

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late R ­ ussian Empire. Tapping into another trope, Vladimir and his men accuse the Jews of causing the epidemic that is plaguing their community in the same way in which Jews ­were accused of spreading the Black Death in medieval ­Europe. The film’s iconography also draws on other eclectic sources, creating a cultural and chronological pastiche. The Lithuanian invaders arrive in plague doctor masks, which make them look like the bird-­like figures in Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings. Vladimir marches ahead of his followers while cradling his sick ­daughter Pieta-­style, giving the scene unmistakable Christian associations. When the Lithuanians invade the shtetl, the dramatic tension ramps up. To portray this confrontation, the film uses the visual language of a Western. The Jews and Vladimir’s men appear in wide group shots, pitted against each other like settlers and desperados. But tensions rise within the Jewish community too. For the older generation, the only weapon is prayer, whereas the youn­ger generation prefers ­actual weapons. It is the el­derly rabbi (Lenny Ravitz) who first leads the men of the shtetl against the invaders, but their ­resistance is purely spiritual. Wrapped in white prayer shawls and armed only with prayer books, the Jews advance t­ oward Vladimir’s men, who are sitting around a campfire like cowboys. Their protest has no effect. Benjamin, the rabbi’s son, is exasperated by the older men, and he and his friends plan a real attack. As they are about to set out, the rabbi tells Benjamin, “It’s not our way, son.” “It is now,” Benjamin replies. A fight in which the Jews are clearly outmatched follows. But when a burly Lithuanian is about to deliver a lethal blow to a Jewish man, Benjamin raises a gun and shoots the invader. The camera shows him in a wide shot with the entire village ­behind him, conferring on him the status of a hero—­a man who stands up for himself and his p­ eople. It is not by chance that the film draws on the Western in its characterization of Benjamin and his friends: Rotem Yaron recalls that they w ­ ere ­going for a “Jewish Western.”72 Both Zionist ideology and Westerns are preoccupied with masculinity. As a genre, the Western serves, in the words of Elisa Bordin, as “a privileged space for the depiction of masculinity” that often confirms the traditional ideas of manhood.73 The proj­ect of creating a “New Jew,” the transformation of a diasporic weakling into a rugged Hebrew man, is a cornerstone of Zionist ideology that has enduring power even in ­today’s Israel. This shared preoccupation enabled ­earlier Israeli films to use ele­ments of the Western to create Zionist heroes standing up to a hostile environment and e­ nemy forces.74 Benjamin’s manhood can be seen in terms of both the Western code and Zionist ideology: he is both a defiant Western hero and a “New Jew” of the Zionist ­political agenda. This portrayal in The Golem straddles the universal and the par­tic­u­lar, with the Western serving as a universal frame of reference and Zionist ideological meanings working to “disclose” the film’s Israeli sensibility. Opposition to the rabbi also comes from Benjamin’s wife Hannah, who proposes creating a golem to fight the invaders. When she meets no support from the community leaders, she decides to act alone. Working u­ nder the cover of

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night, she molds the golem out of soil and inserts into it the sacred scroll that ­will give it life. As mentioned ­earlier, the golem story is clearly gendered, with ­ omen are left out, only men traditionally afforded the ability to create golems. W presumably ­because they have not had access to the Kabbalah. But even in more recent interpretations, female golem creators are rare.75 In film, the first time a ­woman takes the lead is in 1936’s Le Golem (dir. Julien Duvuvier, Czech­o­slo­vak­i­a/ ­ oman animates the Maharal’s golem. She is not eduFrance), where a young w cated; her rabbi husband taught her how to create a golem.76 ­Decades l­ater, a female golem creator appeared on American t­ elevision. In a “Kaddish” episode of the hit series The X-­Files (1997, Fox), a young Hassidic ­woman, Ariel, conjures a golem in response to her fiancé’s murder.77 Despite her patriarchal milieu, Ariel has the agency and know-­how to create the golem. Hannah follows in their footsteps, but The Golem goes much further in making a ­woman the chief protagonist and prioritizing her point of view. The scene of Hannah’s golem creation is reminiscent of the episode of The X-­Files. Like Ariel, Hannah has enough knowledge to create a golem on her own. Both work in secrecy, molding the golem’s body at night. In both cases, dramatic lighting and ­music cue us to the momentous and super­natural nature of the event. Both golems are ­shaped by their creators’ trauma. Ariel is grieving her murdered fiancé, and her golem looks like him; Hannah’s golem looks like a young boy, the spitting image of her late son. The golem’s portrayal as a fragile young boy departs from the traditional depiction of a golem as a hulk and feminizes the story by introducing the motif of motherhood. The ­mother–­child bond replaces the relationship between a golem and his master in more traditional versions of the story. Indeed, Hannah treats the golem like a child. She even calls him by her son’s name, Joseph. Her golem, like her son, is a part of her. A fierce connection develops between them, as she looks into his unblinking black eyes. Their intense bond is reminiscent of other m ­ other–­child dyads in super­natural horror films, such as The ­Others (2001, Alejandro Amenábar) and The Babadook (2014, Jennifer Kent). Like ­these films, The Golem thematizes grief ’s destructive power when it depicts Hannah’s monstrous creation as an externalized expression of her trauma. Repressed for seven long years since her son’s death, her grief is actualized in the figure of the golem—­a ­silent child, whose vio­lence can burst through like Hannah’s pent-up feelings. This new, artificial motherhood emboldens Hannah; with the golem by her side, she is invincible. When the golem appears, the film takes a turn to other horror subgenres, ­ ere as a work that uses “folklore, e­ ither particularly folk horror, understood h aesthetically or thematically, to imbue itself with a sense of the arcane for eerie, uncanny or horrific purposes.”78 The Golem is particularly indebted to The Witch (2015, Robert Eggers) and The Village (2004, M. Night Shyamalan). Both films feature period settings, atmospheric detail, and natu­ral environments. In both, the life of an isolated community is disrupted by mysterious, malicious beings.

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The action often takes place at night, lit only by fire, candles, or oil lamps; the dramatic lighting gives the scenes an otherworldly intensity. The tension builds gradually, with the monsters not seen but implied. ­There are no jump-­scares. The Golem channels the atmosphere of ­these films through its use of cinematography and mise-­en-­scène. Even the figure of the golem and its appearance—­a naked boy who is covered in mud—is modeled on Caleb, a young boy possessed by an evil force in The Witch. Despite its slow burn and an absence of jump-­scares, the vio­lence in The Golem is graphic and spectacular, in line with con­temporary horror trends. Its main source is the golem, not the invaders. Despite his small stature, he possesses superhuman strength and enormous destructive power. He can make ­human heads explode remotely, like the ­giant golem of the prologue or like Darryl Revok in Scanners (1981, David Cronenberg). His powers are revealed whenever he feels compelled to protect Hannah, his creator and surrogate m ­ other. The first outburst of vio­lence takes place even before we meet him. When three gentile strongmen catch Hannah in the woods and try to lynch her, an invisible force eviscerates them. In a series of rapid cuts, one is smashed into a tree, and the two ­others are ripped apart, blood and limbs flying everywhere. The camera slows down when Hannah comes to her senses on the ground. It then pulls back rapidly to reveal the strewn body parts of her attackers and the small figure of the golem, shot from ­behind. Throughout the scene, the picture is blurred and distorted, giving it a hallucinogenic quality, as if seen from the golem’s point of view. With its distinct mise-­en-­scène, cinematography, and choreography, the repre­sen­ta­ tion of vio­lence ­here is modeled on the scene of Shadow’s lynching in the first season of the fantasy drama series American Gods (2017, Starz).79 Like Hannah in The Golem, Shadow is saved by his undead wife Laura Moon, who eviscerates the attackers. Like the golem, Laura looks frail and harmless yet possesses super­ natural power. But the golem does more than just protect Hannah: he becomes her id, an embodiment of her fears and desires that is out of her control or awareness. When Hannah grows jealous of her husband, the golem kills the rival ­woman. From ­there, ­things unravel, and the wise ­woman of the shtetl Perla (Brynie Furstenberg), whom we recognize as the girl from the opening scene now grown up, warns Hannah against the danger inherent in the golem.80 But Hannah cannot let go of her surrogate son. Even ­after the golem murders Perla, Hannah refuses to destroy him. With that murder, the golem has turned against the very community it was created to protect. In the face of this danger, Benjamin, the new Jew, turns to his ­father, the rabbi, for help. The new methods—­g uns and newfound masculinity, both signaling Zionist ideology—do not work against the inchoate power of the golem, a monster that, unlike gentile outsiders, came from within Judaism. The rabbi then resorts to his own methods. “­We’ll destroy the golem with Pulsa De-­nura,” he promises Benjamin, referring to a mystical curse ritual.

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The scene of Pulsa De-­nura, perhaps unexpectedly, discloses the film’s Israeli sensibility. It opens with the rabbi gathering a minyan, a quorum of ten Jewish men, to conduct the ritual that cinematically evokes exorcism. Filmed in slow motion, the men, draped in white prayer shawls, enter a candlelit synagogue. To lure the golem into the synagogue, Benjamin plays the violin, making the creature follow despite his w ­ ill, like the c­ hildren in the tale of the Pied P ­ iper of Hamelin.81 The violin, the iconic Jewish instrument, is the golem’s weakness. The golem looks like an ordinary child—he even holds a doll—­but his hand-­stitched tan tunic alludes to Frankenstein’s monster. As he hears the rabbi’s incantations, he shudders in pain and his hands start shedding sand. In the intercut shots, Hannah writhes in pain, feeling his suffering. The men’s voices rise as they hold candles to the open ark with the Torah. The rabbi blows the shofar, a ritual instrument, and the score rises to a crescendo. With its atmospheric lighting, cryptic incantations, and mystical ceremony, the Pulsa De-­nura scene appears to be an au­then­tic depiction of a Jewish ritual. But according to Zion Zohar, such a ritual is mentioned neither in Talmudic nor Kabbalistic sources; instead it can be traced to the time of the 1994 murder of then-­prime minister Yitzhak Rabin, when a group of extremists reportedly invoked Pulsa De-­nura against him prior to his assassination.82 The event was widely covered in Israeli media, establishing the concept of Pulsa De-­nura in the Israeli ­popular imagination: a death curse, enacted by a quorum of Jewish men, who recite an incantation while burning candles in front of an open ark at night. The ritual concludes with a blow of the shofar. Despite being widely reported, Pulsa De-­nura is not a historical Jewish ritual.83 But for the Israeli filmmakers—­and audiences—­the ritual is a part of their recent ­political history. By invoking Pulsa De-­nura, the film draws on an Israeli cultural reference.84 The Pulsa De-­nura scene is intercut with an attack on the shtetl. Vladimir, distraught by the death of his d­ aughter from the plague, leads his men on a rampage. The scene of the attack has unmistakable visual references to pogroms and the Holocaust. Lit only by their torches, the men enter the shtetl on galloping ­horses, which rear up in a shot whose composition invokes the Four Horse­ men of the Apocalypse. We see them from Hannah’s point of view, riding, setting fires, and killing innocents. Vladimir’s men can be read as Cossacks or Nazis—­ pogromizing Jews for crimes they did not commit. When Vladimir knocks Hannah off her feet and she succumbs in slow motion, the camera cuts to the golem who also falls to his knees. But feeling the existential threat to her, he rises, and, like the golem in the prologue, kills the rabbi so he can escape and protect Hannah. In the most spectacular scene of Jewish death, he spears the rabbi with the shofar, with blood fountains erupting in slow motion. The end of the scene intertwines horror tropes and Holocaust references. When the camera cuts to Vladimir, he is framed like a killer in a slasher movie, dragging an axe on the ground. But before he has a chance to kill Hannah, the golem rips out his heart. The golem now looks inhuman, his eyes blank. He goes

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on a rampage, first eviscerating the invaders and then killing indiscriminately. His hand, which he has used to rip the hearts out of Jewish victims, is shown in a close-up, dripping with blood like in a slasher. The ­little golem turned out to be more destructive than even the pogromists. At the end, the camera surveys a shtetl that looks now like a killing field, with corpses strewn on the ground among the fires. That scene reinforces the visual reference to the Holocaust, functioning as another instance when the film “discloses” its Israeli sensibility. In Israel, Holocaust history and memory are the cornerstone of national culture and part and parcel of its “civil religion.”85 The memory of the Holocaust and antisemitic persecution is often cited as Israel’s raison d’etre and as justification for its acts of aggression.86 Ultimately, Hannah must destroy the golem. But in contrast to the rabbi’s ritual, Hannah’s approach is tender and motherly. In the ­middle of smoldering ruins, she kisses the golem and pulls out of his mouth the tiny scroll that animates him. The golem turns to dust in her embrace, but the story is not ­ other was killed by the golem over. In the final scene, a young girl, whose m ­earlier, picks up the scroll from the dirt. This ending signals that the cycle of vio­lence is ongoing. Significantly, it is the l­ittle Jewish girl, the ultimate victim, who holds in her hand the promise of f­ uture retribution (and a possibility of a sequel). With that ending, The Golem makes its final and most significant disclosure of its Israeli sensibility. Like the golem in the film, Israel was created out of necessity in the shadow of the Holocaust. It came into existence from trauma and loss, to serve as a protector tasked to ensure that Jews ­will not be victimized again. And yet, this original vulnerability has not become a guarantee of justice. The golem’s destructive power turns against the very p­ eople it was supposed to protect. As long as the ­little traumatized girl picks up the scroll, the vio­lence ­will continue. Our Golems, Ourselves. According to Ma­ya Barzilai, in early Zionist culture, the golem myth was not ­popular ­because of its associations with diasporic Jewish culture.87 To the degree to which the golem was invoked in the Yishuv ­ etaphor for the (the Jewish settlement in Palestine) and early Israel, it was as a m nation’s enemies—be they Nazis or Arabs—­who ­were to be defeated like a clay monster. But increasingly, Israeli writers and artists turned to the golem to tell a story of the trauma of war.88 Authors such as S. Y. Agnon, Yoram Kaniuk, and Dani Horo­witz used the golem story “to depict the individual and collective price of war and excessive brutality.”89 More recently, the story was used to satirize Israel’s militarism. In Ha-­golem, a graphic novel by Eli Eshed and Uri Fink, the golem appears as a kind of Israeli superhero fighting in Israel’s wars.90 Its creation starts as “the model of Zionist manhood”91 but ends up as “an aggressive brand of Jewish nationalism.”92 ­These repre­sen­ta­tions show that some Israeli authors recognize “the degree to which Israel has become a fortified state, a massive golem resurrected to protect the Jewish population in the ­Middle East

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but threatening to wreak havoc on its own population.”93 The Golem clearly continues ­these themes and develops them further. The Golem opens with the depiction of a reified past, in which the Jewish community was primordial and pure; this depiction is characteristic of relatively conservative heritage films. However, in response to an existential threat, this idyllic community produces a golem—­a monster whose disproportionate vio­ lence ends up destroying not only its enemies but also the community itself. In that, The Golem, like other New Israeli Horror films, dramatizes vio­lence turned inward. Monsters in t­ hese films, be they zombies, serial killers, or demons, come from within the body of the Israeli Jewish nation and attack it from the inside. In that sense, despite its affinity with heritage films and its seemingly apo­liti­cal story, The Golem ends up conveying a critical message about Israeli society. The influence of folk horror films on The Golem also plays an impor­tant part in this critical reading. According to Adam Scovell, folk horror treats the past as a source of trauma, “a trauma reflecting on the everyday of when ­these films in par­tic­u ­lar ­were made, especially when bringing past ele­ments to sit with uncomfortable ease within the then-­present day.”94 In The Golem, the past is ­shaped by a cycle of trauma and vio­lence. Hannah creates the golem as a form of Jewish self-­defense, but he is also an embodiment of her late son—­and a way to channel her trauma. As in the more traditional versions of the legend, her golem symbolizes both collective Jewish power and the vio­lence it unleashes. However, in the film, this collective trauma is intimately connected to her individual loss. Collective and individual trauma feed into each other to result in a repetitive cycle of trauma—­from Perla, to Hannah, to a young girl picking up the scroll at the end. The theme of collective and individual traumas and their relationship to the vio­lence of war runs deep in Israeli culture, where the entire society could be diagnosed with this condition. Reception. In August 2018, less than a year a­ fter the shoot, The Golem started its genre festival run. It premiered at the FrightFest in London, followed soon by the Busan International Film Festival in South ­Korea, Morbido Film Festival in Mexico, Panic Fest in the United States, Sitges in Spain, and dozens of other festivals all over the world. The initial reviews ­were encouraging, but they appeared only on horror blogs, not in major media outlets.95 In December 2018, The Golem had its Israeli premiere at the Utopia festival, which was soon followed by its theatrical release. The critics agreed that The Golem was somewhat uneven, but they praised the film’s high production values and impressive cinematography, as well as its creative reinterpretation of Jewish my­thol­ogy and its focus on a strong female character.96 Most reviewers complained that The Golem was not frightening enough. Hannah Brown of the Jerusalem Post thought the film missed the target by being “too focused on Jewish historical realities to appeal to hard-­core horror fans, and too bloody to entice typical viewers of serious period dramas.”97 This reaction hints that the film was

176 • Aversion

not perceived as having mass appeal. Indeed, compared to e­ arlier New Israeli Horror films, The Golem did not get wide coverage. Still, in a rare recognition for a horror film, The Golem was nominated for three Ophir Awards—­Best Actress, Best Cinematography, and Best Sound—­ but did not win any. As its critical reception suggested, The Golem did not become a box office hit in Israel, with only six thousand tickets sold.98 But that hardly mattered b­ ecause the film flourished in numerous international markets. The Golem was the first release of Dread Pre­sents (­later known as Dread), a partnership of Epic Pictures Group and the website Dread Central. Naturally, the website took the lead in the film’s promotion: “Critics and audiences alike have been enamored by the gorgeous production value and the intense and visceral horror, a match made in horror heaven,” wrote Jonathan Barkan.99 ­Independent reviewers ­were equally enthusiastic. Following a l­ imited theatrical release in the United States, the Los Angeles Times called The Golem “a well-­crafted and idiosyncratic super­natural thriller,” unfolding against a “rich, realistic background.”100 The Hollywood Reporter praised The Golem for “its approach to the source material (a close cousin to the Frankenstein tale)” that was “emotionally and intellectually sincere.”101 By the end of the year, The Golem was among Rotten Tomatoes’ ten Best Horror Movies of 2019 and was among the most-­ watched films on Netflix. Rotten Tomatoes summed up the critics’ consensus: “A chillingly effective horror story rooted in rich folklore, The Golem blends centuries-­old stories with timely themes to power­ful effect.”102 The strategy of aversion paid off: the film had universal appeal.

​Coda Is ­There I-­Horror? This book is about a cycle of films I call New Israeli Horror, which belong both to the tradition of international horror films and to Israeli cinema. This book is also about broader questions of the global and the local in film. To address t­ hese questions, I developed a model of adaptation based on the way global film tropes interact with local cultural signifiers. I distinguish between four pos­si­ble strategies of adaptation, which I call conversion, subversion, aversion, and inversion. This adaptation model allows us to see the pattern of so-­called glocalization, the simultaneous universalizing and particularizing forces in con­temporary cultural production, which I hope can be useful beyond New Israeli Horror.1 New Israeli Horror films prioritize the strategy of conversion, rely less often on subversion and aversion, and, to date, have not used the strategy of inversion. This pattern shows that ­these films are profoundly influenced by international genre cinema. But they also reflect a par­tic­u­lar Israeli cinematic tradition, with its ­political issues, paradigmatic settings, and wide-­ranging influences from ­European art cinema to Hollywood.2 In some ways, the New Israeli Horror filmmakers are the heirs of Golan and Globus of Cannon Films. They are hungry for ­popular audiences and international success, ready to move operations abroad, and rely on private financing (or at times, no financing at all). In the context of Israeli cinema, New Israeli Horror is thus a product of both rupture and continuity. But what is the place of New Israeli Horror within the global horror tradition? In other words, is ­there an I-­horror, a new national horror subgenre akin to K-­Horror or J-­Horror?3 This remains to be seen. The ­future of New Israeli Horror ­will depend on several ­factors, ranging from institutional support to the vagaries of ­popular success. 177

178 • New Israeli Horror

On the most basic level, we need to see w ­ hether Israeli filmmakers w ­ ill continue making horror films in the years to come. New Israeli Horror emerged in the late 2000s and was flourishing by the 2010s, when Israeli filmmakers produced at least a dozen horror features and hundreds of shorts. ­These films ­were featured at the Utopia festival and circulated the globe at other horror and fantasy film festivals. It seemed that a revolution or at least an enormous transformation was in the air and that Israeli cinema was about to embrace nonrealistic genres. But, according to Uri Aviv, director of Utopia festival, “The miracle ­hasn’t happened.”4 The New Israeli Horror films ­were made by a new generation of filmmakers mostly first-­time directors, working guerilla style with micro-­budgets and no institutional support. Each hoped their sacrifices would pay off and that their next proj­ects would receive proper financing and recognition. Th ­ ese hopes ­were fulfilled only partially. The institutions of public funding—­the main precondition for making films in Israel—­have not embraced genre films w ­ holeheartedly. Nor did Israeli audiences become horror fans, at least not to the extent necessary to sustain an industry. None of the horror feature films became box office hits in Israel. As time went on, the filmmakers themselves got older, settled down, had families, and took on day jobs, so guerilla-­style production was no longer feasible for them. By the end of the d­ ecade, the outpouring of local horror dried to a trickle: in contrast to ­earlier years, fewer feature films opened at Utopia. But this decline is not necessarily a death sentence. The large number of films in the 2010s was a result of a pent-up desire felt by young filmmakers. This period of explosive interest was followed by what I would call “genre normalization.” By 2018, not only die-­hard horror adherents made horror films but also filmmakers like Evgeny Ruman and screenwriters Ayelet Gundar-­Goshen, Yoav Shutan-­Goshen, and Irad Rubinstain, who did not have inherent interest in the genre. Horror was pop­u­lar­ized on ­television, with the success of Juda (HOT, 2017–2020) starring a famous comic, Tzion Baruch, as a Jewish vampire, and The Malevolent Bride (Malakh Meshikhit, Kan 11, 2023), a Jewish possession story set in an ultra-­ Orthodox milieu.5 The nature of the films also evolved. The first New Israeli Horror films w ­ ere comedies or satires. Humor not only tapped into the global trend of horror comedies but also made horror less threatening and more palatable to Israeli tastes. By the end of the ­decade, films like The Damned and The Golem broke the humor barrier. The appearance of serious and unequivocally scary films is evidence of complete adoption of the genre, without minimizing it as tongue in cheek. In 2020, the COVID pandemic dealt a heavy blow to the film industry the world over, including in Israel. Productions ­were put on hold or made difficult by safety protocols. Film festivals ­were canceled or went online, and theatrical releases ­were postponed or moved to streaming. ­Independent films—­and horror films are i­ndependent by default in Israel—­were more susceptible to ­these negative effects. Real-­life horrors outdid the fictional ones.

Coda • 179

Even though the production of feature-­length films declined in 2020, scores of horror shorts continued to be made and submitted to Utopia and other festivals. Many w ­ ere by film students or recent gradu­ates of Israel’s numerous film schools.6 Short films are cheaper and easier to make; their production was less affected by the incalcitrant attitudes of Israeli public funds. This bodes well for the ­f uture, suggesting that the next generation of filmmakers continues to be interested in horror. Importantly, this generation of filmmakers promises ­ omen and Mizrahi Israelis, although to be somewhat more diverse, including more w not yet Palestinians.7 The ­future of New Israeli Horror filmmakers is no longer l­ imited to Israel and to the horror genre. The filmmakers discussed ­here are all interested in making other genre films, beyond horror. Some horror filmmakers turned to thrillers: their films include Kirot (The Assassin Next Door, 2009, Israel, France, US) by Danny Lerner, South of Heaven (2021, US) by Aharon Keshales, Gunpowder Milkshake (2021, US, France, Germany) by Navot Papushado, and Plan A (2021, Israel, Germany) by Doron and Yoav Paz. Boaz Armoni made a musical comedy, Ha-­ mehashmelim (The Electrifiers, 2019, Israel). This is not to say that t­ hese filmmakers are leaving horror. None of the directors I spoke to had any intention of ­doing so. Armoni is currently seeking financing for his next horror film as an international co-production. The Paz ­brothers are developing a JeruZalem sequel. As is evident from this list, the New Israeli Horror filmmakers have discovered new ave­nues of production and funding, including ­those in which Israel is not even involved.8 Their success, as a group and individually, is a testament to the increasingly transnational character of film production and a promise of ­future diverse genre output, including horror. Th ­ ese international collaborations are also emblematic of how difficult it is to finance genre proj­ects locally. In the words of Keshales, “It was easier for us to make films with Jason Sudeikis and Lena Headey than to make another genre film in Israel.”9 If this is the situation of Keshales and Papushado—­the most successful of the New Israeli horror filmmakers—­what about all the ­others? It is no surprise that ­there are also tragic stories: several of the filmmakers discussed ­here have spent years in financing limbo, some left the field altogether, and some are simply too busy with their day jobs. Beyond the question of production, we should also consider the p­ olitical context both in Israel and in the world. ­Because of horror’s antirealist conventions and ambiguous ideological missions, audiences and filmmakers alike can more easily dismiss ­these films as apo­liti­cal. Often, this reaction works to the benefit of New Israeli Horror films, allowing them to pass as “just entertainment.” But some of t­ hese films are, in fact, explic­itly ­political, extending harsh criticism of subjects like Israeli militarism and policies t­ oward Palestinians. Such films are not immune from official or unofficial sanctions imposed by increasingly restrictive ­ hildren of the Fall was not released in Israeli theaters Israeli cultural policies. C at all. The Damned garnered a ­limited audience and negative critical response.

180 • New Israeli Horror

One can speculate that the ­future of horror in Israel w ­ ill also depend on cultural politics. Within Israel, local films need to contend with the bound­aries of the permissible in public discourse; internationally, they need to deal with the force of the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement. Currently, Israeli films do not appear on festival or theater screens in the Arab world and are occasionally subject to controversy in E ­ urope and the United States—­ although horror fares better than more mimetic films. Horror fans are willing to embrace films regardless of p­ olitical borders. At least some New Israeli Horror films circulate online with Arabic subtitles, thereby undermining official boycotts. But as the occupation continues, p­ olitical pressure may have more consequences for Israeli cinema, including horror films. Fi­nally, t­ here is an issue of influence. Most of the New Israeli Horror films I discussed ­here entered the global horror scene, from genre festivals to new markets and channels of distribution. But to what extent and how do New Israeli Horror films influence global horror? Are discernible Israeli cinematic influences found in other international films? Are t­ here remakes of Israeli horror films that would testify to their importance and innovation? For instance, the remake of the ­Japanese Ringu as The Ring (2002, Gore Verbinski, US) further pop­u­lar­ized J-­horror. Are t­ here franchises with an international following, such as the Spanish [REC]? It is still too early to tell; as of this writing, only one film has been remade internationally: the Spanish Lobo Feroz (2023) directed by Gustavo Hernández, is a remake of The Big Bad Wolves. Another way to assess influence is to look for tropes, figures, dialogue, or themes from New Israeli Horror that have become iconic or ­were referenced in other films. A case in point ­here is Happy Times (Nitra’e be-­smachot, 2019), by American Israeli filmmaker Michael Mayer. The film is set among the Israeli expat community in Los Angeles, as several friends gather for a dinner party. The party serves as an Israeli microcosm, bringing together Ashkenazi and Mizrahi, religious and secular, working class and educated elite: they have nothing in common except for their Israeliness. But nor do they have any reasons to be in conflict. And yet, soon, minor conflicts escalate and vio­lence erupts, pitting one against another ­until they kill each other. Their murder weapons—­including a shofar and a hamsa (a palm-­shaped amulet ­popular in Israel)—­Judaizes or Israelizes the usual arsenal of the cinematic murders, effectively serving as a satire of Israeli mores. Happy Times is not an Israeli film in the same way in which the other films discussed ­here are. Even though it features an Israeli cast and has some Hebrew dialogue, it was produced and shot in the United States. Neither is it truly horror, at least according to its filmmaker: Mayer considers it a dark comedic thriller, with nods to Buñuel, Almodovar, and Tarantino.10 Although born and raised in Israel, Mayer has lived in the United States for most of his adult life and was not a part of the Hamorotheque or subsequent social scene. Yet in terms of its themes and tropes, as well as its conversion strategy, his Happy Times follows

Coda • 181

squarely in the footsteps of New Israeli Horror, suggesting perhaps the gravitational pull of this cycle of films. Beyond the films themselves, the influence of New Israeli Horror can also be gauged by critical and academic discourse. Do film critics approach New Israeli Horror as a body of work constituting a distinct film cycle? Israeli film critics certainly do, but it remains to be seen ­whether film critics internationally ­will follow. As to academic scholarship, by analyzing the films of New Israeli Horror and by telling the story of their production and circulation, this book establishes facts on the ground. The question of I-­horror is still pending, but it is clear that New Israeli Horror films add to the map of international horror and extend our understanding of Israeli cinema.

Notes Introduction 1 Ella Shohat, Israeli Cinema: East/West and the Politics of Repre­sen­ta­tion (London: I. B. Tauris, 2010), 113–126. 2 Rachel S. Harris and Dan Chyutin, “Israeli Cinema beyond the National: An Introduction,” in Casting a ­Giant Shadow: The Transnational Shaping of Israeli Cinema, ed. Rachel S. Harris and Dan Chyutin (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2021), 5–16. 3 Neta Alexander, “A Body in ­Every Cellar: The ‘New Vio­lence’ Movement in Israeli Cinema,” Jewish Film and New Media 4, no. 1 (Spring 2016): 4–24. 4 I include transliterations of the original Hebrew titles in the respective chapters about the films. 5 The earliest Israeli ­television series that engaged with horror appeared in the 1980s, in several episodes of a fantasy-­mystery-­thriller miniseries, Sipurim le-Shaat Laila Meuheret (Late Night Stories; IBA, 1987–1991). In the 2010s, several series ­were made, including a teen vampire drama Hatzuia (Split; HOT, 2009–2012) and the horror comedies Ha-­magefa (The Epidemic; HOT, 2013) and Juda (HOT, 2017–2020). 6 Although ­t here was no sustained horror film tradition, ­t here ­were occasional French, ­Russian, and Turkish horror films, each somewhat exceptional in its cultural context. On French horror films, see David Kalat, “French Revolution: The Secret History of Gallic Horror Movies,” in Fear without Frontiers: Horror Cinema across the Globe, ed. Steven Jay Schneider (Godalming, UK: FAB Press, 2003), 265–285. On Turkish horror films, see Kaya Ozkaracalar, “Between Appropriation and Innovation: Turkish Horror Cinema,” in Fear without Frontiers, 205–219. On Egyptian horror films, see Viola Shafik, “Egypt: A Cinema without Horror?” in Horror International, ed. Steven Jay Schneider and Tony Williams (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2005), 273–289. On Eastern ­European horror films, see Christina Stojanova, “A Gaze from Hell: Eastern ­European Horror Cinema Revisited,” in ­E uropean Nightmares: Horror Cinema in ­E urope since 1945, ed. Patricia Allmer, Emily Brick, and David Huxley (London: Wallflower Press, 2012), 225–237. 183

184 • Notes to Pages 3–8

7 Israel was a late adapter of ­television, which was introduced t­ here only in 1968. ­There was only a single channel of public ­television ­until 1993 when multichannel cable was introduced, bringing into Israeli homes content from numerous international channels in vari­ous languages. 8 Alexander, “A Body in ­Every Cellar,” 9. 9 Other ­founders ­were Pablo Utin, Uri Schori, and Yaniv Berman. 10 Altogether, 116 films ­were screened over the course of the club’s existence. 11 The club owes its name to the file-­sharing application eMule that the ­founders used to pirate the films online. They called it hamor in Hebrew. Author’s interview with Pablo Utin, Tel Aviv, December 23, 2017. 12 Author’s interview with Pablo Utin, December 23, 2017. 13 Author’s interview with Uri Aviv, Tel Aviv, January 12, 2018. 14 Author’s interview with Aviv. The funding also came from the Yehoshua Ra­bino­ vich Foundation for the Arts and the New Fund for Cinema and ­Television. The competition ran u­ ntil 2015. 15 ­After 2012, the financial resources dried up, and the Tomer Moria Fund suspended formal applications, although it continued to help filmmakers on an ad hoc basis. Author’s interview with Tzaki Moria, Tel Aviv, January 17, 2018. 16 ­These films include Beaufort (2007, Joseph Cedar), Waltz with Bashir (2008, Ari Folman), Ajami (2009, Scandar Copti and Yaron Shani), and Foxtrot (2017, Samuel Maoz). 17 The idea can be traced to the 1948 War, but circulated widely ­after the 1967 War. Karen Grumberg explains, “The phrase refers to t­ hose Israelis who announce their repugnance at o­ rders they are commanded to follow but follow them nonetheless; the soldier who ‘shoots and cries’ cries to ease his conscience and purify himself morally, but shoots out of a loyalty to Israel and Zionism.” Grumberg, Place and Ideology in Con­ temporary Hebrew Lit­er­a­ture (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2012), 49. 18 Author’s interview with Itzik Rosen, Tel Aviv, December 19, 2017. 19 Shohat, Israeli Cinema, 115. 20 Zachary Ingle, “Two Israelis in the ‘Mecca of Motion Pictures’: Golan, Globus, and Cannon Film’s Transnational Enterprise,” in Casting a ­Giant Shadow, 213. 21 “History,” Israel Film Fund, accessed July 1, 2021, http://­intl​.­fi lmfund​.­org​.­il​/­index​ .­asp​?­id​=­2&History. 22 “History,” Israel Film Fund. In the early 2010s, the state supported the film industry in the amount of about 80 million NIS per year; nearly half of it bud­geted for feature films. By the end of the ­decade the support grew to 100 million NIS. Osnat Bukofzer, a member of the Israeli Film Council, email to the author, June 27, 2021. 23 “Facts and Figures 2018.” Israel Film Fund, accessed July 1, 2021, http://­intl​.­fi lmfund​ .­org​.­il​/­index​.­asp​?­id​=­20&Facts%20&%20Figures. Public funding covers usually about 40 ­percent of the ­budget. The rest comes from the combination of Israeli Lottery (Mif ’al Ha-­Payis) funding, cable ­television channel contributions, private money (including the filmmaker’s own funds) and international public funds. 24 Tensions between genre filmmaking and public funding institutions are not unique to Israel. French horror filmmakers face the same strug­gle. See, for instance, Guy Austin, “Con­temporary French Horror Cinema: From Absence to Embodied Presence,” in A Companion to Con­temporary French Cinema, ed. Alistair Fox, Michel Marie, Raphaëlle Moine, and Hilary Radner (Chichester, UK: Wiley Blackwell, 2015), 666. 25 The Yehoshua Ra­bino­vich Foundation for the Arts started supporting film production in 1988, but its importance grew ­a fter passage of the New Cinema Law in 2000. In the past, the New Fund for Cinema and T ­ elevision also supported local drama in

Notes to Pages 9–14 • 185

certain formats. ­There are also several smaller, more specialized funds, such as the Gesher Multicultural Film Fund that supports films promoting diversity in Israel or the Jerusalem Foundation that supports films centered on the city of Jerusalem. 26 The quote is from a document defining criteria of public support for the film industry published annually by the Ministry of Culture and Sport (“Mivkhanim le-­k halukat kaspei tmikhot shel misrad ha-­tarbut ve-­ha-­sport le-­mosadot tsibur be-­tkhum kolnoa”). This stipulation has been included in the document since at least 2013. 27 “Selected Data on the Occasion of Israeli Film Day,” Central Bureau of Statistics, September 24, 2019, https://­w ww​.­cbs​.­gov​.­il​/­he​/­mediarelease​/­DocLib​/­2019​/­299​/­30​ _­19​_­299b​.­pdf. ­These figures must be considered in light of the makeup of the Israeli film-­going population. About 20 ­percent of Israeli population are Palestinian citizens of Israel, who have no theaters in their towns and villages, and films are not subtitled in Arabic. Other sizable communities, such as ultra-­Orthodox Jews and Russian-­speaking immigrants, do not go to see Israeli films in movie theaters. The Israeli film audience, in practice, is considerably smaller. 28 Yair Raveh, email to the author, June 6, 2021. Israeli film critic Yair Raveh has been tracking box office sales in Israel for years. He publishes his findings annually in vari­ous media outlets in Israel and collates them at his blog Cinemascope, https://­ cinemascope​.­co​.­il. 29 The data about historical theatrical exhibition of t­ hese films can be gleaned via showtimes and reviews in contemporaneous Israeli newspapers, available at the National Library of Israel’s Newspaper Collection, https://­w ww​.­nli​.­org​.­il​/­en​ /­discover​/­newspapers. 30 Giora Goodman, email to the author, January 16, 2023. For background, see Giora Goodman, “Pgiya Be-muatza Yedidutit: Ha-tzenzura al Ha-kolnoa Be-israel Ve-ha-milhama Ha-kara, 1948–1967,” Iunim 37 (2022): 121–146. 31 Yair Raveh, email to the author. 32 Of all international films, 68% are American, 23% are ­European, and only 9% are from the rest of the world. “Facts and Figures 2018,” Israel Film Fund, accessed July 1, 2021. 33 Yaron Peleg, “Perpetuating Victimhood as a Jewish Identity? The Case of ­Popular Israeli Cinema ­Today,” in Casting a ­Giant Shadow, 252. 34 Stephen Gladwin, “Witches, Spells and Politics: The Horror Films of Indonesia,” in Fear without Frontiers, 219–231. 35 Meir Schnitzer, Ha-­kolnoa Ha-­israeli: Kol Ha-­avodot, Kol Ha-­alilot, Kol Ha-­ bamaim Ve-­gam Bikorot (Jerusalem: Kineret, 1994), 15–27; Uri Klein, “National vs. Personal Cinema,” Kesher, no. 31 (May 2002): 47e–55e. 36 Peleg, “Perpetuating Victimhood,” 264. 37 Peleg, “Perpetuating Victimhood,” 254. 38 Austin, “Con­temporary French Horror Cinema,” 662–692; Kaya Özkaracalar, “Horror Films in Turkish Cinema: To Use or Not to Use Local Cultural Motifs, That Is Not the Question,” in ­European Nightmares, 249–261; Volha Isakava, “In Search of Authenticity: Time and Space in ­Russian Horror Film,” Imaginations 4, no. 1 (2013): 35–50; Vitaly Poznin, “Zhanr Horror v Sovremennom Rossijskom Kino,” Vestnik Sankt-Peterburgskogo Universiteta. Iskustvovedenie 10, no. 2 (2020): 248–265. For examples of Arabic-­language horror, see Olga Gershenson and Dale Hudson, “Nightmares of a Nation: Israeli Horror-­Satires Rabies and Big Bad Wolves,” Journal of Cinema and Media Studies 59, no. 1 (2019), 46. 39 Dan Chyutin and Yael Mazor, “Israeli Cinema Studies: Mapping out a Field,” Shofar 38, no. 1 (2020): 193.

186 • Notes to Pages 16–19

Chapter 1  The Precursors 1 Yakov Bar-­On, “Ha-­halom She-lo Gez,” Lehiton, January 30, 1976; Jack Leon, “Unique One-­Man Film Effort,” Jerusalem Post, March 5, 1976. 2 For a typical scathing review, see, Shlomo Shamgar, “Lemata Mi-­kol Bikoret,” Yediot Aharonot, March 9, 1976. 3 Nirit Anderman, “Bamai ‘Ha-­seret Ha-­israeli Ha-­garua Be-­yoter’ Doresh Kavod,” Haaretz, October 14, 2011. 4 Meir Schnitzer, Ha-­kolnoa Ha-­israeli: Kol Ha-­avodot, Kol Ha-­alilot, Kol Ha-­ bamaim Ve-­gam Bikorot (Jerusalem: Kineret, 1994). 5 Ido Rosen, “Sipuro Shel Ha-­seret Ha-­Israeli Ha-­garua Be-­yoter,” Yediot Aharonot, March 23, 2016, https://­w ww​.­ynet​.­co​.­il​/­articles​/­0,7340,L​-­4781180,00​.­html; Lisa Peretz, “Moshe Gez Nisa Laasot Seret Zva’a,” Ha-­ir, August 11, 1995; Lisa Peretz, “Simpatia le-­satan,” Kol Ha-­zman, April 29, 2005. 6 The story of Guez and his film is told in an Israeli documentary Looking for Moshe Guez (Lean Neelam Moshe Gez, Avida Livny, 2011). 7 Oron Shamir, “ ‘Ha-­malakh Haya Satan’: Skira Likrat Hakranat Girsat Ha-­bamai (Ve-­tshuva Le-­sheila ‘Lean Neelam Moshe Gez’?),” Srita, March 21, 2016, https://­ srita​.­net​/­2016​/­03​/­21​/­the​-­angel​-­was​-­a​-­devil​-­review​/­; Ido Rosen, “Sipuro Shel Ha-seret.” 8 Uri Klein, “Lo Malakh Ve-lo Satan,” Haaretz, January 4, 2016. 9 Bar-­On, “Ha-­halom She-lo Gez.” 10 See for instance, Alexandra Oliver, “Is This the Worst Israeli Film Ever Made?” Partisan, April 13, 2015, http://­w ww​.­partisanmagazine​.­com​/­reviews​/­2015​/­3​/­31​/­the​ -­appalled​-­eye​-­1. 11 Scott Bradley, quoted in John Skipp, “An American Hippie in Israel Comes Home at Last.” Liner notes to the Blu-­ray edition of An American Hippie in Israel, Grind­house Releasing, 2015. 12 Ben Hartman, “ ‘Horrendous’ Israeli ’70s Film Becomes a Cult Favorite,” Jerusalem Post, January 9, 2011. 13 “An American Hippie in Israel,” Grind­house Releasing, n.d., https://­grindhousereleasing​ .­com​/­an​-­american​-­hippie​-­in​-­israel. 14 Glenn Kenny, “Blu-­ray Consumer Guide: November 2013,” RogerEbert​.­com, November 27, 2013, https://­w ww​.­rogerebert​.­com​/­features​/­blu​-­ray​-­consumer​-­g uide​ -­november​-­2013. 15 Zeev Rav-­Nof, “Kisharon Me-­ha-­maamakim.” Davar, August 26, 1974; Nirit Anderman, “Me Mefahed Me-­Shmulik Kraus?” Haaretz, April 18, 2011. 16 Cited in Anderman, “Me Mefahed.” 17 Rav-­Nof, “Kisharon.” 18 Zeev Rav-­Nof, “Adam Le-­adam Haya,” Davar, September 8, 1974. 19 Shmulik Duvdevani, “Alimut Rauya” Yediot Aharonot, May 7, 2008, https://­w ww​ .­ynet​.­co​.­il​/­articles​/­0,7340,L​-­3539859,00​.­html. 20 Anderman, “Me Mefahed.” 21 Author’s interview with Dan Wolman, Tel Aviv, January 16, 2018. 22 Author’s interview with Wolman. 23 Author’s interview with Wolman. 24 Author’s interview with Wolman. 25 On Israeli personal films, see Ella Shohat, Israeli Cinema: East/West and the Politics of Repre­sen­ta­tion (London: I. B. Tauris, 2010), 163–215. 26 Oshra Schwartz, “Mi-­k hayal Ha-­laila Ve-ad Ha-­kahanism—­Ha-­zeev Ve-­ha-­iris.” Sratim 1 (Summer 1985): 14–22.

Notes to Pages 19–25 • 187

27 Ido Rosen, “Shtikat Ha-­tsabarim: Eikh Ve-­madua Hefsik Ha-­kolnoa Ha-­israeli Lefahed Mi-­sirtei Eima.” Pas Yatsira 6 (2014): 44. 28 In the interviews and his own writing dating back to the 1980s, Wolman mainly speaks about his film as a thriller, (e.g., Dan Wolman, “Hayal Ha-­laila,” Kol Ha-­ir, June 8, 1984) but at least once he calls it a horror film (Eitan Green, “Kolnoa Israeli ’83 Ha-­hespek Shel Dani Wolman,” Monitin 57 (May 1983): 127. In 2008, he identified Night Soldier as the first Israeli horror film (Itay Stern, “Ha-­haim Al Pi Dan Wolman,” Maariv/NRG, November 27, 2008, https://­w ww​.­makorrishon​.­co​.­il​ /­nrg​/­online​/­47​/­A RT1​/­817​/­182​.­html). 29 Wolman, “Hayal Ha-­laila.” 30 Rosen, “Shtikat Ha-­tsabarim,” 44. 31 Intermediality refers to the ways in which media incorporate ele­ments of other media. Johan Nilsson. “Moments of Intermediality: The Use of T ­ elevision in Joker Narratives,” Convergence 26, no. 2 (2020): 386–401. 32 Gidi Orshar, “Hayal Ha-­layla,” Haaretz, August 4, 1984. 33 Rachel Gordon, “Madim Kmo Sod Mavish,” Haaretz, August 9, 1984. 34 Meir Schnitzer, “Me Mefahed Me-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra.” Kol Ha-­ir, September 7, 1984. 35 Edna Fainaru, “Hayal Halayla (Night Soldier),” Variety, July 25, 1984, 14. 36 Gidi Orshar, “Hayal Ha-­laila,” Haaretz, August 4, 1984. 37 Yoram Porat, “Portret Shel Psikhopat,” Hadashot, August 5, 1984. 38 Shamgar, “Laharog Bli Rishayon,” Maariv, August 3, 1984. 39 Schwartz, “Mi-­hayal Ha-­laila,” 22. 40 Author’s interview with Wolman. 41 Among ­others, the play was staged by Habimah Theater in Moscow, a theater that ­later became a national Israeli institution. That production was ­later recorded as a film, The Dybbuk (Ha-­dibuk, 1968, Ilan Eldad), forgotten now. The more famous adaptation to the screen was a Yiddish film Der Dibbuk (The Dybbuk, 1937, Michał Waszyński, Poland). For further discussion, see Agnieszka Legutko, “Possessed by the Other: Dybbuk Possession and Modern Jewish Identity in Twentieth-­Century Jewish Lit­er­a­ture and Beyond” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 2012). 42 See Gideon Levy, “The Second Intifada, 20 Years On: Thousands Died in a Strug­g le That Failed,” Haaretz, September 26, 2020. 43 Author’s interview with Danny Lerner, Tel Aviv, December 25, 2017. 44 Author’s interview with Lerner. 45 “Yamim Kfuim.” Press-­kit, AIA Public Relations, Israel, 2006. 46 Author’s interview with Lerner. 47 Lerner’s ­father, Yosef (Joe) Lerner had a film-­worthy life story. Born in China to a ­Russian Jewish ­family, he survived World War II in Japan. When he returned to China in 1945, he found himself in Soviet-­occupied territory and ­later was arrested, charged with spying for the United States, and sent to a Soviet ­labor camp. He was rehabilitated in 1956, but it took him ten years to fi­nally get permission to leave for Israel. See his biography: Joe Lerner, Farewell to Rus­sia: Memoirs of an Alleged “American Spy” (Atlanta: Minerva, 1999). 48 Author’s interview with Lerner. 49 Author’s interview with Lerner. 50 “­Behind the Scenes” featurette. Yamim Kfuim, DVD (Bleiberg Entertainment, July August Productions, and the Israel Film Fund, 2006). 51 Pablo Utin, “Yamim Kfuim—­Sikha Im Dani Lerner,” in Karkhonim Be-­eretz Ha-­hamsinim: Ha-­kolnoa Ha-­israeli Ha-­hadash—­Sikhot Im Bamaim (Tel Aviv: Risling, 2008), 230.

188 • Notes to Pages 25–31

52 Author’s interview with Lerner. 53 Meir Schnitzer, “Haya Oh Lo Haya,” Maariv, August 25, 2006. 54 Nilsson, “Moments of Intermediality,” 389. 55 Dvorit Shargal, “Sinemania,” Rating, March 11, 2005, 44–48. 56 Rela Mazali, “The Gun on the Kitchen ­Table: The Sexist Subtext of Private Policing in Israel,” In Sexed Pistols: Gendered Impacts of Small Arms and Light Weapons, edited by Vanessa Farr, Albrecht Schnabel, and Henri Myrttinen (New York: United Nations University Press, 2009), 251. 57 Boaz Hagin, “Ha-­mothan Ha-­psikhologi Ve-­ha-­drama Ha-­mishpakhtit: Al Etika Ve-­teror Be-­seret Yamim Kfuim,” Mi-­Kan 13 (October 2013): 134. 58 Hagin, “Ha-­mothan Ha-­psikhologi,” 248–249. 59 Hagin, “Ha-­mothan Ha-­psikhologi,” 138–139. 60 Hagin, “Ha-­mothan Ha-­psikhologi,” 138–139. 61 Utin, “Yamim Kfuim,” 227. 62 Thomas Elsaesser, “The Mind-­Game Film,” in Puzzle Films: Complex Storytelling in Con­temporary Cinema, ed. Warren Buckland (Wiley-­Blackwell, 2009), 14. 63 Elsaesser, “Mind-­Game Film,” 18. 64 Elsaesser, “Mind-­Game Film,” 20. 65 Boaz Hagin, “ ‘Our Traumas’: Terrorism, Tradition, and Mind Games in Frozen Days,” in Deeper than Oblivion: Trauma and Memory in Israeli Cinema, edited by Raz Yosef and Boaz Hagin (New York: Bloomsbury, 2013), 205–206. 66 Dorit Naaman, “A Rave against the Occupation? Speaking for the Self and Excluding the Other in Con­temporary Israeli ­Political Cinema,” in Israeli Cinema: Identities in Motion, ed. Miri Talmon and Yaron Peleg (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011), 257–275. 67 The Israeli lit­er­a­ture follows the same patterns; see David B. Greene, “Suicide Bombings, Fear and Almost No Palestinians: The Second Intifada Transformed Israeli Lit­er­a­ture,” Haaretz, October 10, 2020. On Seven Minutes in Heaven, see Anat Zanger, “Jerusalem’s Skyline: Between the Sacred and the Abject,” in Place, Memory and Myth in Con­temporary Israeli Cinema (London: Vallentine Mitchell, 2012), 153–194. On Distortion, see Isaac (Itzik) Rosen, “The All-­Seeing Lens: Panoptical Real­ity, Televised Trauma and Cinematic Repre­sen­ta­tions of Urban Paranoia in Haim Bouzaglo’s Distortion (2005),” in The Horrors of Trauma in Cinema: Vio­lence Void Visualization, edited by Michael Elm, Kobi Kabalek, and Julia B. Köhne (Newcastle upon Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars, 2014), 207–224. 68 For the Palestinian perspective, compare with Paradise Now (2005), an international co-production directed by Hany Abu-Assad. 69 Naaman, “A Rave against the Occupation,” 258. 70 Pablo Utin, “Mavo: Karkhonim Be-­eretz Ha-­hamsinim—­Zerem Ha-­Hitnatkut Shel Ha-­kolnoa Ha-­Israeli,” in his Karkhonim Be-­eretz Ha-­hamsinim, 13–30. 71 Michal Vinik, “Ke-­neged Kol Ha-­taktzivim,” Maariv, October 27, 2005. 72 See, for instance, reviews by Oshra Schwartz, “Kol Ha-­derekh,” Time Out, November 3, 2005, and by Uri Klein, “Ma Asta Meow?” Haaretz, October 27, 2005. 73 Gilad Yannai-­A mir, “Danny International,” Maariv Le-­Noar, August 30, 2006. 74 For example, see Richard Kuipers, “Frozen Days,” Variety, June 29, 2006, https://­ variety​.­com​/­2006​/­fi lm​/­reviews​/­frozen​-­days​-­1200515037. 75 Ben Sagarsky, “Raayon: Yamim Kfuim, Leilot Lavanim,” Ain Ha-­Dag, August 27, 2006, https://­w ww​.­fisheye​.­co​.­il​/­frozen​_­days​_­interview. 76 As reported by the ­Organization of the Israeli Film Theater ­Owners (Hitachdut Baalei Batei Kolnoa be-Israel). 77 Uri Klein, “Ha-­dayeret,” Haaretz, August 23, 2006; published in the ­English edition as Uri Klein, “­Woman ­under the Influence,” Haaretz, September 1, 2006.

Notes to Pages 31–38 • 189

78 Shmulik Duvdevani, “Ke-­neged Kol Ha-­sikuyim,” YNET/Yediot Aharonot, August 24, 2006, https://­w ww​.­ynet​.­co​.­il​/­articles​/­0,7340,L​-­3295169,00​.­html. 79 Schnitzer, “Haya Oh Lo Haya.” 80 For example, see Yehuda Stav, “Shemesh Bogdanit,” Yediot Aharonot, August 25, 2008. 81 Hannah Brown, “Down and out in Tel Aviv,” Street, October 2006, 12–13. 82 See Klein, “Ha-­dayeret”; Duvdevani, “Ke-­neged Kol Ha-­sikuyim”; and Avner Shavit, “Pahad Ve-­tiuv Be-­florentin,” Kol Ha-­ir, August 25, 2006. 83 Yair Raveh, “Alice Be-­aretz Hafraot,” Pnai Plus, August 30, 2006. 84 Le Monde praised the film and called Lerner “a revelation.” Jean-­Luc Douin, “Frozen Days: Descente aux enfers pour une une quête d’identité,” Le Monde, November 20, 2007. 85 This competition is discussed in the introduction.

Chapter 2  The First Hebrew Horror Navot Papushado and Guy Raz directed Zeitgeist, Aharon Keshales produced it. Author’s interview with Aharon Keshales, Tel Aviv, January 22, 2018. Author’s interview with Navot Papushado, Tel Aviv, December 26, 2017. Author’s interview with Keshales. Author’s interview with Keshales. Author’s interview with Keshales. Pablo Utin, “Kalevet—­Sikha im Aharon Keshales ve-­Navot Papushado.” Shiurim Be-­Kolnoa: Khoveret Bonus. Unpublished manuscript. 8 Author’s interview with Papushado. 9 Author’s interview with Keshales. 10 Author’s interview with Papushado. Papushado uses a Hebrew term leavret—­ literally, to Hebraize. This term is used to describe conversion of a diasporic name into a Hebrew name; for instance, David Grün (or Green) became David Ben-­Gurion. 11 Author’s interview with Papushado. 12 Author’s interview with Papushado. 13 Utin, “Kalevet.” 14 Author’s interview with Papushado. 15 The competition is discussed in the introduction. 16 Author’s interview with Keshales. The Angel Was a ­Devil and Night Soldier are discussed in chapter 1. 17 Author’s interview with Papushado. 18 Author’s interview with Papushado. 19 Adam Lowenstein, Shocking Repre­sen­ta­tion: Historical Trauma, National Cinema, and the Modern Horror Film (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007); Linnie Blake, The Wounds of Nations: Horror Cinema, Historical Trauma and National Identity (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2008). 20 Utin, “Kalevet.” 21 Utin, “Kalevet.” 22 Noël Carroll, “Horror and Humor,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 57, no. 2 (Spring 1999): 145–160. 23 Carroll, “Horror and Humor,” 154. 24 Cynthia J. Miller and A. Bowdoin Van Riper, “Introduction,” in The Laughing Dead: The Horror-­Comedy Film from Bride of Frankenstein to Zombieland, eds. Cynthia J. Miller and A. Bowdoin Van Riper (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2016), xiv.



1 2 3 4 5 6 7

190 • Notes to Pages 39–49

25 Author’s interview with Papushado. 26 Utin, “Kalevet.” 27 Utin, “Kalevet.” 28 Utin, “Kalevet.” 29 Utin, “Kalevet.” 30 Utin, “Kalevet.” 31 Utin, “Kalevet.” 32 Joseph Trumpeldor died in the 1920 ­battle of Tel Hai; allegedly his last words ­were, “It is good to die for our country.” See Yael Zerubavel, Recovered Roots: Collective Memory and the Making of Israeli National Tradition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 43–47. 33 Ilan Pappé, The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (Oxford: Oneworld, 2006), 225–234. 34 Zochrot, “Khirbat Zakariyya,” Nakba Map (2014), https://­zochrot​.­org​/­village​/­view​ ?­id​=­49152. 35 Carol J. Clover, “Her Body, Himself: Gender in the Slasher Film,” in Horror: The Film Reader, ed. Mark Jancovich (New York: Routledge, 2001), 77–90. See also Carol Clover, Men, ­Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film, 2nd ed. (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2015). 36 Clover, “Her Body, Himself,” 79. 37 Utin, “Kalevet.” 38 Author’s interview with Keshales. 39 Author’s interview with Keshales. ­ rganization of the Israeli Film Theater ­Owners (Hitachdut 40 According to the O Baalei Batei Kolnoa Be-Israel), 19,501 tickets ­were sold. 41 Author’s interview with Papushado. 42 The age was lowered from ­eighteen to sixteen only ­a fter the producers appealed to Israel’s Film Review Council, the ­organization responsible for the rating. See Avner Shavit, “Kalevet Neged Ha-­tsenzura,” Walla, December 7, 2010, https://­e​.­walla​.­co​.­il​ /­item​/­1764831. 43 Navo Ziv, “Rokdim Al Ha-­Dam,” Yediot Aharonot, November 26, 2010. 44 Lilach Wolf, “Kaefet: Al Kalevet,” Walla, December 2, 2010, https://­e​.­walla​.­co​.­il​ /­item​/­1762821. 45 Doron Fishler, “Kalevet” Time Out Tel Aviv, no. 442, December 13, 2010. 46 Oron Shamir, “Ha-­ikar She-­magniv,” Akhbar Ha-­Ir, December 2, 2010. 47 The original Hebrew review was published on December 2, 2010; ­here I am citing an ­English translation in the international edition of the newspaper. Uri Klein, “Horribly Good,” Haaretz, December 10, 2010. 48 Meir Schnitzer, Ha-­kolnoa Ha-­israeli: Kol Ha-­avodot, Kol Ha-­alilot, Kol Ha-­bamaim Ve-­gam Bikorot. Jerusalem: Kineret, 1994. 49 Meir Schnitzer, “Hamatat Khesed,” Maariv, December 2, 2010. 50 Yosi Lingel, “Kalevet,” Gal Gefen, December 23, 2010. ­ on’t See It,” Jerusalem Post, December 10, 51 Hannah Brown, “Cure for ‘Rabies’: D 2010. 52 Goel Pinto, “Le-­vnei 16 Bil’vad,” Globes, December 3, 2010. 53 Doron Fishler, “Dam Amiti: Raayon im Yotsrei Kalevet,” Maariv, October 5, 2011. 54 Author’s interview with Papushado. 55 For sample coverage, see a list of reviews at the film’s page on IMDB-­pro at https://­ pro​.­imdb​.­com​/­title​/­tt1754000​/­. 56 John Anderson, “Rabies,” Variety, April 19, 2011. 57 Andrew O’Hehir, “Tribeca: The Israeli Horror-­Comedy ­You’ve Been Waiting For!” Salon, April 25, 2011.

Notes to Pages 49–58 • 191

58 Drew Tinnin, “Rabies/Kalevet,” DreadCentral, September 28, 2011, http://­w ww​ .­dreadcentral​.­com​/­reviews​/­27312​/­rabies​-­kalevet​-­2010​/­, 59 Author’s interview with Papushado. 60 Author’s interview with Papushado. 61 Author’s interviews with Papushado and with Keshales. 62 Ziv, “Rokdim Al HaDam.”

Chapter 3  A Korean Revenge Thriller in the Israeli Countryside 1 On mixing genres in the new Korean cinema, see Pablo Utin, “Sliding through Genres: The Slippery Structure in South,” Journal of ­Japanese and Korean Cinema 8, no 1 (2016): 45–58. 2 Author’s interview with Keshales. 3 Author’s interview with Papushado. 4 Author’s interview with Keshales. 5 On the use of horror tropes in Lebanon, see Ido Rosen, “Pkhadim Leumiim Be-­sirtei Ha-­eima Be-­kolnoa Ha-­israeli” (master’s thesis, Steve Tisch School of Film and ­Television, Tel Aviv University, 2017). 6 Glickman is familiar to international audiences for his role in a more recent ­television series Shtisel (2013–2020, YES). 7 Author’s interview with Papushado. 8 Aharon Keshales, Navot Papushado, et al., “Trom Bekhorah Shel Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” August 4, 2013, in Srita, produced by Oron Shamir, podcast, MP3 audio, 1:02:00, accessed April 4, 2018, http://­srita​.­net​/­2014​/­04​/­12​/­big​_­bad​ _­wolves​_­event​_ ­podcast​/­. 9 Keshales et al., “Trom Bekhorah.” 10 Keshales et al., “Trom Bekhorah.” 11 Author’s interview with Papushado. 12 Pablo Utin’s interview with Aharon Keshales and Navot Papushado, Tel Aviv, September 1, 2014. 13 Utin’s interview with Aharon Keshales and Navot Papushado. 14 Utin’s interview with Aharon Keshales and Navot Papushado. 15 Author’s interview with Papushado. ­ usic Magazine, January 15, 16 Daniel Schweiger, “Interview with Frank Ilfman,” Film M 2014, http://­w ww​.­fi lmmusicmag​.­com​/­​?­p ​=­12400. 17 Pablo Utin, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra: Sikha im Aharon Keshales Ve-Navot Papushado,” in Shiurim Be-­kolnoa: Sikhot im Yotsrot ve-­Yotsrim Israelim (Tel Aviv: Asia Publishers: 2017), 335–336. The American rock band The Pixies is famous for its dynamic “loud-­quiet” shifts and song structures. 18 Utin’s interview with Keshales and Papushado. 19 Utin, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” 325. 20 Utin’s interview with Keshales and Papushado. 21 Gur Bentwich was cast in a small part in the film as a tribute to his Planet Blue. 22 Author’s interview with Papushado. 23 Utin, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” 318. See also Pablo Utin’s video illustrating this point, https://­vimeo​.­com​/­a lbum​/­5167937​/­video​/­227591315. 24 Utin, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” 310. 25 Joseph Jacobs, ­English Fairy Tales (London: David Nutt, 1890), 68–72. 26 Keshales et al., “Trom Bekhorah.” 27 Utin, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” 308. 28 Utin’s interview with Keshales and Papushado.

