The dark side of folklore

We are in (or it certainly seems like we are in) a cultural moment when folklore holds a particularly important place in British culture – perhaps more so than at any time since the 1970s. Indeed, the revival of enthusiasm for folklore is at least in part down to a certain nostalgia for the centrality of folklore to 70s popular culture, even if folklorists themselves are well aware that many of the assumptions of that era were flawed. The rising popularity of folklore may also have something to do with the decline of religion; after all, an interest in folklore allows people to remain connected with an enchanted (and even spiritual) outlook on life and on the natural world, but without the (apparently) problematic associations of the traditional institutional religions – and stopping short of full-blown neopaganism, which arguably turns folklore into yet another religion. But, as a folklorist, I am sometimes troubled by the naivety with which people approach folklore, and the excessively positive view they have of it. Folklore is absolutely fascinating – that’s why I study it – but it is often very far from being heartwarming, or good.

At one level, of course, the idea that folklore can be dark is at the forefront of popular culture’s consumption of folklore. Folklore is edgy, that’s part of the attraction. But folklore is only ‘edgy’ (rather than genuinely troubling) if it’s essentially ‘just vibes’. And herein lies the problem; a lot of folklore’s current popularity isn’t really to do with folklore at all, but derives from the popularity of the cinematic genre of folk horror that folklore originally inspired. But folk horror is fiction; folklore isn’t. