The Hackneyed Hag

The Monster Most Emblematic of the Past Decade of Horror Is a Naked Old Woman

by Natalia Keogan

Of all the eerie and uncanny images that the human psyche can conjure in dreams, the vision of an elderly crone is the most subliminally horrifying. 

The innate repugnance of elderly women is enveloped in the velvety blackness of the darkest corners of our bedrooms, the latent embodiment of many primordial human phobias. The term “nightmare” comes partially from Scandinavian mythology, meant to describe the sensation of a “mare”—an evil spirit akin to incubi and succubi—sitting on the chests of those deep in slumber, causing their dreams to descend into hellish apparitions of an old woman suffocating them. The sensation is also related to what we now know as sleep paralysis, when those suspended in a state between dream and consciousness hallucinate sinister creatures in their rooms or on their bodies. These unfortunate bed dwellers were once diagnosed as “hag-ridden,” due to the recurring specter of a grotesque old woman sitting on their chests, the weight of which they claimed caused breathing to become shallow. 

For the past decade, the depiction of an oft-nude elderly woman has been particularly prevalent in horror films. She is a hackneyed hag: at once generic and disturbing, capturing essences of real women along with otherworldly terrors. Either of portly or slight frame with a cascading stream of unkempt hair often the only thing cloaking her body, she dons signs of decay which manifest in an aging body and senescent aura. The hackneyed hag is abhorrent in her lack of shame over her nakedness, especially the details that reflect her age. Varicose veins, liver-spots and wrinkled, sagging breasts are put on full display, the sight of which invokes utmost terror in the spectator. The hag is self-satisfied, for her image is in direct conflict with what society deems attractive. Her ugliness is a force which leaves those in her wake aghast. While her aging body suggests frailty, her defiance in the face of human convention affords her a demonic power. 

Horror films are often windows through which to peer into the inner workings of societal tensions and fears. They are effective blueprints for mapping out broad reactions to cultural phenomena. Whether unpacking anxieties about suburbia (Poltergeist), consumerism (Dawn of the Dead) or the sexual proclivities of American youth (insert your favorite slasher here), horror is unique in its ability among genres to confront these fears head-on while also holding a mirror up to the audience, forcing individuals to confront their own inhibitions. The past decade has seen a patent interest in depicting the hag figure in horror films, her increased presence within the genre positing her as a symbolic figure of a progressing cultural modulation.

The hag’s extensive appearance in horror films of the 2010s is not without genesis. Sam Raimi’s 2009 film Drag Me to Hell is the prototype for the trope appearing in the contemporary horror canon. The film centers on Christine (Alison Lohman), a young bank loan officer who is cursed to the depths of hell by an ancient spirit conjured by elderly Romani woman Mrs. Ganush (Lorna Raver) who is denied an extension on her mortgage. Visuals of Ganush’s dirty fingernails, unsightly dentures and ailing elderly body fuel much of the film’s jump scares, the actual demonic entity taking a back seat to Ganush’s horrifying body. Met with critical acclaim after its debut at the Cannes Film Festival and a subsequent global box office earning of $90 million, Drag Me to Hell arguably set the wheels in motion for the widespread adoption of the hackneyed hag. 

The hackneyed hag is abhorrent in her lack of shame over her nakedness, especially the details that reflect her age.  

During the 2010s, the advent of “elevated” horror set the tone for what has been deemed an aesthetic revamping of the genre. “Elevated” horror is generally classified as a recent breed of filmmaking that eschews conventional jump-scares and gory imagery, instead disturbing audiences—many of whom self-identify as broader cinephiles as opposed to horror movie enthusiasts or more casual moviegoers—through immense emotional and psychological turmoil. These recent films are indebted to comparatively “auteur”-driven films like Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining as opposed to slasher genre staples, favoring moody tones, symmetrical shots and distinct color schemes—as well as decrepit old women who symbolize death and decay. In 2014, the STD (sexually transmitted demon) film It Follows was praised by critics as “the best horror film in years,” utilizing the hackneyed hag in a scene where the demonic entity takes the form of an elderly woman in a hospital gown, slowly trailing the teenage protagonist as she runs away. Equally well-received, the 2015 film The Witch features the titular baby-snatching crone grinding up an infant in a mortar and pestle, applying the bloody paste to her nude, sagging flesh in order to reverse the aging process. Netflix’s 2016 atmospheric horror film I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House contrasts a beautiful live-in aid with an elderly writer in cognitive decline, the ugliness of the older woman in direct correlation to a skeleton hidden behind her walls. 