192 • Notes to Pages 58–64

29 Utin, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” 326. 30 Utin, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” 326. 31 Utin, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” 327. 32 Michel Chion, The Voice in Cinema, trans. Claudia Gorbman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 23–24. 33 Chion, Voice in Cinema, 141. 34 Chion, Voice in Cinema. 24. 35 Keshales et al., “Trom Bekhorah.” 36 Susan Kollin, Captivating Westerns: The ­Middle East in the American West (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2015), 31–62. 37 In Zehu Zeh sketches, Glickman often played ridicu­lous characters with questionable masculinity, such as a pregnant male general in a IDF uniform or a witch in the parody of the horror-­t hriller ­television series Late Night Stories (mentioned in the introduction). 38 Utin’s interview with Keshales and Papushado. 39 Utin’s interview with Keshales and Papushado. 40 Author’s interview with Papushado. 41 Keshales et al., “Trom Bekhorah.” 42 Utin’s interview with Keshales and Papushado. 43 Shohat, Israeli Cinema, 229–247. On more recent films, see Dorit Naaman, “A Rave against the Occupation? Speaking for the Self and Excluding the Other in Con­ temporary Israeli ­Political Cinema,” in Israeli Cinema: Identities in Motion, ed. Miri Talmon and Yaron Peleg (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011), 257–275. 44 Author’s interview with Papushado. 45 Frank Scheck, “Big Bad Wolves: Tribeca Review,” Hollywood Reporter, April 26, 2013. 46 Drew Taylor, “Tribeca Review: ‘Big Bad Wolves’ Is a Deeply Brilliant, Surprisingly Funny Israeli Revenge Thriller,” IndieWire, April 22, 2013, http://­w ww​.­indiewire​ .­com​/­2013​/­04​/­tribeca​-­review​-­big​-­bad​-­wolves​-­is​-­a​-­deeply​-­brilliant​-­surprisingly​ -­f unny​-­israeli​-­revenge​-­thriller​-­99131​/­. 47 “Fantasia 2013 Award Winners!” Fantasia International Film Festival, August 8, 2013, http://­fantasiafestival​.­com​/­blog​/­general​-­info​/­fantasia​-­2013​-­award​-­winners. ­ rganization of the Israeli Film Theater ­Owners, 49,373 tickets 48 According to the O ­were sold. 49 Yair Raveh, “Psycho,” Pnai Plus, August 7, 2013. 50 Uri Klein, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” Haaretz, August 14, 2013. 51 Shmulik Duvdevani, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra: Hazeev Ha­-­ra Davka Tov,” Yediot Aharonot, August 16, 2013. 52 Yishai Kiczales, “Lirkod Im Zeeveim,” Israel Hayom, August 17, 2013. 53 Benjamin Tovias, “Efes Tauiot,” Yediot Aharonot, August 16, 2013. 54 Yael (Froind) Abraham, “Bein Metakh Le-­eimah Komit,” Maariv, August 30, 2013. 55 Saar Vardi, “Hazeev Be-­etsem Lo Ka-­zeh Ra,” Tel Aviv, September 3, 2013. 56 Nahum Mokhiakh, “Mi Mefakhen Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra: Sof Sof Eima Israelit Rauia,” NRG, August 16, 2013, https://­w ww​.­makorrishon​.­co​.­il​/­nrg​/­online​/­47​/­A RT2​/­499​ /­709​.­html. 57 Hannah Brown, “Big, Bad, and Very Violent Wolves,” Jerusalem Post, August 29, 2013. 58 Meir Schnitzer, “Mi Mefakhed Mi-­ha-­zeev Ha­-­ra,” Sofshavua, August 16, 2013. 59 For instance. Yoni Froim, “Lir’od Im Zeevim,” Pnai Plus, August 21, 2013; and Yaniv Halili, “Zeev Revakh,” Yediot Aharonot, August 28, 2013.

Notes to Pages 64–70 • 193

60 Kwenton Bellette, “Busan 2013: Tarantino Declares Big Bad Wolves Best Film of the Year,” ScreenAnarchy, October 12, 2013, http://­screenanarchy​.­com​/­2013​/­10​ /­busan​-­2013​-­tarantino​-­declares​-­big​-­bad​-­wolves​-­best​-­fi lm​-­of​-­the​-­year​.­html, 61 “Big Bad Wolves Press Kit,” Magnet Releasing, accessed May 20, 2018, http://­w ww​ .­magnetreleasing​.­com​/­bigbadwolves​/­. 62 Godfrey Cheshire, “Big Bad Wolves,” RogerEbert​.­com, January 17, 2014, https://­ www​.­rogerebert​.­com​/­reviews​/­big​-­bad​-­wolves​-­2014. 63 Justin Chang, “Film Review: ‘Big Bad Wolves,’ ” Variety, December 20, 2013. 64 Robbie Collin, “Big Bad Wolves, Review,” Telegraph, November 28, 2013. 65 Manohla Dargis, “On the Trail of a Vicious Killer, Eagerly Licking their Chops,” New York Times, January 16, 2014. 66 See, for instance, Mark Kermode, “Big Bad Wolves—­Review,” The Guardian, December 7, 2013; Rex Reed, “In Big Bad Wolves, Fairy Tales Can Come True,” Observer, January 17, 2014, http://­observer​.­com​/­2014​/­01​/­in​-­big​-­bad​-­wolves​-­fairy​ -­tales​-­can​-­come​-­true; A.A. Dowd, “Big Bad Wolves May Be the Rare Revenge Movie That’s Actually Anti-­Revenge,” AV Club, January 16, 2014, https://­fi lm​ .­avclub​.­com​/­big​-­bad​-­wolves​-­may​-­be​-­the​-­rare​-­revenge​-­movie​-­that​-­s​-­act​-­1798179213, 67 Rotten Tomatoes, accessed July 6, 2018, https://­w ww​.­rottentomatoes​.­com​/­m​/­big​ _­bad​_­wolves​_­2013. 68 Steve Greene, “The Best Foreign-­Language Films of 2014, according to Criticwire: ‘Winter Sleep’ and ‘Big Bad Wolves,’ ” IndieWire, October 22, 2014, https://­w ww​ .­indiewire​.­com​/­2014​/­10​/­the​-­best​-­foreign​-­language​-­films​-­of​-­2014​-­according​-­to​-­criticwire​ -­winter​-­sleep​-­and​-­big​-­bad​-­wolves​-­68847​/­. 69 ­These unrealized proj­ects include Vengeance (Sony), Death Wish (MGM), and We Are All Monsters H ­ ere (Crystal City Entertainment). 70 Author’s interview with Papushado.

Chapter 4  Horror in the IDF 1 Edna Lomsky-­Feder and Eyal Ben-­A ri, “Performing the ­People’s Army: The Israeli Military Manages Symbolic and Moral Bound­aries,” in ­Toward an Anthropology of Nation Building and Unbuilding in Israel, ed. Fran Markowitz, Stephen Sharot, and Moshe Shokeid (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2015), 52. 2 Baruch Kimmerling. “Patterns of Militarism in Israel,” ­European Journal of Sociology 34, no. 2 (1993): 196–223. 3 Uri Ben-­Eliezer, The Making of Israeli Militarism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998). 4 Individual exemptions are granted on physical or psychological grounds. 5 Edna Lomsky-­Feder and Eyal Ben-­A ri, “The Discourses of ‘Psy­chol­ogy’ and the ‘Normalization’ of War in Con­temporary Israel,” in Militarism and Israeli Society, ed. Gabriel Sheffer and Oren Barak (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010), 280–304. On IDF ­service as a rite of passage, see Amia Lieblich, Transition to Adulthood during Military ­Service: The Israeli Case (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989). 6 Before being assigned to an army unit, young ­people take physical and psychological tests, the results of which are summarized in a number called a “profile,” ranging between 21 and 97. The higher the profile, the better the chances to be assigned to an elite unit. A low profile is perceived as disappointing and embarrassing. 7 Eyal Ben-­A ri, with the assistance of Galeet Dardashti, “Tests of Soldierhood, ­Trials of Manhood: Military ­Service and Male Ideals in Israel,” in War, Politics and Society

194 • Notes to Pages 70–78

in Israel: Theoretical and Comparative Perspectives, ed. Daniel Maman, Eyal Ben-­A ri, and Zeev Rosenhek (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 2001), 253. 8 Gabriel Sheffer and Oren Barak, “Introduction,” in Militarism and Israeli Society, 7. 9 Edna Lomsky-­Feder and Eyal Ben-­Ari, “Introductory Essay: Cultural Constructions of War and the Military in Israel,” in Military and Militarism in Israeli Society, 24. 10 Lomsky-­Feder and Ben Ari, “Introductory Essay,” 20. The conscription of both men and ­women was mandated by the 1949 Security ­Service Law. 11 Ben Ari with Dardashti, “Tests of Soldierhood,” 248. 12 Kimmerling, “Patterns of Militarism in Israel,” 217. 13 Author’s interview with Yael Oron, Tel Aviv, January 15, 2018. 14 Author’s interview with Oron. 15 Author’s interview with Oron. 16 Author’s interview with Didi Lubetzky, Tel Aviv, December 18, 2017. 17 Yaara Yakov, “Ha-­Mensar Me-­Mexico,” Time Out, November 3, 2011. 18 Author’s interview with Lubetzky. 19 Orin Rosner, “Dam Al Ha-yadaiim,” Bemahane 39 (October 15, 2010): 40–41. 20 Nirit Anderman, “Why So Many Israeli Horror Films Take Place in the Army,” Haaretz, January 4, 2019. 21 Author’s interview with Oron. 22 Anderman, “Why So Many.” 23 Author’s interview with Lubetzky. 24 The term “splatstick” is credited to Bruce Campbell, who used it to describe the Evil Dead trilogy. For further discussion, see Linda Badley, “Zombie Splatter Comedy from Dawn to Shawn: Cannibal Carnivalesque,” in Zombie Culture: Autopsies of the Living Dead, ed. Shawn McIntosh and Marc Leverette (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow, 2008), 43–44. 25 Author’s interviews with Oron and with Lubetzky. 26 Uri Ben-­Eliezer, “The Civil Society and the Military Society in Israel,” Israel-­ Palestine Journal of Politics, Economics and Culture 12, no. 1 (2005): 54. 27 Liron Sinai, “Ha-metim Maalim Profil: Sirtei Zombim Be-tzahal.” Yediot Aharonot, October 13, 2011. 28 Author’s interviews with Oron and Lubetzky. 29 Gili Malinsky, “A Soldier’s Nightmare,” Jerusalem Post, May 19, 2011. 30 Badley, “Zombie Splatter,” 48. 31 Author’s interview with Lubetzky. 32 Shapira, Israel, 379–389. 33 Loof played a central role in another Israeli horror short, the stop-­animation film Loof (2011) by Dudi Rubin and Daniel Sasson. Set on Yom Kippur at the holy sites in Hebron and Jerusalem, it reimagines the biblical forefathers Isaac and Jacob as zombies and Abraham as a King Kong-­style ­g iant supervillain. Thanks to powers gained from eating Loof, a ­simple soldier turns into a superhero and defeats them. 34 Raz Yosef, The Politics of Loss and Trauma in Con­temporary Israeli Cinema (New York: London: Routledge, 2011), 42. 35 Lubetzky credits Tal Friedman’s cameo in the film to Yosef Grunfeld, a famous Israeli film editor who consulted on Poisoned. Grunfeld suggested casting Friedman and helped with getting him on the set. Even with Grunfeld’s help, the crew waited for several months ­until Friedman became available. Then they shot the scene in two hours. Author’s interview with Lubetzky. 36 Author’s interview with Lubetzky. 37 Yara Robinson, “Zombieland: Al Sirtei Eima Israelim,” Rating, September 14, 2010.

Notes to Pages 78–84 • 195

38 Dror Amir, “Zombie, Shaper Hofaatkha,” Yediot Aharonot, October 28, 2010. 39 Orin Rozner, “Dam Al Hayadaim,” BeMachane 13, October 2010. 40 Avner Shavit, “Festival Heifa 2011,” Walla, October 10, 2011, https://­e​.­walla​.­co​.­il​ /­item​/­1867008, 41 Michal Danieli, “Muralim: Hatsatsa Le-komediyat Ha-zombim Ha-tsahalit,” Mako, October 5, 2011, https://­w ww​.­mako​.­co​.­il​/­pzm​-­magazine​/­Article​-­53ad802aa33d231006​ .­htm. 42 Sinai, “Ha-­metim Maalim.” 43 Yaara Yakov, “Ha-­mensar Me-­mexico,” Time Out, November 3, 2011. 44 The Friday night midnight screenings featured Blue Planet (Ha-­kohav Ha-­kakhol, 1995, Gur Bentovich), Israel’s first cult film, and ­later Israeli Intelligence (Ha-­mosad Ha-­sagur, 2007, Alon Gur Arye). Poisoned was screened along with the animated short Loof, mentioned ­earlier. It played for three months from November 2011 to January 2012. 45 Uri Klein, Haaretz, June 7, 2014. 46 Author’s interview with Eitan Gafny, Tel Aviv, December 22, 2017. 47 Author’s interview with Gafny. 48 “Cannon Fodder Press Kit,” Screen Media, LLC. 49 “Cannon Fodder Press Kit.” 50 In the ­English title of the film, ­Battle of the Undead, as it was retitled in dubbing, the satire of the army is lost. 51 The 1973 War, also known as the Yom Kippur War, the October War, and the 1973 Arab-­Israeli War, is discussed in chapter 6. 52 Shapira, Israel, 329. 53 See Mordechai Bar-­On, Moshe Dayan: Israel’s Controversial Hero (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012). 54 Ido Rosen, “Pkhadim Leumiim Be-­sirtei Ha-­eima Be-­kolnoa Ha-­israeli” (master’s thesis, The Steve Tisch School of Film and ­Television, Tel Aviv University, 2017). 55 Barry Keith Grant. “Taking back the Night of the Living Dead: George Romero, Feminism, and the Horror Film,” in Zombie Theory: A Reader, ed, Sarah Juliet Lauro (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2017), 212–222. 56 For a discussion of such a practice, see Carol Bardenstein. “Cross/Cast: Passing in Israeli and Palestinian Cinema,” in Palestine, Israel, and the Politics of ­Popular Culture, ed. Rebecca L. Stein and Ted Swedenburg (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 99–126. 57 Shohat, Israeli Cinema, 55. 58 Badley, “Zombie Splatter,” 44. 59 Steven Shaviro, The Cinematic Body (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), 89. 60 Shohat, Israeli Cinema, 55. 61 David J. Skal, Monster Show: A Cultural History of Horror (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2001), 386. 62 Raz Yosef, “War Fantasies: Memory, Trauma and Ethics in Ari Folman’s Waltz with Bashir,” Journal of Modern Jewish Studies 9, no. 3 (2010): 311–326; and The Politics of Loss and Trauma in Con­temporary Israeli Cinema (New York: Routledge, 2011), 139–163. The ­earlier wave of Lebanon films, made in Israel from the late 1980s to the early 1990s, represented the IDF soldiers as “enlightened” occupiers who identified with Palestinian suffering and who saw themselves as persecuted. Yosef, Politics of Loss, 25. 63 Robin Wood, Hollywood from Vietnam to Reagan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), 115; Bishop, “Dead Man,” 18.

196 • Notes to Pages 84–87

64 Michael S. Drake, “Zombinations: Reading the Undead as Debt and Guilt in the National Imaginary,” in Monster Culture in the 21st ­Century: A Reader, ed. Marina Levina and Diem-­My T. Bui (New York: Bloomsbury, 2013), 240. 65 Shawn McIntosh, “The Evolution of the Zombie: The Monster That Keeps Coming Back,” in Zombie Culture, 9. 66 Shaviro, The Cinematic Body, 86. 67 Sinai, “Ha-Metim Maalim”; Doron Fishler, “Ha-­sirtei ha-­eima ha-­israeliim: Ha-­prikha nimshekhet,” Maariv, October 27, 2011. 68 Yair Raveh, “Metim mehalkhim,” Pnai Plus, March 12, 2014. 69 Meir Schnitzer, “Festival ve-­skandal,” Sofshavua (Maariv supplement), March 23, 2014. 70 Uri Klein, “Basar tutakhim: Hatsilu, Ha-zombim Hegiu le-Kolnoa Israeli,” Haaretz, March 20, 2014 ­ rganization of the Israeli Film Theater ­Owners, only 500 tickets 71 According to the O ­were sold. 72 Best Foreign Film at Bare Bones Film Festival, US; Special Jury Prize at Detective Fest International Film Festival, Rus­sia; Wild Ace Award at Las Vegas Film Festival; Special Jury Award at Cinema South International Film Festival, Israel; Best Feature Film at Fright Night Horror Film Festival, US; Best Practical Special Effects at Fright Night Horror Film Festival, US; Special Mention at the Tabloid Witch Awards, US. 73 Or Shkolnik, “FrightFest to Screen Cannon Fodder, the First Israeli Zombie Film,” ScreenAnarchy, June 30, 2013, https://­screenanarchy​.­com​/­2013​/­06​/­frightfest​-­to​ -­screen​-­cannon​-­fodder​-­the​-­first​-­israeli​-­zombie​-­fi lm​.­html; Sean Decker, “Screamfest LA 2013 Exclusive: Eitan Gafny Talks the LA Premiere of Cannon Fodder,” DreadCentral, October 10, 2013, https://­w ww​.­dreadcentral​.­com​/­news​/­48730​ /­screamfest​-­la​-­2013​-­exclusive​-­eitan​-­gafny​-­talks​-­the​-­la​-­premiere​-­of​-­cannon​-­fodder​ -­see​-­the​-­trailer​/­. 74 Shaun Munro, “Cannon Fodder,” WhatCulture, August 29, 2013, http://­ whatculture​.­com​/­fi lm​/­frightfest​-­2013​-­youre​-­next​-­hatchet​-­3​-­vhs​-­2​-­more​-­reviewed​ ?­page​=­10. 75 Ambush Bug, “Cannon Fodder,” ­Ain’t It Cool News, May 10, 2013, http://­w ww​ .­aintitcool​.­com​/­node​/­62343#7. 76 According to Peter Dendle, the word “undead” has become increasingly common in the titles of zombie films. Peter Dendle, The Zombie Movie Encyclopedia, vol. 2, 2000–2010 (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012), 4. 77 Melanie Goodfellow, “Cannon Fodder Director Cooks up Kibbutz Horror,” ScreenDaily, July 13, 2014, https://­w ww​.­screendaily​.­com​/­news​/­production​/­cannon​ -­fodder​-­director​-­cooks​-­up​-­kibbutz​-­horror​/­5075109​.­article, 78 Hannan Hever. Suddenly, the Sight of War: Vio­lence and Nationalism in Hebrew Poetry in the 1940s. (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2016), 39. 79 Hever, Suddenly, the Sight of War, 175. 80 Yosef, Politics of Loss, 43. 81 Karen, Grumberg. Hebrew Gothic: History and the Poetics of Persecution (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2019), 21. 82 Yosef, Politics of Loss, 47–48. 83 Yosef, Politics of Loss, 170. 84 Avner Shavit, interview with Iris Kol. 103FM, October 13, 2015. 85 See for instance, Matan Shiram, “Mesuvag Harig,” Globes, September 11, 2014; Amir Bogen, “Mada bidioni ve-­eima israelim: Kvar lo fantasia,” Yediot Aharonot, August 14, 2015.

Notes to Pages 87–98 • 197

86 Author’s email interview with Lior Lederman, June 15, 2019. 87 Author’s interview with Boaz Armoni, Tel Aviv, December 21, 2017. 88 Author’s interview with Lederman. 89 Boaz Armoni, Lior Lederman, et al., “Mesuvag harig: Podcast mi-­hakranat srita ve-­nituakh ha-­seret,” October 18, 2015, Srita podcast, produced by Oron Shamir, podcast, MP3 audio, 30:34, accessed July 16, 2019, http://­srita​.­net​/­2015​/­10​/­18​/­freak​ -­out​-­podcast​-­and​-­more. 90 Author’s interview with Armoni. 91 Author’s interview with Armoni. 92 Author’s interview with Armoni. 93 Author’s interview with Armoni. 94 Boaz Armoni et al., “Mesuvag harig.” 95 Ido Rosen, “National Fears in Israeli Horror Films,” Jewish Film & New Media 8, no. 1, (Spring 2020): 94. 96 Rosen, “Pkhadim Leumiim.” 97 On musiqa mizrahit, see Motti Regev and Edwin Seroussi, ­Popular ­Music and National Culture in Israel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 191–212. 98 On fear of “levantization,” see Sammy Smooha, “Jewish Ethnicity in Israel: Symbolic or Real?” in Jews in Israel: Con­temporary Social and Cultural Patterns, ed. Uzi Rebhun and Chaim I. Waxman (Hanover, NH: Brandeis University Press, 2004), 61. 99 Yaron Shemer, Identity, Place and Subversion in Con­temporary Mizrahi Cinema in Israel (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2013), 27. 100 Raz Yosef, Beyond Flesh: Queer Masculinities and Nationalism in Israeli Cinema (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2004), 76. 101 Shemer, Identity, Place and Subversion, 28. 102 Yosef, Beyond Flesh, 86–87. 103 On the image of Ashkenazis in bourekas as hypocritical, see Shohat, Israeli Cinema, 119. 104 Rosen, “Pkhadim Leumiim.” 105 According to Matt Hills, such intertextual reference is one of the p­ leasures of con­temporary horror. Matt Hills, The ­Pleasures of Horror (London: Continuum, 2005), 193. 106 ­There is a similar sequence in Wes Craven’s ­earlier film, The Hills Have Eyes (1977), in which the ­father of the ­family jams his fin­ger into a cannibal’s wound. 107 Carol J. Clover, “Her Body, Himself: Gender in the Slasher Film,” in Horror: The Film Reader, ed. Mark Jancovich (New York: Routledge, 2001), 82. 108 “When the Final Girl stands at last in the light of day with the knife in her hand, she has delivered herself into the adult world.” Clover, “Her Body, Himself,” 81. 109 Clover, “Her Body, Himself,” 83. 110 For a discussion of repre­sen­ta­tions of ­Russian immigrants in Israeli films, see Olga Gershenson and Dale Hudson, “New Immigrant, Old Story: Framing ­Russians on the Israeli Screen,” Journal of Film and Video 60, nos. 3–4 (2008): 25–42. 111 Oron Shamir, “Festival kolnoa darom 2014: Havyan Ha-shiput Be-taharut Ha-atsmait Ve-ha-zokhim,” Srita, June 22, 2014, http://­srita​.­net​/­2014​/­06​/­22​/­csf​ _­2014​_­winners​_ ­and​_ ­jury​_­duty​/­#more​-­17066. 112 See for instance, Orr Sigoli, “Tnu le-­tsahal levada,” Kalkalist, October 10, 2016. 113 Amir Bogen, “Tsahal mafhid ve-­gam matzhik: Boaz armoni al tsilumei mesuvag harig,” Yediot Aharonot, October 18, 2015; Britt Schwartz-­Posner, “Hi Be-­seret,” Bemahane, October 15, 2015. 114 According to Shin Bet, the Israel Security Agency, in October 2015 alone t­ here ­were 620 attacks carried out by Palestinian militants or individuals.

198 • Notes to Pages 98–101

115 “Wave of Terror 2015–2019,” Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs, https://­mfa​.­gov​.­il​ /­MFA​/­ForeignPolicy​/­Terrorism​/­Palestinian​/­Pages​/ ­Wave​-­of​-­terror​-­October​-­2015​ .­aspx. 116 Oron Shamir, “Mesuvag Harig: Mikrokosmum Shel Ha-hevra,” Akhbar Hair, October 15, 2015. 117 Natalya Eremin, “Mesuvag Harig: Met Lits’ok Be-avtash,” Makor Rishon, October 16, 2015. 118 Avner Shavit, “Ha-avtash Ha-merutash: Mesuvag Harig Be-kikhuvo Shel Itay Zvolon Hu Komediat Eima Mehana ve-Marshima,” Walla, October 18, 2015, https://­e​.­walla​.­co​.­il​/­item​/­2897984. 119 Yishai Kiczales, “Eima israelit,” Israel Hayom, October 20, 2015. 120 Yael Shuv, “Tsava Hoser Ha-­yesha,” Time Out, October 15, 2015; Uri Klein, “Mesuvag harig,” Haaretz, December 8, 2016. 121 Shmulik Duvdevani, “Mesuvag harig: Eima tsahalit bli basis,” Yediot Aharonot, October 21, 2015. 122 Meir Schnitzer, “Esh ktana,” Maariv, October 23, 2015. 123 Yair Raveh, “Tavlat Ha-mevakrim Ha-hadasha Shel Israel,” Cinemascope, November 12, 2015, http://­cinemascope​.­co​.­il​/­archives​/­22786​?­f bclid​=­IwAR0Xi96hlVkYCvWgPVae​ _­​-­f v9iMPqpdt3VYrNVAuzjOfnX4w4wOQrXJ8jU0​.­. 124 The media reported that 25,000 tickets ­were sold (Shavit, “Ha-­avtash Ha-­ merutash”). But according to the ­Organization of the Israeli Film Theater ­Owners only 17,000 tickets ­were sold. The discrepancy is due to the promotions offering soldiers a second ticket for ­free. 125 Author’s interview with Lederman. 126 Gundar-­Goshen and Shutan-­Goshen wrote a series, Iron Yarmolke (Kipat Barzel, 2017, Keshet), about ultra-­Orthodox soldiers in the IDF. 127 Irad Rubinstain. Facebook post, November 23, 2018, https://­w ww​.­facebook​.­com​ /­irad​.­rubinstain. 128 Irad Rubinstein, introductory remarks (premiere of The Damned, Cinema Citi, Ramat Ha-­Sharon, Israel, November 23, 2018). 129 Author’s online interview with Yoav Shutan-­Goshen, July 1, 2018. 130 On ­Russian Israeli filmmakers, see Olga Gershenson, “Immigrant Cinema: Russian-­Israelis on Screens and ­behind the Cameras, in Israeli Cinema: Identities in Motion, ed. Miri Talmon and Yaron Peleg (Austin: Texas University Press, 2011), 134–151. 131 Author’s online interview with Evgeny Ruman, June 16, 2019. 132 Author’s interview with Ruman. 133 Author’s online interview with Ram Shweky, June 28, 2019. 134 Author’s interviews with Ruman and with Shutan-­Goshen. 135 On diegetic camera in horror, see Zachary Ingle, “George A. Romero’s Diary of the Dead and the Rise of the Diegetic Camera in Recent Horror Films,” Ol3Media 4, no. 9 (2011): 31–36. 136 Daniel Martin, “Japan’s Blair Witch: Restraint, Maturity, and Generic Canons in the British Critical Reception of Ring,” Cinema Journal 48, no. 3 (Spring 2009): 35–51. 137 Hills, ­Pleasures of Horror, 27. 138 Author’s interviews with Ruman and with Shutan-­Goshen. 139 Nakba (literally catastrophe in Arabic) is the term used to describe the dispossession, displacement, and death of Palestinians as a consequence of the 1948 War. For further reference, see Ahmad H. Sa’di and Lila Abu-­Lughod, eds. Nakba: Palestine, 1948, and the Claims of Memory (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007).

Notes to Pages 102–106 • 199

140 Martin Lefebre, “Between Setting and Landscape in the Cinema,” in his Landscape and Film (London: Routledge, 2006), 22–23. 141 Lefebre, “Between Setting,” 29, 33. 142 Author’s interview with Shweky. 143 Ranen Omer-­Sherman, Israel in Exile: Jewish Writing and the Desert (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2010), 25. 144 In the po­liti­cally divisive 1990 military court decision, four Givati soldiers ­were convicted of assaulting Palestinians in Gaza during the First Intifada. “Army Court Convicts IDF Soldiers of Using Excessive Force in Gaza,” JTA, October 2, 1990, https://­w ww​.­jta​.­org​/­1990​/­10​/­02​/­archive​/­army​-­court​-­convicts​-­idf​-­soldiers​-­of​-­using​ -­excessive​-­force​-­in​-­gaza. 145 Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 86. 146 Matthew J. Raimondo, “Frenetic Aesthetics: Observational Horror and Spectatorship,” Horror Studies 5, no. 1 (2014): 66. 147 Turner, The Blair Witch Proj­ect, 36. 148 Turner, Blair Witch Proj­ect, 62. 149 In the film the proverb sounds like a Bedouin curse, but it is an old ­English proverb used by Shakespeare in Hamlet. 150 On IDF concern with public opinion, see Michal Shavit, Media Strategy and Military Operations in the 21st ­Century: Mediatizing the Israel Defense Forces (London: Routledge, 2016). 151 Avinoam Meir and Ze’ev Zivan, “Sociocultural Encounters on the Frontier: Jewish Settlers and Bedouin Nomads in the Negev,” in Ethnic Frontiers and Peripheries: Landscapes of Development and ­Inequality in Israel, ed. Oren Yiftachel and Avinoam Meir (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1998), 241–267. 152 On the expulsion of Bedouins in 1948, see Ilan Pappé, The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (Oxford: Oneworld), 2006. For an account of a massacre in a Bedouin village, see Nasser Rego, “1948 and Memoricide: The 1948 Al-’Araqib/Negev Massacre and its Legacy,” Holy Land Studies: A Multidisciplinary Journal 11, no. 2 (November 2012): 205–215. 153 Yael Zerubavel, Desert in the Promised Land (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2019), 139–141. 154 ­These towns lacked infrastructure, employment, and educational prospects and ­were not a good fit for the traditional Bedouin lifestyle. Zerubavel, Desert, 142. 155 Zerubavel, Desert, 142, 147. 156 Shlomo Swirski, “Transparent Citizens: Israeli Government Policy t­ oward the Negev Bedouins,” Hagar: Studies in Culture, Polity & Identities 8, no. 2 (2008): 25–45. 157 Sigmund Freud, “The Uncanny” [1919], in The Monster Theory Reader, ed. Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2020), 59–83. 158 Avery F. Gordon, Ghostly ­Matters: Haunting and the S­ ociological Imagination. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), xvi. 159 Gil Z. Hochberg, Visual Occupations: Vio­lence and Visibility in a Conflict Zone (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2015), 37–38. 160 For an analy­sis of the ways in which category ascription of ethnic groups produces statutory inequalities in Israel, see Cédric Parizot, “Gaza, Beersheba, Dhahriyya: Another Approach to the Negev Bedouins in the Israeli-­Palestinian Space,” Bulletin du Centre de Recherche Français à Jérusalem 9 (2001): 98–110. 161 Parizot, “Gaza, Beersheba, Dhahriyya,” 105. 162 Zerubavel, Desert, 152. 163 Zerubavel, Desert, 7. 164 Hochberg, Visual Occupations, 37–57.

200 • Notes to Pages 106–114

165 Steven Cohan and Ina Rae Hark, “Introduction,” in The Road Movie Book, ed. Steven Cohan and Ina Rae Hark (London: Routledge, 1997), 5. 166 Yael Zerubavel, “Passages, Wars, and Encounters with Death: The Desert as a Site of Memory in Israeli Film,” in Deeper than Oblivion: Trauma and Memory in Israeli Cinema, ed. Raz Yosef and Boaz Hagin (New York: Bloomsbury, 2013), 300. 167 Zerubavel, Desert, 4. 168 Zerubavel, “Passages,” 301. 169 Zerubavel, Desert, 4. 170 Dylan Trigg, “The Place of Trauma: Memory, Haunting and the Temporality of Ruins,” Memory Studies 2, no. 1 (2009): 87–101. 171 Hochberg, Visual Occupations, 49. 172 Author’s interview with Ruman. 173 Cecilia Sayad, “Found Footage Horror and the Frame’s Undoing,” Cinema Journal 55, no. 2 (2016): 63. 174 In the IDF, a rank of a first lieutenant (segen), is indicated by two stripes on the shoulder. 175 Thomas Elsaesser, “The Mind-­Game Film,” in Puzzle Films: Complex Storytelling in Con­temporary Cinema, ed. Warren Buckland (Chichester: Malden, 2009), 13–41. 176 Zerubavel, “Passages,” 319. 177 Zerubavel, “Passages,” 304. 178 Anat Zanger, “The Desert or Myth of Empty Place,” in Place, Memory and Myth in Con­temporary Israeli Cinema (London: Valentine Mitchell, 2012), 103. 179 Zanger, “Desert or Myth of Empty Place,” 103–104. 180 Zerubavel, “Passages,” 302, 318. 181 ­There are, of course, films by Palestinian filmmakers that engage with the memory of the Nakba, such as The Time That Remains (2009, Elia Suleiman) and Salt of this Sea (Milh hadha al-­bahr, 2008, Annemarie Jacir). 182 For an analy­sis of Forgiveness, see Raz Yosef, “The Identity of the Victim: Trauma and Responsibility in Beufaurt, Lebanon, Waltz with Bashir, and Forgiveness,” in Politics of Loss and Trauma in Con­temporary Israeli Cinema, 139–163. For a discussion of The Dead of Jaffa, see Olga Gershenson, “In ‘The Dead of Jaffa,’ the Past Haunts Israel’s Pre­sent,” The Forward, August 9, 2019. 183 Gordon, Ghostly ­Matters, xvi. 184 Hagar Shezaf, “Burying the Nakba: How Israel Systematically Hides Evidence of the 1948 Expulsion of Arabs,” Haaretz, July 5, 2019; Rona Sela, “Rethinking National Archives in Colonial Countries and Zones of Conflict: The Israeli-­ Palestinian Conflict and Israel’s National Photography Archives as a Case Study,” in Dissonant Archives: Con­temporary Visual Culture and Contested Narratives in the ­Middle East, ed. Anthony Downey (London: I. B. Tauris, 2015), 79–92. 185 See Zochrot website, www​.­zochrot​.­org. For further discussion, see Yifat Gutman, Memory Activism: Reimagining the Past for the ­Future in Israel-­Palestine (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2017). 186 For discussion of the Nakba Law (2011), see Gutman, Memory Activism, 90–112. 187 Ilan Pappe, The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (Oxford: Oneworld, 2007). 188 Irina Sheikhatovich, “Zhuravl v nebe ili ruman bez mirazhei,” Vesti, December 13, 2018. 189 Raphael Timnah, “Mekulalim,” Seret, November 29, 2018, https://­w ww​.­seret​.­co​.­il​ /­critics​/­moviereviews​.­asp​?­id​=­2307. 190 Orr Sigoli, “Yesh Eima Israelit: ‘Mekulalim’mevuiam Tov Aval Ha-tasrit Lo Ikvi,” Globes, November 30, 2018.

Notes to Pages 114–122 • 201

191 Tomer Kamerling, “Ha-­k lala Shel Ha-yeled Ha-mekhunan,” Mako, November 29, 2018, https://­w ww​.­mako​.­co​.­il​/­culture​-­weekend​/­tomer​-­movies​-­reviews​/­A rticle​ -­0bbbcf512fe4761006​.­htm. 192 Meir Schnitzer, “Mekulalim: Zombim beduim zoafim ve-­neshamot to’ot hem lo takhlif le-­a lila,” Maariv, December 8, 2018. 193 Shmulik Duvdevani, “ ‘Mekulalim’—od seret eima tzahali hasar erekh,” Yediot Aharonot, December 3, 2018. 194 Uri Klein, “Mekulalim: Seret eima she-­ein bo rega mavhil ehad,” Haaretz, December 3, 2018. ­ rganization of the Israeli Film Theater ­Owners. 195 According to the O 196 Eran Kaplan, “From Hero to Victim: The Changing Image of the Soldier on the Israeli Screen,” in Israeli Cinema, 59–69. 197 Kaplan, “From Hero to Victim,” 63. 198 Kaplan, “From Hero to Victim,” 64. 199 Kaplan, “From Hero to Victim,” 60–61. 2 00 Boaz Hagin, “Male Weeping as Performative: The Crying Mossad Assassin in Walk on ­Water,” Camera Obscura 68, no. 2 (2008): 103–139. 201 Rosen, “National Fears”: 77–103. On military pedagogy, see Judd Ne’eman, “Ḳamerah Obsḳurah Shel Ha-noflim: Ha-pedagogyah Ha-tsva’it Ve-ʼavizareyah Ba-ḳolno ʻa Ha-Yiśreʼeli,” in Biṭaḥon Ve-tiḳshoret: Dinamiḳah Shel Yeḥasim, ed. Udi Lebel (Beer-­ Sheva: Ben-­Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2005), 347–386. 2 02 Anat Zanger, “Filming National Identity: War and W ­ oman in Israeli Cinema,” in Military and Militarism in Israeli Society, 261–280.

Chapter 5  The Jewish Super­natural 1 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz, Tel Aviv, December 25, 2017. 2 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. The Paz ­brothers became part of the genre film community l­ ater, taking part in the Utopia festival and the Sci-fi, Horror, and Beer group. 3 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. 4 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. 5 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. 6 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. 7 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. 8 Cinematographer Rotem Yaron recalls that they shot in June 2013 for about ten days, continued shooting for another week a year l­ ater, and kept shooting for a day or two over the next few months. Author’s online interview with Rotem Yaron, September 23, 2018. 9 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. 10 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. 11 Author’s interview with Yaron. 12 Author’s interview with Yaron. 13 Email correspondence with Shaked Berenson, July 27, 2018. 14 Email correspondence with Shaked Berenson. 15 The quote is misattributed; it comes from the Tractate Eruvin 19a. 16 Barbara Creed, “Horror and the Monstrous-­Feminine: An Imaginary Abjection,” in Horror, The Film Reader, ed. Mark Jancovich (London: Routledge, 2002), 67–76. 17 See chapter 1 for a brief discussion of the dybbuk figure and its cinematic repre­sen­ta­tions.