Yet no filmmaker best encompasses both the style of “elevated” horror alongside the prevalence of the hackneyed hag in these films as well as Ari Aster. Hereditary, Aster’s 2018 debut, fuels its hellish plot through the haunting presence of deceased grandmother Ellen (Kathleen Chalfant), depicted in a miniature diorama with her matronly breast exposed in order to feed her daughter’s youngest child. The climax of the film additionally features a plethora of naked elderly bodies, the sight of which trigger unmitigated fear in a central character and the audience alike. Similarly, Aster’s 2019 Scandinavian horror film Midsommar brings special emphasis to the unease of an older woman’s naked body, contrasting it with a young woman whose deflowering is imminent during a pagan ritual. 

While not necessarily falling into the “elevated” horror niche, mainstream films within the genre have also notably adopted the trope. The 2014 found footage horror film The Taking of Deborah Logan distinguishes the violent episodes of the swiftly-deteriorating titular Alzheimer’s patient (Jill Larson) through her uncouth undressing, eventually descending into extreme body horror. M. Night Shyamalan’s comeback film The Visit, released in 2015, had the character of Nana (Deanna Dunagan) disrobed and pacing around the house at night, which was presented as more shocking than any actual bloodshed in the film. Both films center the process of aging and cognitive degeneration within the narrative notably more than the aforementioned “elevated” horror films, making the nakedness of these characters on par with the harm they pose to their loved ones and themselves through mental breakdowns and violent possessions. The horror of their nude bodies carries the psychological weight of confronting one’s own mortality while also being embedded with an emotional undercurrent of familial taboos and melodramas. 

More recently, the 2019 trailer for It: Chapter 2 horrified audiences through promoting the film with an entire scene featuring a hackneyed hag figure. The scene consists of beautiful protagonist Beverly Marsh (Jessica Chastain) entering her childhood home, which has since been occupied by a paradigmatically sweet old woman (Joan Gregson). As Beverly inspects what has become of her former abode, the not-so-innocuous old woman begins to move erratically behind her, dashing across the screen completely nude before morphing into a monstrous beldam and lunging at an unsuspecting Beverly. This scene was the first glimpse of the hotly anticipated sequel to one of the most successful horror movies of the decade; instead of leading off with the film’s star-studded cast or the franchise’s iconic clown monster Pennywise, the trailer giddily revels in the transgression of unabashedly utilizing a nude elderly woman for shock value.

The horror of their nude bodies carries the psychological weight of confronting one’s own mortality. 

Whether employed in artsier, smaller-scale films or blockbusters, the trope is inarguably ingrained in the horror genre’s evolution within the 2010s. While the revulsion for hag-like figures is deeply rooted in human culture, there exists a specific trigger for its surge of appearances in recent horror films. As the horror genre is traditionally targeted toward younger audiences, it’s possible that a generation doomed on multiple fronts (environmental, economic and sociopolitical) sees the hag figure as both a taunting impossibility and a specter of the orchestrator of their doom. Elderly figures demarcate a completely different generation—one with higher opportunities and outcomes, aspirations for upward mobility and conformity into a social norm. As seen in the prevalence of Gen-Z “Okay, boomer” memes and intergenerational tensions escalating as our political system continues to fail and falter, it’s easy to see why an elderly figure would be seen as inherently menacing during these times. 

The fact that this trope tends to involve an aging woman, however, is certainly steeped in sexism. The history of the horror genre is damning when it comes to representing women as sex objects and misogynistic caricatures, their humanity rarely recognized as they are hunted down and slaughtered. Enduring tropes such as the “final girl,” or the lone woman survivor of murderous rampages as coined by Carol J. Clover, have highlighted the genre’s tandem obsession and animus directed at the women featured in these narratives. The portrayal of the hackneyed hag takes this rescinding of humanity one step further: where the young women protagonists of the genre are dehumanized through overt fetishization, elderly women depicted as hags are contrived from purely ageist sentiments which uniquely affect women. When women’s bodies undergo the natural process of aging, they lose the ability to be marketed to the male gaze, thus relegating these bodies to another exploitable position—that of ubiquitous revulsion. 