202 • Notes to Pages 123–132

18 Simcha Paull Raphael, Jewish Views of the Afterlife (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2009), 158–160. 19 Sidra DeKoven Ezrahi, “ ‘To What ­Shall I Compare Thee?’ Jerusalem as Ground Zero of the Hebrew Imagination,” PMLA 122, no. 1 (January 2007): 224–225. 20 Zev Vilnay, Legends of Jerusalem (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of Amer­i­ca, 1973), 5–17. 21 Philip S. Alexander, “Jerusalem as the Omphalos of the World: On the History of a Geo­graph­i­cal Concept,” in Jerusalem: Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Chris­tian­ity, and Islam, ed. Lee I. Levine (New York: Continuum, 1999), 114–115. 22 Matthew J. Raimondo, “Frenetic Aesthetics: Observational Horror and Spectatorship.” Horror Studies 5, no. 1 (2014), 66. 23 Raimondo, “Frenetic Aesthetics,” 73 ­ leasure and Narrative Cinema,” 24 The idea of gaze was coined by Laura Mulvey, “Visual P Screen 16, no. 3 (October 1975): 6–18. 25 Cecilia Sayad, “Found Footage Horror and the Frame’s Undoing,” Cinema Journal 55, no. 2 (2016): 66. 26 Alexandra Heller-­Nicholas, Found Footage Horror Films: Fear and the Appearance of Real­ity (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2014), 24. 27 Hypermediacy is defined as a “style of visual repre­sen­ta­tion whose goal is to remind the viewer of the medium.” Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin, Remediation: Understanding New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2000), 272. 28 Linnie Blake and Xavier Aldana Reyes, “Introduction: Horror in the Digital Age,” in Digital Horror: Haunted Technologies, Network Panic and the Found Footage Phenomenon, ed. Linnie Blake and Xavier Aldana Reyes (London: I. B. Tauris, 2016), 1. 29 Blake and Reyes, “Introduction,” 3. 30 Blake and Reyes, “Introduction,” 4. 31 Matt Hills, The ­Pleasures of Horror (London: Continuum, 2005), 193. 32 Graziani also played an Arab character on the first season of the FX series The Tyrant (2014). In American productions Israeli actors often play Arabs. 33 Carol Bardenstein, “Cross/Cast: Passing in Israeli and Palestinian Cinema,” in Palestine, Israel, and the Politics of P ­ opular Culture, ed. Rebecca L. Stein and Ted Swedenburg (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), 99–126. 34 Hundreds of tourists are indeed affected by Jerusalem syndrome, but ­there is no designated ­mental asylum for its treatment; see Yair Bar-­El et al., “Jerusalem Syndrome,” British Journal of Psychiatry 176, no. 1 (2000): 86–90. The exterior of the building was shot in Nazareth. 35 Vilnay, Legends of Jerusalem, 241. 36 The ­actual phrase, “If you talk to God, you are praying; if God talks to you, you are a schizophrenic,” by a psychiatrist Thomas Szasz, is meant to ridicule rigid definitions of traditional psychiatry. Thomas Szasz, The Second Sin (Garden City, NY: Anchor Press, 1973), 101. 37 On the cinematic aesthetics of [REC], see Xavier Aldana Reyes, “The [REC] Films: Affective Possibilities and Stylistic limitations of Found Footage Horror,” in Digital Horror, 153. 38 The scene was filmed in the St. Stephen Church, part of the complex of Beit Jamal, a Catholic monastery run by Salesian monks near the town of Beit Shemesh in Israel. 39 Sayad, “Found-­Footage,” 65. 40 Anat Zanger, “Jerusalem’s Skyline: Between the Sacred and the Abject,” in her Place, Memory and Myth in Con­temporary Israeli Cinema (London: Vallentine

Notes to Pages 133–137 • 203

Mitchell,2012), 153–194. Zanger focuses on The Burdensome Stone (Even Ha-­shtiya, 2008, Tali Ohaion), Someone to Run With (Mishehu Larutz Ito, 2006, Oded Davidoff), and Seven Minutes in Heaven (Sheva Dakot Be-gan Eden, 2008, Omri Givon); the ­later film Mountain (Har, 2015, Yaelle Kayam) can be also added to the list. 41 Full disclosure: I wrote a review of the film’s premiere at the Jerusalem Film Festival (“The ‘Z’ is for Zombie.” The Forward, August 14, 2015). 42 Debra Kamin, “Jerusalem Film Festival Opens with ‘Amy,’ ‘JeruZalem’ and ‘Tikkun,’ ” Variety, July 10, 2015. 43 Kim Newman, “JeruZalem: Review,” ScreenDaily, August 28, 2015. 44 Frank Scheck, “JeruZalem: Film Review,” Hollywood Reporter, November 17, 2015. 45 Ben Kenigsberg, “Film Review: ‘JeruZalem,’ ” Variety, January 21, 2016. 46 Neil Genzlinger, “Review: ‘JeruZalem,’ through Glasses, Darkly,” New York Times, January 28, 2016. 47 Barry Hertz, “JeruZalem: Demons Rise from Hell’s Gates in Overdone ‘Found-­ Footage’ Flick,” Globe and Mail, January 29, 2016. 48 Nirit Anderman, “Al Homotayikh Ir David Hifkadnu Zombim,” Haaretz, July 3, 2016. 49 The clip is available at https://­vimeo​.­com​/­168808701, accessed August 2, 2018. ­ rganization of the Israeli Film Theater ­Owners, eight thousand 50 According to the O tickets ­were sold. 51 Uri Klein, “Apokalipsa Ze Kan,” Haaretz, July 12, 2016. 52 Hannah Brown, “Zombie Jamboree,” Jerusalem Post, July 7, 2016. 53 Liron Sinai, “JeruZalem, Skira,” Srita, July 10, 2016, http://­srita​.­net​/­2016​/­07​/­10​ /­jeruzalem​_­review​/­. 54 Yoav Lustig, “Yerushalayim shel Mata,” Makor Rishon, July 29, 2016. 55 Tomer Kamerling, “Yerushalayim Ha-Mehuleket: 5 Hearot al JeruZalem,” Mako, July 7, 2016, https://­w ww​.­mako​.­co​.­il​/­culture​-­weekend​/­tomer​-­movies​-­reviews​ /­A rticle​-­315d74a2f05b551006​.­htm. 56 Yael Shuv, “JeruZalem: Oved lo Ra Ke-­Seret Tadmit she Misrad Ha-­Tayarut, Aval lo Yoter,” Time Out -­Tel Aviv, July 7, 2016, 57 Shmulik Duvdevani, “JeruZalem: Yerushalayim al Rosh Eimateinu,” Yediot Aharonot, July 12, 2016, https://­w ww​.­ynet​.­co​.­il​/­articles​/­0,7340,L​-­4826976,00​.­html.

Chapter 6  Slasher on the Kibbutz 1 Author’s interview with Eitan Gafny, Tel Aviv, December 22, 2017. 2 Author’s interview with Gafny. 3 See Jonathan Barkan, “­Children of the Fall Review—­Th is Israeli Slasher Gets ­Political,” DreadCentral, December 14, 2017, https://­w ww​.­dreadcentral​.­com​ /­reviews​/­262586​/­children​-­fall​-­review​-­israeli​-­slasher​-­gets​-­political; Allen Christian, “­Children of the Fall, 2017,” Flickering Myth, September 30, 2018, https://­w ww​ .­fl ickeringmyth​.­com​/­2018​/­09​/­f ractured​-­v isions​-­fi lm​-­festival​-­review​-­children​-­of​ -­t he​-­fall​-­2017​/­. 4 Author’s interview with Gafny. “­Children of Winter 73,” lyr­ics by Shmuel Hasfari, ­music by Uri Vidislavsky. 5 The epigraph misquotes the canonical lines of the song, which are “The cat came, and ate the goat; The dog came, and bit the cat. The stick came, and beat the dog,” ­etc. 6 For religious interpretations of “Chad Gadya,” see Kenneth Brander, “An Analy­sis of Had Gadya,” Journal of Jewish ­Music & Liturgy 17 (1994): 35–47. 7 Author’s interview with Gafny.

204 • Notes to Pages 138–143

8 An exception that confirmed the rule was an experiment that took place in 1951–1952, when a group of Palestinian youth ­were selected to stay on a kibbutz for “reeducation.” Even ­a fter their sojourn, however, the Palestinians ­were still excluded from the prospect of membership. Ranen Omer-­Sherman, Imagining the Kibbutz: Visions of Utopia in Lit­er­a­ture and Film (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015), 140–160, 300–301. ­ uropean Cinema: Face to Face with Hollywood (Amsterdam: 9 Thomas Elsaesser, E Amsterdam University Press, 2005), 510. 10 Author’s interview with Gafny. 11 Anita Shapira, Israel: A History (Hanover, NH: Brandeis University Press, 2014), 329. 12 Shapira, Israel, 348. 13 Shapira, Israel, 342–344. 14 Sidra DeKoven Ezrahi, “From Auschwitz to the ­Temple Mount: Binding and Unbinding the Israeli Narrative,” in ­After Testimony: The Ethics and Aesthetics of Holocaust Narrative for the ­Future, ed. James Phelan, Jakob Lothe, and Susan Rubin Suleiman (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2012), 299–300. 15 Idith Zertal, Israel’s Holocaust and the Politics of Nationhood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 176. 16 Author’s interview with Gafny. 17 Author’s interview with Gafny. 18 Author’s interview with Gafny. 19 Eitan Gafny, post-­screening discussion of ­Children of the Fall, Utopia Festival, Tel Aviv, Israel, December 14, 2017. 20 See Zertal, Israel’s Holocaust. 21 On sabra my­thol­ogy, see Oz Almog, The Sabra: The Creation of the New Jew (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000). 22 The visual ele­ments of Westerns appeared in ­earlier Israeli films, including Blazing Sand (Holot Lohatim, 1960, Raphael Nussbaum) and Hole in the Moon (Hor Be-­levana, 1964, Uri Zohar). See Rachel S. Harris, “New Frontiers: Creating a Nation through the Israeli Western,” in Casting a ­Giant Shadow: The Transnational Shaping of Israeli Cinema, ed. Rachel S. Harris and Dan Chyutin (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2021), 80–102. 23 Throughout the 1940s to the 1970s, the Relatives Search Department of the Jewish agency conducted the radio broadcasts. 24 Shohat, Israeli Cinema, 53–104. 25 Matthew Car­ter, Myth of the Western: New Perspectives on Hollywood’s Frontier Narrative (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), 9–12. Car­ter qualifies that not all Westerns endorsed the Frontier myth, and some early Westerns interrogated it. 26 Approximately 15 ­percent of settlers are American passport holders, which is much higher than the percentage of Americans in the general Israeli population. See Yael Hirschhorn, City on a Hilltop: American Jews and the Israeli Settler Movement (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017). 27 Eli Ashkenazi, “Be-­kibbutz Khogegim 40 Shnot Mitnadvot Shvediot,” Walla, June 7, 2005, https://­news​.­walla​.­co​.­il​/­item​/­727830. 28 Author’s interview with Gafny. 29 “­Russians” in Israel constitute about 20 ­percent of the population, and are a significant ­political and cultural force, often leaning right. Larissa Remennick, “Russian-­Speaking Israelis in the Ethno-­Social Tapestry of Israel,” in Handbook of Israel: Major Debates, ed. Eliezer Ben-­R afael et al. (Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, 2016): 201–216.

Notes to Pages 143–149 • 205

30 Author’s interview with Gafny. Regev came ­under attack for her remarks and l­ ater apologized; see “Israeli MK: I ­Didn’t Mean to Shame Holocaust by Calling African Mi­grants a ‘Cancer,’ ” Haaretz, May 27, 2012. 31 Mustafa Kabha and Nahum Karlinsky, “Ha-­pardes Ha-­neelam: Ha-­pardasanut Ha-­aravit-­ha-­palestinit ad Shnat 1948,” Zemanim, 129 (Winter 2015): 94–109. ­ usic by 32 “Eli, Eli” is based on the 1942 poem by Hannah Szenes and was put to m David Zahavi. On Holocaust commemorations in Israel, see Dalia Ofer, “We Israelis Remember, but How? The Memory of the Holocaust and the Israeli Experience,” Israel Studies18, no. 2 (Summer 2013): 70–85. 33 Author’s interview with Gafny. 34 The estimates of the numbers of volunteers on kibbutzim in the 1970s vary from 12,000 annually (Ashkenazi, “Be-­kibbutz Khogegim”) to 30,000 annually. David Mittelberg, Strangers in Paradise: The Israeli Kibbutz Experience. (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books, 1988), 6. According to Mittelberg, 70 ­percent of volunteers at the time ­were not Jewish (58). 35 Ashkenazi, “Be-­kibbutz Khogegim.” 36 Alison M. Bowes, “Strangers in the Kibbutz: Volunteer Workers in an Israeli Community.” Man, New Series 15, no. 4 (December 1980): 671–672, 675. 37 According to the Israeli Law of Return, only Jewish ­people and their ­family members are eligible for immigration and citizenship. This law is one of the challenges to Israeli democracy, referred to as an “ethnic democracy” or “ethnocracy.” See Sammy Smooha, “The Model of Ethnic Democracy: Israel as a Jewish and demo­cratic State,” Nations and Nationalism 8, no. 4 (October 2002): 475–503; and Oren Yiftachel, Ethnocracy: Land and Identity Politics in Israel/Palestine (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006). The passing of the Nationality Law in July 2018 poses further challenges. 38 Yardena Schwartz, “Foreign Workers Are the New Kibbutzniks,” Haaretz, September 27, 2014. 39 In actuality, the 1973 War started with an attack at 2 p.m., but Gafny moves the events to the ­middle of the night to follow the slasher convention. 40 Zertal, Israel’s Holocaust, 8. 41 Zertal, Israel’s Holocaust, 192. 42 Ezrahi, “From Auschwitz,” 292. 43 The historical inspiration for this scene is that Peter O’Toole, a vocalist in an ­earlier incarnation of the band, did volunteer on a kibbutz in Israel but not ­until 1977. His departure allowed Robert Smith to take the vocalist’s role. 44 For in-­depth discussions of ­these literary works, see Omer-­Sherman, Imagining the Kibbutz, 187–203. 45 Eldad Kedem and Gilad Padva, “From Sabra to ­Children of the Sun: Kibbutz Films from the 1930s to the 2000s,” in One Hundred Years of Kibbutz Life: A ­Century of Crises and Reinvention, ed. Michal Palgi and Shulamit Reinharz (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 2011), 180. 46 Kedem and Padva, “From Sabra to ­Children of the Sun,” 184. 47 Kedem and Padva, “From Sabra to ­Children of the Sun,” 185. 48 Eldad Kedem, “Kibbutz Films in Transition: From Morality to Ethics,” In Israeli Cinema: Identities in Motion, ed. Miri Talmon and Yaron Peleg (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011), 330–331. 49 Kedem and Padva, “From Sabra to ­Children of the Sun,” 190. 50 In one scene a young boy finds the corpse of his dog in a walk-in freezer. In another scene, the boy’s ­mother uses the pitchfork to attack the man who killed the dog. 51 Omer-­Sherman, Imagining the Kibbutz, 223.

206 • Notes to Pages 150–160

52 Zertal, Israel’s Holocaust, 174–176. 53 Zertal, Israel’s Holocaust, 172–173.

Chapter 7  Escaping Israel 1 See, for instance, Yara Robinson, “Zombieland: Al sirtei eima israelim,” Rating, September 14, 2010; Steve Barton,” Israel to Take Zombie Action to Another World,” Dread Central, February 3, 2011, https://­w ww​.­dreadcentral​.­com​/­news​ /­22097​/­israel​-­to​-­take​-­zombie​-­action​-­to​-­another​-­world; Nirit Anderman, “  ‘Ulam Akher’ Tsafui Lehioyot Ha-seret Ha-Israeli Ha-rishon Be-tlat Mamad,” Haaretz, July 28, 2012. 2 Amir Bogen, “Eima Israelit—Lo Rak Be-metsiut,” Yediot Aharonot, September 15, 2014, https://­w ww​.­ynet​.­co​.­il​/­articles​/­0,7340,L​-­4570715,00​.­html. 3 Merav Landau-­Berkovitz, “Tzuk eitan,” Yediot Hadera, September 12, 2014. 4 In the entire film, ­there is just one giveaway: when one of the characters lights a match, the matchbox bears Hebrew text. 5 Bogen, “Eima Israelit.” 6 On tensions between Jewishness and Israeliness, see Baruch Kimmerling, “Between Hegemony and Dormant Kulturkampf in Israel,” in In Search of Identity: Jewish Aspects in Israeli Culture ed. Dan Urian and Efraim Karsh, (London: Frank Cass, 1999), 49–73. 7 Author’s interview with Guilhad Emilio Schenker, Tel Aviv, January 20, 2018. 8 ­There are several translations of the story; in this chapter I rely on S. Y. Agnon, “The Lady and the Peddler,” in Modern Hebrew Lit­er­a­ture, ed. Robert Alter. (New York: Behrman ­House, 1975), 201–215. 9 Author’s interview with Schenker. 10 Author’s interview with Schenker. 11 Author’s interview with Schenker. 12 For the actors’ perspective, see Rina Matzliach,” Hamesh nashim khazakot al masakh ehad,” Ha-­hadashot 12, Keshet, June 7, 2018, https://­w ww​.­mako​.­co​.­il​/­news​ -­channel2​/­Friday​-­Newscast​-­q2​_­2018​/­A rticle​-­a3771f5bfc4e361004​.­htm. 13 Author’s interview with Schenker. 14 Author’s interview with Schenker. 15 Author’s interview with Schenker. 16 For a particularly convincing evocation of that approach, see Robert Stam, “Beyond Fidelity: The Dialogics of Adaptation,” in Film Adaptation, ed. James Naremore (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2000), 54–76. 17 Linda Costanzo Cahir, Lit­er­a­ture into Film: Theory and Practical Approaches (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2006), 13–44. 18 Agnon’s story was adapted before. The Lady and the Peddler (Ha-­adonit Ve-­ha-­ rokhel) directed by Chaim Gil (Israeli Broadcast Authority, 1989) is a fifty-­minute ­television drama, presenting a reasonably faithful but uninspiring version. 19 Karen Grumberg, Hebrew Gothic: History and the Poetics of Persecution (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2019), 38. 20 Grumberg, Hebrew Gothic, 3. 21 Grumberg, Hebrew Gothic, 61. 22 According to Robert Alter, the names Helen and Joseph represent a juxtaposition between Hellenistic and Judaic cultures. The Greek name Helen, made famous by Helen of Troy, is used in the Midrash as the name of gentile ­women. In contrast, Joseph is a Hebrew name bringing into the story the rich association with the biblical character from his sojourn in foreign lands to his temptation by Potiphar’s

Notes to Pages 160–164 • 207

wife. Robert Alter, “Introduction,” in his Modern Hebrew Lit­er­a­ture, (New York: Behrman ­House, 1975), 197–200. 23 Alter, “Introduction,” 206. 24 The paintings on the walls include ­those by Caravaggio, Cristofano Allori, Orazio Gentileschi, Orazio Gentileschi, and Peter Paul Rubens. On Judith beheading Holofernes as a common subject, see Renate Peters, “The Metamorphoses of Judith in Lit­er­a­ture and Art: War by Other Means,” in Dressing up for War: Transformations of Gender and Genre in the Discourse and Lit­er­a­ture of War, ed. Andrew Monnickendam (Amsterdam: Rodopi. 2001), 111–126. 25 ­Later, the novel was adapted into the eponymous film (2001, Michael Haneke). 26 Amit Pinchevski and Roy Brand, “Holocaust Perversions: The Stalags Pulp Fiction and the Eichmann Trial,” Critical Studies in Media Communication 24, no. 5 (2007): 387–407. 27 Gershom Scholem, “Reflections on S. Y. Agnon,” Commentary 44, no. 6 (1967): 59–66. 28 Author’s interview with Schenker. 29 Author’s interview with Schenker. 30 In modern Hebrew, “sabra” refers to the native-­born Israeli Jew, embodying the ideals of Zionist ideology and newfound masculinity. See Oz Almog, The Sabra: The Creation of the New Jew (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000). 31 Grumberg, Hebrew Gothic, 60. 32 Author’s interview with Schenker. 33 Alter, “Introduction,” 199. 34 Author’s interview with Schenker. 35 For background on the Israeli army, see chapter 4. 36 Jonathan Barkan, “Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club—­A Charming, Quirky Dark Drama,” Dread Central, December 13, 2017, http://­w ww​.­dreadcentral​ .­com​/­reviews​/­262500​/­madam​-­yankelovas​-­fine​-­literature​-­club​-­review​-­charming​ -­quirky​-­dark​-­drama​/­DreadCentral review. 37 Peter Martin, “Fantastic Fest 2018 Review: Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club Beguiles, Strangely,” Screen Anarchy, September 22, 2018, https://­screenanarchy​ .­com​/­2018​/­09​/­fantastic​-­fest​-­2018​-­review​-­madam​-­yankelovas​-­fine​-­literature​-­club​ -­beguiles​-­strangely​.­html. 38 Kristy Puchko, “The Horror and Heroines at Fantastic Fest 2018,” RogerEbert​.­com, October 2, 2018, https://­w ww​.­rogerebert​.­com​/­festivals​-­and​-­awards​/­the​-­horror​-­and​ -­heroines​-­at​-­fantastic​-­fest​-­2018. 39 Frank Scheck, “ ‘Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club’: Film Review,” Hollywood Reporter, June 20, 2019, https://­w ww​.­hollywoodreporter​.­com​/­review​/­madam​ -­yankelovas​-­fine​-­literature​-­club​-­1220146. 40 Gerri Miller, “ ‘Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club’ Tells a Twisted Love Story,” Jewish Journal, June 19, 2019, https://­jewishjournal​.­com​/­culture​/­arts​/­300319​ /­madam​-­yankelovas​-­fine​-­literature​-­club​-­tells​-­a​-­t wisted​-­love​-­story​/­. 41 Gary Goldstein, “Review: ‘Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club’ Gives Cannibalism a Bad Name,” Los Angeles Times, June 20, 2019, https://­w ww​.­latimes​ .­com​/­entertainment​/­movies​/­la​-­et​-­mn​-­mini​-­madam​-­yankelovas​-­fine​-­literature​-­club​ -­review​-­20190620​-­story​.­html. 42 Avner Shavit, Interview with Iris Kol. 103FM, June 10, 2018. 43 Orr Sigoli, “Seret Israeli Khadash She-kemoto Terem Rainu Be-makhozoteinu,” Globes, June 15, 2018, https://­w ww​.­g lobes​.­co​.­il​/­news​/­article​.­aspx​?­did​=­1001241432. 44 Benjamin Tovias, “Sipur afel,” Yediot Aharonot, June 11, 2018, https://­w ww​.­yediot​ .­co​.­il​/­articles​/­0,7340,L​-­5284789,00​.­html.

208 • Notes to Pages 164–168

45 Shmulik Duvdevani, “Meshuneh Akh Mehaneh—Ha-muadon Le-sefrut Yafa Shel Ha-giveret Yankelova,” Yediot Aharonot Ynet, June 10, 2018, https://­w ww​.­ynet​.­co​.­il​ /­articles​/­0,7340,L​-­5281825,00​.­html. 46 Tomer Kamerling, “Khaser basar,” Mako, June 10, 2018, https://­w ww​.­mako​.­co​.­il​ /­culture​-­weekend​/­tomer​-­movies​-­reviews​/­A rticle​-­6d390405a59e361006​.­htm. 47 Meir Schnitzer, “Nisayon Israeli Koshel Litsor Seret Fantasia: Ha-muadon Le-sefrut Yafa Shel Ha-giveret Yankelova,” Maariv, June 22, 2018, https://­w ww​.­maariv​.­co​.­il​ /­culture​/­movies​/­A rticle​-­646906. 48 Uri Klein, “ ‘Ha-Muadon Le-sefrut Yafa Shel Ha-giveret Yankelova’: Im Ein Erekh, Tokhlu Naknikiyot,” Haaretz, June 19, 2018. 49 Yael Shuv, “Kakh hafakh seret ‘feministi’ ve-­meluhak heitev le-­mofa mizogeni lehakhrid,” Time Out, June 7, 2018. 50 Gershom Scholem, “The Golem of Prague & The Golem of Rehovoth,” Commentary 41, no. 1 (January 1966): 62–65. 51 Elizabeth R. Baer, The Golem Redux: From Prague to Post-­Holocaust Fiction (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2012): 17–37. 52 The collection of golem tales was a literary hoax by a Polish rabbi Yudl Rosenberg, published in 1909. For a discussion of this version, see Baer, The Golem Redux, 28–33. 53 Ma­ya Barzilai, Golem: Modern Wars and their Monsters (New York: New York University Press, 2016). 54 The cast has to be all-­female ­because mixing of sexes on the film sets would make the film unsuitable for viewing by the ultra-­Orthodox audiences. 55 Poka Stanitsa Spit (While the Village Is Asleep, 2014, channel Rossia), 270 episodes. 56 On dybbuks, see note 20 in chapter 5. 57 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz, Tel Aviv, December 25, 2017. 58 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. 59 Although several other cinematic versions of the legend ­were made over the years, Wegener’s film created a definitive image of a clay monster, with a lasting influence on ­popular culture. For instance, in a “Tree­house of Horror XVII” episode of The Simpsons (2006, Fox Broadcasting), which parodies the film, an animated golem is modeled on Wegener’s image. 60 Author’s online interview with Ariel Cohen, March 19, 2020. 61 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz. 62 Yoav and Doron Paz, “Ha-­golem Shel Ha-akhim Paz,” interview by Reem Sherman, Geekonomy podcast, no. 237, January 13, 2019, 1:18:20, https://­geekonomy​.­net​/­2019​ /­01​/­13​/­geekonomy237​/­. 63 Yoav and Doron Paz, “Ha-­golem Shel Ha-akhim Paz,” 64 Yoav and Doron Paz, “Ha-­golem Shel Ha-akhim Paz,” 65 On Norwegian film, see Noel O’Shea, “ ‘Something Genuinely Norwegian’: Cultural Identity ­under the Influence of American Cinema in the Found Footage Aesthetic of Trolljegeren/Trollhunter (2010),” Studies in ­European Cinema 14, no. 1 (2017): 33–47. On Turkish cinema, see Kaya Özkaracalar, “Horror Films in Turkish Cinema: To Use or Not to Use Local Cultural Motifs, That Is Not the Question,” in ­European Nightmares: Horror Cinema in ­Europe since 1945, ed. Patricia Allmer, Emily Brick, and David Huxley (London: Wallflower Press, 2012), 249–261; and Zeynep Sahinturk, “Djinn in the Machine: Technology and Islam in Turkish Horror Film,” in Digital Horror: Haunted Technologies, Network Panic and the Found Footage Phenomenon, edited by Linnie Blake and Xavier Aldana Reyes (London: I. B. Tauris, 2016), 95–107. 66 Author’s interview with Yoav Paz.

Notes to Pages 169–174 • 209

67 Lutz Koepnick, “Amerika Gibt’s Überhaupt Nicht”: Notes on the German Heritage Film,” in German Pop Culture: How “American” Is It? ed. Agnes C. Mueller (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2004), 191. 68 Koepnick, “Amerika Gibt’s Überhaupt Nicht,” 199. 69 Andrew Higson, “Re-­Presenting the National Past: Nostalgia and Pastiche in the Heritage Film,” in Fires W ­ ere Started: British Cinema and Thatcherism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), 112. 70 Higson, “Re-­Presenting the National Past,” 117. 71 On the idea of the shtetl in the American Jewish imagination, see Barbara Kirshenblatt-­ Gimblett, “Introduction,” in Life is with ­People: The Culture of the Shtetl, edited by Mark Zborowski and Elizabeth Herzog (New York: Schocken, 1995), ix–­x lviii. 72 Author’s online interview with Rotem Yaron, January 18, 2020. 73 Elisa Bordin, Masculinity and Westerns: Regenerations at the Turn of the Millennium (Verona, Italy: Ombre Corte, 2014), 221. 74 On Israeli Westerns (sometimes called “Easterns”), see Rachel Harris, “New Frontiers: Creating a Nation through the Israeli Western,” in Casting a G ­ iant Shadow: The Transnational Shaping of Israeli Cinema, ed. Rachel S. Harris and Dan Chyutin (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2021), 80–101. ­ omen golem creators are novels by American 75 Among major works featuring w writers Cynthia Ozick, The Puttermesser Papers (1997) and Thane Rosenbaum, The Golems of Gotham (2002), and by an Israeli writer Sarah Blau, The Book of Creation (Yetzer Lev Ha-­adama, 2007). 76 For discussion of Le Golem, see Baer, The Golem Redux, 65–67. 77 For discussion of “Kaddish,” see Baer, The Golem Redux, 178–180, and Mikel J. Koven, “ ‘Have I Got a Monster for You!’: Some Thoughts on the Golem, The X-­Files and the Jewish Horror Movie,” Folklore 111 (2000): 217–230. 78 Adam Scovell, Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and ­Things Strange (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur Publishing, 2017), 7. 79 Incidentally, Hani Furstenberg appeared in the second season of American Gods. 80 Brynie Furstenberg is Hani Furstenberg’s ­mother. This is the first film in which they appeared together. 81 In the story of the Pied ­Piper of Hamelin, the ­piper saves the town from the rat infestation in return for payment. But when the ­people of Hamelin renege on their promise, the ­piper leads their ­children away with his m ­ usic as a punishment. 82 Zion Zohar, “Pulsa de-­nura: The Innovation of Modern Magic and Ritual,” Modern Judaism (February 2007): 72–99. 83 Zohar shows that the components of the Pulsa de-­nura ­were derived from the ritual of herem, excommunication. 84 Since Rabin’s assassination, Pulsa De-­nura was enacted in Israel against other politicians, most notably against Ariel Sharon during the Israeli withdrawal from Gaza. 85 Charles S. Liebman and Eliezer Don-Yehiya, Civil Religion in Israel: Traditional Judaism and ­Political Culture in the Jewish State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 100–107. 86 For discussion of the place of the Holocaust in Israeli culture and politics, see Idith Zertal, Israel’s Holocaust and the Politics of Nationhood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 87 The subsection title is a riff on the title of Barzilai’s chapter on the golem in Israel: “Our Enemies, Ourselves.” Barzilai, Golem, 13. 88 Barzilai, Golem, 107–145. 89 Barzilai, Golem, 143.

210 • Notes to Pages 174–177

90 Eli Eshed and Uri Fink, Ha-­golem: Sipuro Shel Komiks Israeli, (Ben-­Shemen, Israel: Modan, 2003). This graphic novel is a mocu-­monograph on a fictitious Israeli comic strip, which the authors include in the text. 91 Alon Raab, “Ben Gurion’s Golem and Jewish Lesbians: Subverting Hegemonic History in Two Israeli Graphic Novels,” in The Jewish Graphic Novel: Critical Approaches, edited by Samantha Baskind and Ranen Omer-­Sherman (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2010), 230. 92 Barzilai, Golem, 226 93 Barzilai, Golem, 225. 94 Scovell, Folk Horror, 14. 95 For instance, Kim Newman, “Film Review—­The Golem,” Kim Newman Website, August 29, 2018, https://­johnnyalucard​.­com​/­2018​/­08​/­29​/­frightfest​-­review​-­the​-­golem​ -­2018; Anton Bitel, “The Golem First Look Review,” SciFiNow, August 30, 2018, https://­ www​.­scifinow​.­co​.­uk​/­reviews​/­the​-­golem​-­first​-­look​-­review​-­arrow​-­video​-­frightfest​-­2018. 96 For example, Maayan Gutenmacher, “Kama Al Yatsrah: Ma Khashavnu Al ‘Hagolem,’ Seret Ha-eima Ha-Israeli Ha-hadash,” Mako, January 25, 2019, https://­w ww​ .­mako​.­co​.­il​/­culture​-­movies​/­horror​_­reviews​/­Article​-­9188afaf7e57861006​.­htm​?­f bclid​ =­IwAR2​-­aI3​-­HToWWsGA8UYRaCX2j2v1stpldli6BW2j​_ ­JikcIPJNoXSFiiu5CA; Yaron Wag, “Yesh Lanu Golem: ‘Ha-golem’ Matsliakh Lehakhzir Le-khaim Et Ha-mifletset Ha-yehudit Ha-mitologit,” Walla News, January 29, 2019, https://­e​ .­walla​.­co​.­il​/­item​/­3215780; Yair Raveh, “Kam Al Yotsro: ‘Ha-golem’ Na Bein Seret Marhiv Le-motkhan Eima Khiver,” Kalkalist, January 30, 2019, https://­w ww​ .­calcalist​.­co​.­il​/­consumer​/­articles​/­0,7340,L​-­3755266,00​.­html. 97 Hannah Brown, “ ‘The Golem’ Brings a Legend back to Life,” Jerusalem Post, January 29, 2019, https://­w ww​.­jpost​.­com​/­opinion​/­the​-­golem​-­brings​-­a​-­legend​-­back​-­to​-­life​-­578998. ­ rganization of the Israeli Film Theater ­Owners. 98 According to the data of the O 99 Jonathan Barkan, “Dread Pre­sents: ‘Kim & Ket Stay Alive . . . ​Maybe’ Tackle The Golem!” Dread Central, February 15, 2019, https://­w ww​.­dreadcentral​.­com​/­news​ /­289575​/­dread​-­presents​-­kim​-­ket​-­stay​-­a live​-­maybe​-­tackle​-­the​-­golem​/­. 100 Noel Murray, “Review: Israeli Super­natural Thriller ‘The Golem’ Delivers a Warning,” Los Angeles Times, January 31, 2019. 101 John Defore, “ ‘The Golem’: Film Review,” Hollywood Reporter, January 31, 2019. 102 “Best Horror Movies of 2019 Ranked by Tomatometer.” Rotten Tomatoes, n.d., https://­editorial​.­rottentomatoes​.­com​/­g uide​/­best​-­horror​-­movies​-­of​-­2019​/­​?­f bclid​=­Iw AR31rruzKGu8hxsDFYgYlr1hRQFzktbOZUSATVaZgJ5xIWHQem8uN96b66U.

Coda 1 The term was pop­u­lar­ized by Roland Robertson; see his “Glocalization: Time-­Space and Homogeneity-­Heterogeneity,” in Global Modernities. ed. Mike Featherstone, Scott Lash, and Roland Robertson (London: Sage, 1995), 25–44. 2 On the transnational influences on Israeli cinema, see Rachel S. Harris and Dan Chyutin, “Israeli Cinema beyond the National: An Introduction,” in Casting a ­Giant Shadow: The Transnational Shaping of Israeli Cinema, ed. Rachel S. Harris and Dan Chyutin (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2021), 10–15. 3 K-­Horror refers to South Korean horror cinema, which originated in the 1960s, was invigorated in the late 1990s, and became tremendously ­popular internationally in the 2000s and 2010s. See Alison Peirse and Daniel Martin, eds, Korean Horror Cinema (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013). J-­Horror refers to ­Japanese horror cinema that dates back to the 1950s. J-­Horror broke out of its cult status into

Notes to Pages 178–180 • 211

international visibility in the late 1990s and continued to be p­ opular throughout the 2000s and 2010s. See Jay Mcroy, Nightmare Japan: Con­temporary ­Japanese Horror Cinema (Amsterdam: Brill, 2008). 4 Author’s conversation with Uri Aviv, New York, October 5, 2019. 5 For a discussion of Juda, see Ido Rosen, “Jews, Blood and Post-­Zionist TV: The Mizrahi as Vampire in Juda,” Journal of Religion and Pop Culture 34, no. 3 (December 2022): 201–220. 6 By the end of the 2010s, ­there ­were ten film schools in Israel offering BA or MFA degrees. 7 Full disclosure: I served as a reviewer for submissions to Utopia. My observations are based on firsthand knowledge. 8 That is in contrast to European-­Israeli co-productions of realistic films, that is a widespread practice in Israel. 9 Author’s online conversation with Aharon Keshales, January 5, 2022. 10 Author’s conversation with Michael Mayer, Los Angeles, December 2, 2022.

Index Abraham, Yael, 63 acousmêtre, 59, 61, 124 Adam (1973), 15, 17–18 adaptation model, 11–14, 177. See also aversion strategy; conversion strategy; inversion strategy; subversion strategy Agnon, S. Y., 156, 158, 159–160, 162–163, 164, 174 Alberstein, Chava, 137 Alexander, Philip S., 123 Alter, Robert, 163, 206n22 American Gods (2017), 172 American Hippie in Israel, An (1972), 15, 16–17 anachronisms: in ­Children of the Fall, 143; in The Golem, 169 anamorphic lens, used for ­Children of the Fall, 139 Anderman, Nirit, 18 Angel Was a ­Devil, The (1976), 15–16, 37, 48 Another World (2010), 13, 153–155 An-­ski, S., 23, 187n41 Ansky, Alex, 157 Anthrax (2017), 115 antisemitism, 163, 174. See also Holocaust Appointed, The (1990), 23 Arabs: desert as associated with, 112; as zombies in Cannon Fodder, 82, 85. See also Palestinian citizens of Israel; Palestinians Ariel, Meir, 110 Armoni, Boaz, 87, 88, 99, 179. See also Freak Out (2015)

Ashkenazi, Lior, 37 Assassin Next Door, The (2009), 31–32 Avanti Popolo (1986), 112 aversion strategy, 11, 12–13, 177; of Adam, 17–18; of An American Hippie in Israel, 17; and Another World, 153–155; defined, 153; and The Golem, 165–176; and Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, 155–165 Aviv, Uri, 5, 178 Avni, Aki, 136 axis mundi, 128, 132–133 Badley, Linda, 83 Bardenstein, Carol, 127 Barkan, Jonathan, 175 Barzilai, Ma­ya, 166, 174 Beaufort (2007), 90, 117 Bedouins, 104–106 Bejach, Giora, 51 Ben-­Eliezer, Uri, 70 Bennett, Naftali, 148 Ben-­Shimon, Assaf, 89–90 Berenson, Shaked, 121 Berman, Yaniv, 115 Bhabha, Homi, 103 Big Bad Wolves (2013): and adaptation of horror genre to Israeli culture, 12; childhood and vio­lence in positioning, as scary fairy­tale, 54–62; cinematography of, 54; ending of, 62; iconic look of, 54; I Saw the ­Devil as influence on, 50; Israeli soldier and army themes in, 115; ­music 213

214 • Index

Big Bad Wolves (Cont.) and dialogue in, 53–54, 65; plot of, 55–62; production of, 50–52; reception of, 62–65; Spanish remake of, 180; “total emotion” approach to, 52–53 Blair Witch Proj­ect, The (1999), 101, 103, 109 Blake, Linnie, 125 Board for Film Review, 10 bourekas films, 1, 7, 73, 89–93, 197n103 Bordin, Elisa, 170 Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement, 180 Brown, Hannah: on Big Bad Wolves, 63–64; on Frozen Days, 31; on The Golem, 175; on JeruZalem, 134; on Rabies, 48 ­Bubble, The (2006), 30 Bukstein, Ania, 157 cannibalism, 155–156, 158, 162, 163 Cannon Films, 19 Cannon Fodder (2013), 79–85 Carroll, Noël, 38 Cats in a Pedal Boat (2011), 116 “Chad Gadya” (Alberstein), 137 ­Children of the Corn (1984), 137 ­Children of the Fall (2016), 135–136; as Israeli film, 148–150; Israeli soldier and army themes in, 115; plot of, 140–148; release of, 179; setting of, 137–139 “­Children of Winter 73,” 137–139 Chion, Michel, 59 Chyutin, Dan, 183n2 citrus industry, 144 Clover, Carol, 45, 97 Cloverfield (2008), 12, 130, 131 Cohen, Ariel, 166, 167 comedy: in Big Bad Wolves, 52, 59, 60; in Cannon Fodder, 82–83, 85; in Freak Out, 89, 97; in JeruZalem, 119; in New Israeli Horror films, 178; in Poisoned, 71, 72, 76, 77; Rabies as straddling horror and, 37–38, 44 conversion strategy, 11, 12, 153, 177 COVID pandemic, 178–179 Creed, Barbara, 122 cross-­casting, 127 Damned, The (2018), 12, 99–115, 179 Danziger, Daniella, 135 Dargis, Manohla, 65

Dawn of the Dead (1978), 18, 76, 82 Dawn of the Dead (2004), 84 Day, Yona, 17–18 Dayan, Moshe, 80 Deliverance (1972), 102 De Palma, Brian, 88 desert and desert landscape: in The Damned, 102–103, 108–109; in Israeli films, 112–113; in Jewish and Israeli contexts, 106 diegetic camera, 103–104, 109, 111, 124–125 Die Hard (1988), 73, 76 digital horror, 125 Drake, Michael, 84 Dread / Dread Pre­sents, 175 Driks’ ­Brother (1994), 73, 89, 102 Duvdevani, Shmulik: on Adam, 18; on Big Bad Wolves, 63; on The Damned, 114; on Freak Out, 99; on Frozen Days, 31; on JeruZalem, 134; on Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, 164 “Dybbuk, or between Two Worlds, The” (An-­ski), 23, 187n41 “Dybbuk, The,” 122 Dybbuk of the Holy Apple Field, The (1997), 23 “­Dying to See” (Met Lir’ot) competition, 6, 32, 36, 71 Eisenbach, Shalom, 166, 167 Elsaesser, Thomas, 30, 111, 138 Epic Pictures, 121, 166–167 Eshed, Eli, 174 Ezrahi, Sidra DeKoven, 139, 148 fairy­tale motif, in Big Bad Wolves, 54–62 ­ amily (2017), 115–116 F Fantastic Fest, 163–164 Fiddler on the Roof (1971), 169 Final Boy, 45–46, 89, 92, 97, 148 Final Girl, 45, 89, 97, 148 Fink, Uri, 174 Fishler, Doron, 47, 48 forest, as horror setting, 45 found footage, 101, 109, 122, 124 Freak Out (2015), 12, 86–99 Freud, Sigmund, 105 Friedman, Tal, 77–78, 194n35 Frozen Days (2005), 23–24, 25–32, 46 Fund for the Encouragement of Original Quality Films, 7–8. See also Israel Film Fund