Yet while the horror genre has been heavily criticized throughout generations for instances of sexism, homophobia and seemingly gauche explorations of topics deemed too indecorous for open dialogue, it must also be appreciated for its ability to put these sentiments on the table as opposed to sheltering popular attitudes of the times. While tropes like the “final girl” came under fire from feminist scholars and those who found the horror genre unforgivably schlockey and exploitative, the trope itself has allowed contemporary viewers to parse societal opinions of women from decades past, often gleaning truths otherwise obfuscated by polite society. The hackneyed hag, while misogynistic in its execution, also allows for viewers to piece together a pattern of prevalent malaise. Her ugliness is less a product of backlash to feminist thought than a deep-seated human phobia resurfacing as humanity is faced with multiple existential crises. 

It ultimately does no net good to stereotype horror as a genre that will eternally breed misogyny. In fact, horror does a much better job of centering women in narratives as opposed to any other genre. Women and Hollywood, a website which “educates, advocates, and agitates for gender diversity and inclusion” in the film industry, found in their study of the 100 highest grossing films of 2019 that women protagonists were most likely to appear in horror films compared to any other genre. These women often experience severe trauma in order to propel the terrifying plot, including rape, attempted murder and psychological abuse. Tangible fears for women are milked for voyeuristic scares, yet these admittedly cheap framing devices have been reclaimed as cathartic for many women who have found comfort in the intensity of the genre. Through the potent nastiness of horror, we learn about ourselves and what makes us uncomfortable. When these discomforts are activated and consciously identified, we stand a larger chance of unpacking and gleaning knowledge from these triggers as opposed to quelling them back into dormancy. 

As the trope of the hag becomes enmeshed within horror’s iconography, it becomes ripe for subversion. 

The horror genre is constantly evolving. As this trope becomes enmeshed within horror’s iconography, it becomes ripe for subversion. Natalie Erika James’ debut horror feature Relic, released digitally and screened at select drive-ins this past July, centers on three generations of women, the eldest of which finds herself possessed by a malevolent force. While the elderly woman in Relic certainly lines up with the hackneyed hag trope in appearance—long white hair, an emaciated frame and brief bouts of nudity sprinkled with garish body horror—she is ultimately humanized, the multi-generational connection a path for empathy as opposed to resentment. 

In a similar vein, the 2018 direct sequel to John Carpenter’s original 1978 Halloween broke records for women’s representation in media. Jamie Lee Curtis reprised her role as Laurie Strode, the sole survivor (or “final girl”) of Michael Meyer’s reign of terror on Halloween night 1978. In the 2018 reboot, Curtis’ character is aided by her daughter and granddaughter when Michael returns to finish what he started 40 years earlier. According to Variety, the reboot is Curtis’ biggest opening to date, as well as the most successful horror opening with a female lead ever. Halloween also made history as the biggest film debut in history with a female lead over 55 years old, earning $77.5 million in North America and $14.3 million abroad. It’s important to note that the combination of a well-respected franchise and Curtis’ career start as a young, supple scream queen were necessary factors in such a milestone being achieved. 

Even more importantly, this is a well-deserved accolade for Curtis, for much of this formula is indebted to her aggressiveness when it comes to destigmatizing her own aging process, as seen in frequent Activia spots and a trail-blazing 2002 photoshoot where she donned no makeup and allowed her stomach to be depicted in its relaxed, untoned glory. Another Halloween sequel starring Curtis was intended to hit theaters this October—clearly pushed back due to COVID—but the success of the 2018 installment hints at the possibility of further subverting the final girl trope while also utilizing aspects of the hackneyed hag. Laurie Strode gradually mirrors Michael Myers as she grows older, again equating the process of aging in women to a proximity to evil. Yet her character’s womanhood is what bolsters her strength when it comes to battling Michael, further subverting the genre’s past fixation on the weakness of femininity. 

As quickly as the hackneyed hag emerges, she will transmogrify. Especially when investigated through a feminist lens—or by women in general—she will relay inherent truths about our current times more astutely than whatever talking head footage is archived from this period 20 years from now. She is the epitome of youthful despondency, the form of a future fraught with devastation, the inherent fear ingrained in women of what we become when we are no longer considered beautiful; she is a reflection of societal intolerances. The hag forces us all to experience the ecstatic sensation of fear, then worms her image into our psyche and probes us to understand exactly why she is so terrifying to begin with. She is rooted in our folklore and omnipresent in our latest iterations of these tales. Perhaps one day she will be a figure deserving of compassion in lieu of disgust. 

---