Index • 215

funding: for Another World, 154; for Cannon Fodder, 79; for ­Children of the Fall, 135–136; for The Damned, 101; for Freak Out, 87, 88; for Frozen Days, 25; for The Golem, 166–167; for Israeli cinema, 6–9, 178, 179; for JeruZalem, 120, 121–122; for Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, 156–157; sources of, 184n25. See also Fund for the Encouragement of Original Quality Films; Gesher Multicultural Film Fund; Israel Film Fund; New Fund for Cinema and ­Television (NFCT); Tomer Moria Fund Furstenberg, Hani, 167 Gafny, Eitan, 79, 85, 135, 137, 138, 139, 142, 143, 144. See also Cannon Fodder (2013); ­Children of the Fall (2016) Galilee Eskimos (2007), 149 gender / gender politics: in Cannon Fodder, 82; in Freak Out, 89; and golem story, 171; in IDF films, 12, 69, 70, 89; in Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, 163, 164; and New Israeli Horror films, 117 genre films: funding for, 178, 179; and Israeli film industry, 7; Israeli filmmakers’ interest in, 179; and Utopia, 5–6 genre normalization, 178 Gesher Multicultural Film Fund, 184n25 ghosts, 102, 103, 105, 107, 108, 109, 111 Glickman, Dovale, 51, 192n37 Globus, Yoram, 7, 19 glocalization, 177 Golan, Ishay, 167 Golan, Menahem, 7, 19 Goldberg, Leah, 110 “Goldberg’s Fields” (Ariel), 110 Goldwasser, Tom, 79, 136 Golem, Le (1936), 171 Golem, The (2018), 13, 165–176 golem / golem myth, 165–166, 174, 208n59 Google-­Glass, 119–120. See also Smart Glass Gordon, Avery, 105, 113 Gordon, Rachel, 22 Graziani, Tom, 127, 202n32 green­house setting, in Big Bad Wolves, 60–61 grief, 124, 128, 131, 171 Grumberg, Karen, 18n17, 86, 159, 162, 163

Grunfeld, Yosef, 194n35 Guez, Moshe, 15, 16. See also Angel Was a ­Devil, The (1976) Gundar-­Goshen, Ayelet, 99–100, 178. See also Damned, The (2018) Gur, Batya, 148–149 Gush Emunim, 138, 147–148 Hagin, Boaz, 29, 117 Haifa International Film Festival, 26, 30–31, 163 Ha-­golem (Eshed and Fink), 174 Hamorotheque Film Club, 3–5, 26, 71, 184nn10–11 Happy Times (2019), 180–181 Harris, Rachel, 183n2 haunting(s), 102, 103, 105, 108, 110, 113, 115 Hebrew, in Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, 162 Hebrew gothic, 159–160 heritage films, 167, 175 heritage space, 169 heroic-­nationalist genre, 86, 142 Hever, Hannan, 86 Higson, Andrew, 169 Hill Halfon ­Doesn’t Answer (1976), 73, 76, 102 Hills, Matthew, 101, 126 Hochberg, Gil, 105, 108 Holocaust, 37, 110, 139, 141, 144, 147, 149, 150, 173, 174 Holocaust Remembrance Day, 144 Horo­witz, Dani, 174 horror: on Israeli ­television, 183n5; Rabies as straddling comedy and, 37–38, 44; subversion of, conventions in Rabies, 38–40, 47. See also horror films; Israeli horror films; New Israeli Horror horror films: adapting, to Israeli culture, 11–13; as expressions of past wars haunting pre­sent, 84; impact on Israeli cinema, 13–14; influence on Frozen Days, 26; Israeli market for, 9–11; “universal,” 153. See also Israeli horror films; New Israeli Horror humor. See comedy Icon, 5, 6. See also Utopia festival Ilfman, Haim Frank, 51, 53, 65 incongruity, in Rabies, 37, 38–40, 42, 52, 53 Infiltration (2010), 89–90

216 • Index

intermediality, 21, 27, 187n31 intertextual subcultural capital, 126 Intifada films, 30 inversion strategy, 11, 177 Ironside, Michael, 136 I Saw the ­Devil (2010), 50 Ishay, Yotam, 136 Israel Defense Forces (IDF): failure of, in JeruZalem, 129, 130; in Israeli culture, 69–70; physical and psychological tests for, 193n6. See also Israel Defense Forces (IDF) horror films; “shooting and crying” Israel Defense Forces (IDF) horror films, 69, 86, 115–117; Cannon Fodder, 79–85; The Damned, 99–115; Freak Out, 86–99; Poisoned, 70–79 Israel Film Fund, 6, 8, 9, 88, 184nn22–23. See also Fund for the Encouragement of Original Quality Films Israeli, Razia, 157 Israeli cinema: common themes in, 6–7; The Damned in context of, 112–113; funding for, 6–9; horror genre’s impact on, 13–14; international influences on, 1; Israeli film-­going audience, 185n27; market for, 9–11 Israeli horror films: as haunted by wars, 84; market for, 10–11. See also New Israeli Horror Jadelyn, Danielle, 120–121 Jerusalem, 123–124, 126–127, 128. See also JeruZalem (2015) Jerusalem Film Festival, 22, 26, 98, 133, 136 Jerusalem syndrome, 128, 202n34 JeruZalem (2015), 12, 118–119; axis mundi as broken in, 132–133; horror tropes in, 123; Israeli soldier and army themes in, 115; lessons for The Golem learned from, 167; making of, 119–122; plot of, 126–132; as ­political, 119, 124, 133; prologue of, 122–123; reception of, 133–134; sequel to, 132, 179; technology in, 124–126 Jewish super­natural, 118, 119. See also JeruZalem (2015) Kamerling, Tomer, 114, 164–165 Kaniuk, Yoram, 174 Kaplan, Eran, 116–117 kapparot, 145–146 Kedar, Veronica “Roni,” 115

Kedem, Eldad, 149 Keller, Tal, 32 Kenny, Glenn, 17 Keshales, Aharon: on approach to Big Bad Wolves, 52; on childhood and vio­lence in Big Bad Wolf, 54; on Final Boy in Rabies, 45–46; on funding for Big Bad Wolves, 51; on green­house setting in Big Bad Wolves, 61; and Hamorotheque Film Club, 3; international collaborations of, 179; and making of Rabies, 35–37; on message of Rabies, 46; on points of view in Rabies, 40; post-­Big Bad Wolves proj­ects of, 65; on reception of Rabies, 49; on styling of Big Bad Wolf, 55. See also Big Bad Wolves (2013); Rabies (2010) “Kibbutz” (Liebrecht), 148–149 kibbutz / kibbutzim: conflict in, 144–145; in Israeli films, 149; as setting for ­Children of the Fall, 137–139, 149–150; as setting for murder stories, 148–149 Kiczales, Yishai, 63, 99 Kika (1993), 156 Kim, Jee-­woon, 50 Kimmerling, Baruch, 69–70 Klausner, Anat, 25 Klein, Uri: on The Angel, 16; on Big Bad Wolves, 63; on Cannon Fodder, 85; on The Damned, 114; on Freak Out, 99; on Frozen Days, 31; on JeruZalem, 134; on Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, 165; on Poisoned, 79; on Rabies, 47–48 Klein, Yiftach, 157 Knife Intifada, 98 Koenig, Leah, 157 Koepnick, Lutz, 167 Korman, Asaf, 51 kova tembel hat, 142 Kruter, Roman, 167 “Lady and the Peddler, The” (Agnon), 156, 158, 159–160, 162–163, 164 Land of the ­Little ­People (2016), 115 landscape: in Israeli films, 140; versus setting, 102–103. See also desert and desert landscape Laszlo, Hana, 157 Lavan (2010), 156 Law of Return, 205n37 Lebanon films, 84, 195n62

Index • 217

Lebanon War (1982), 73–74, 84 Lederman, Lior, 87, 99. See also Freak Out (2015) Lefebre, Martin, 102 Lemon Popsicle (1978), 7 Lerner, Danny, 24–26, 29, 30–31. See also Frozen Days (2005) Lerner, Yosef (Joe), 187n47 Liebrecht, Savion, 148–149 Lingel, Yosi, 48 living-­dead soldier, myth of, 86 Lobo Feroz (2023), 180 Loew, Rabbi Judah, of Prague (Maharal), 165 Loof (2011), 194n33, 195n44 Lool (1973), 81 Lubetzky, Didi, 70–71, 72, 73. See also Poisoned (2011) Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club (2017), 13, 155–165 Maharal (Judah Loew of Prague), 165 Maiman, Noa, 136 masculinity: in Big Bad Wolves, 52, 54, 56, 58, 62; in Cannon Fodder, 80, 81; in The Damned, 102, 109, 111; in Deliverance, 102; in films centered on IDF, 12, 89; of Final Girl, 97; in Freak Out, 89, 90, 91–92, 95, 97; in Night Soldier, 21, 46; in Poisoned, 73, 74, 75, 77–78; in Zionist ideology and Westerns, 170. See also military ­service / militarism Mayer, Michael, 180–181 Mazali, Rela, 29 McCrystal, Carl, 154 Meiri, Yossi, 156, 157 memoricide, 113 Mesuvag harig, 88. See also Freak Out (2015) Michaeli, Chilik, 37, 51, 100 military ­service / militarism: in Freak Out, 90; in Israeli culture, 69–70; in Israeli horror films, 116; repre­sen­ta­tion over time, 116–117. See also Israel Defense Forces (IDF); Israel Defense Forces (IDF) horror films; masculinity Miller, Cynthia J., 38 mind-­game films, 30, 111 Mizrahi ­music, 90–91, 93 Mizrahim / Ashkenazi-­Mizrahi tensions, 16, 43, 89–91, 102–103, monstrous-­feminine, 122 Mor, Keren, 157, 164

Moria, Tomer, 6. See also Tomer Moria Fund ­mother, overbearing, 59, 75, 91 Murder on a Kibbutz (Gur), 148–149 ­music: in Big Bad Wolves, 53–54, 65; in Cannon Fodder, 79; in The Damned, 107, 110; in Freak Out, 90–91, 93; in Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, 158; in Poisoned, 74 musiqa mizrahit (Mizrahi ­music), 90–91, 93 Naaman, Dorit, 30 Nakba, the, 101, 108, 113, 114–115, 198n138 Negev Bedouins, 104–106 Nephilim, 123, 128, 130 New Cinema Law (2000), 8 New Fund for Cinema and ­Television (NFCT), 87, 135, 184n25 New Israeli Horror: adaptation strategies of, 177; defining, 2; emergence of, 1, 2–9; evolution of, 178; ­f uture of, 177–178, 179–180; within global horror tradition, 177; history of, 178; impact on Israeli cinema, 13–14; influence of, 180–181; market for, 10–11; ­political context of, 179; precursors to, 15–32, 46 New Jew, 162, 170 news, watching disturbing, as horror trope, 83–84, 95, 125, 127 Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), 10, 18 Night of the Living Dead (1968), 18, 81, 82 Night Soldier (1984), 18–23, 37, 46, 115 Nizhylovychi, Ukraine, 166 North by Northwest (1959), 27, 28 Noy, Menashe, 37 observational horror, 124 Omer-­Sherman, Ranen, 103 Operation Protective Edge (2014), 136 Oron, Yael, 71–72, 115 Orshar, Gidi, 22 Other(s): in Big Bad Wolves, 61; in Cannon Fodder, 84, 85; in ­Children of the Fall, 150; desert and encounters with, 112; in Intifada films, 30. See also Arabs; Palestinian citizens of Israel; Palestinians O’Toole, Peter, 205n43 Padva, Gilad, 149 Palestinian citizens of Israel: and Negev Bedouins, 105–106; as zombies in Cannon Fodder, 83–84

218 • Index

Palestinians: absence of, in ­Children of the Fall, 150; attacks carried out by, 197n113; in Intifada films, 30; as Other in Big Bad Wolves, 61; and racial tensions in Freak Out, 92, 95 Pappe, Ilan, 113 Papushado, Navot: on approach to Big Bad Wolves, 52–53; background of, 35, 36; on Big Bad Wolves, 51; on childhood and vio­lence in Big Bad Wolf, 54; on editing Rabies, 40; on green­house setting in Big Bad Wolves, 61; on horror tropes in Rabies, 38–39; on Israeli-­Palestinian conflict, 61; and making of Rabies, 35, 36–37; on ­music in Big Bad Wolf, 53; post-­Big Bad Wolves proj­ects of, 65; on premiere of Big Bad Wolves, 62–63; on reception of Rabies, 49. See also Big Bad Wolves (2013); Rabies (2010) Paratroopers (1977), 89 Passover, 72, 73, 74, 76, 77 Paz, Doron, 118, 166, 167–168, 179. See also Golem, The (2018); JeruZalem (2015) Paz, Jonathan, 118, 120 Paz, Yoav, 118, 119, 121–122, 166, 167–168, 179. See also Golem, The (2018); JeruZalem (2015) Peretz, Kobi, 90–91 Peretz, Lisa, 16 Phobidilia (2009), 118–119 Pi (1998), 26 Pinto, Goel, 48 Pirchi, Avraham, 37, 51 point(s) of view: in JeruZalem, 119–121, 124–125, 127–128, 131; in Rabies, 40. See also diegetic camera; found footage; Smart Glass Poisoned (2011), 12, 70–79, 195n44 Porat, Yoram, 22 Predator (1987), 80, 81, 83 Pulsa De-­nura, 172–173, 209nn83–84 Rabies (2010), 11, 35–37; as first Israeli horror film, 46; genre of, 37–38; influence in Israel, 49; Israeli soldier and army themes in, 115; plot of, 40–46; reception of, 47–49; references to, in ­Children of the Fall, 139; subversion of horror conventions in, 38–40 Rabin, Yitzhak, 173

Ra­bino­vich Foundation, 8, 71, 156, 184n25 racial tensions: in Big Bad Wolves, 57; in Cannon Fodder, 81; in Freak Out, 90–92, 93, 95; in JeruZalem, 130 radical adaptation, 159 Raimondo, Matthew J., 124 Ran, Tomer, 25 Raveh, Yair, 31, 63, 85, 185n28 Raz, Guy, 40 Repulsion (1965), 26 resurrection, 123, 128 Reuven, Eitan, 154 Reyes, Xavier Aldana, 125 Ringu (1998), 101, 180 road movies, 106 Romero, George A., 18 Rosen, Ido: on Cannon Fodder, 80; on Freak Out, 90, 94; on IDF horror films, 117; on Israeli horror films as male narratives, 89; on Night Soldier, 19 Rozenbaum, Marek, 156–157 Rubinstain, Irad, 99–100, 178. See also Damned, The (2018) ruins caused by ­human vio­lence, 108 Ruman, Evgeny, 100, 114, 178 Sawat, Arad, 51 Sayad, Cecilia, 125 Schechter, Ofer, 118–119 Schenker, Guilhad Emilio, 155–158, 162, 163 Scherf, Shai, 115 Schnitzer, Meir: on The Angel, 16; on Big Bad Wolves, 64; on Cannon Fodder, 85; on The Damned, 114; on Freak Out, 99; on Frozen Days, 31; on Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, 165; on Night Soldier, 22; on Rabies, 48 Scholem, Gershom, 162, 165 Schori, Katriel, 49 Schwartz, Oshra, 19, 22–23 Scouting Patrol (1967), 112 Scovell, Adam, 175 Second Intifada, 23–24, 29 security guards, 29 Sefer, Amos, 17. See also American Hippie in Israel, An (1972) self-­exoticization, 138 setting, versus landscape, 102–103 Shalev, Yafit, 79, 136

Index • 219

Shamgar, Irit, 22 Shamir, Oron, 47 Shapira, Anita, 138 Sharqiya (2012), 112 Shaun of the Dead (2004), 72–73, 75, 77 Shaviro, Steven, 83, 84 Shavit, Avner, 86, 98–99, 164 Shining, The (1980), 101 Shohat, Ella, 83, 142 “shooting and crying,” 7, 13, 18n17 short films, 179 shtetl, 168–169. See also Golem, The (2018) Shutan-­Goshen, Yoav, 99–100, 178. See also Damned, The (2018) Shuv, Yael, 99, 134, 165 Shweky, Ram, 25, 32, 100–101 Sigoli, Orr, 114, 164 silence, in Rabies, 39–40 Six-­Day War (1967). See War of 1967 Skal, David, 84 slasher films, 88–89, 94, 96, 97. See also ­Children of the Fall (2016); Rabies (2010) Smart Glass, 120, 124–125, 131 Smith, Robert, 148, 205n43 Snow in August (1993), 23 soldier(s). See Israel Defense Forces (IDF); Israel Defense Forces (IDF) horror films; military ­service / militarism sound, in Rabies, 39–40 South Korean revenge thriller. See Big Bad Wolves (2013) Star of David, 42–43, 48, 162 subversion strategy: and adaptation of horror genre to Israeli culture, 11–12, 177; defined, 153; of horror conventions in Rabies, 38–40, 47; of Israeli drama in Big Bad Wolves, 50–51; of slasher conventions in Freak Out, 89 sunlight / sunshine: in Big Bad Wolves, 55, 56; in Cannon Fodder, 83; in ­Children of the Fall, 147; in Poisoned, 77; in Rabies, 39, 41, 42 super­natural, Jewish, 118, 119. See also JeruZalem (2015) Sweet Mud (2006), 149 Szasz, Thomas, 202n36 Tarantino, Quentin, 64, 65 technology: and digital filming of Frozen Days, 26; and emergence of New Israeli

Horror, 3; in JeruZalem, 124–126, 131; in Madam Yankelova’s Fine Lit­er­a­ture Club, 160 Tel Aviv noir, 26–28 Tel Aviv University (TAU) Film School, 3–5, 71, 156 ­television: horror on, 183n5; introduction in Israel, 184n7; Lool, 81; The X-­Files, 123, 128, 171 Temporary Dead (2014), 119 Tenant, The (1976), 27–28 terrorism, 30, 137 textmêtre, 91 Timnah, Raphael, 114 Tomer Moria Fund, 6, 184n15 Tovias, Benjamin, 63, 164 trauma: folk horror’s treatment of past as source of, 175; in Frozen Days, 28–30; in The Golem, 171; and reading of Rabies, 37; of War of 1973, 138–139 Trigg, Dylan, 108 Trumpeldor, Joseph, 190n32 Turner, Peter, 104 Turn Left at the End of the World (2004), 113 28 Days ­Later (2002), 82, 129, 154 Tzafir, Tuvia, 157 Utin, Pablo, 4, 187n51, 188n70, 189n7, 191nn1,17 Utopia festival, 5–9, 78–79, 87, 155 Van Riper, A. Bowdoin, 38 Village, The (2004), 171–172 Walk on ­Water (2004), 117 War of 1948, 104–105, 198n138. See also Nakba, the War of 1967, 123–124, 138 War of 1973, 80, 132, 135, 137, 138, 146, 205n39. See also ­Children of the Fall (2016) War of ­Independence. See War of 1948; See also Nakba Watch over Me (2010), 115 Westerns, 142, 170 Witch, The (2015), 171–172 Wolf, Lilach, 47 Wolman, Dan, 19–20. See also Night Soldier (1984) ­women. See gender / gender politics woods, as horror setting, 45

220 • Index

X-­Files, The, 123, 128, 171 Yaron, Rotem, 120–121, 167, 170, 201n8 Yehoshua Ra­bino­vich Foundation for the Arts, 8, 71, 156, 184n25 Yentl (1983), 169 Yohanan, Erez, 79 Yom Kippur, 119, 122, 128–129, 138 Yom Kippur War (1973). See War of 1973 Yosef, Raz, 86, 91 “You ­Will Walk in Fields” (Goldberg), 110

Zaguri Empire (2014–2015), 157 Zanger, Anat, 112, 117, 132 Zero Motivation (2014), 98, 99 Zertal, Idith, 139 Zerubavel, Yael, 106, 112 Zionist ideology, 170 Zohar, Zion, 173 zombie films: Another World, 153–155; Cannon Fodder, 79–85; and living-­dead soldier myth, 86; Poisoned, 70–79. See also JeruZalem (2015) Zvolon, Itay, 87–88

About the Author is Professor of Judaic and Near Eastern Studies and of Film Studies at the University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Amherst. She is the author of Gesher: ­Russian Theater in Israel (2005) and The Phantom Holocaust: Soviet Cinema and Jewish Catastrophe (2013), as well as editor of Ladies and Gents: Public Toilets and Gender (2009). To learn more about her work, see www​.­people​.­umass​.­edu​/­olga. OLGA GERSHENSON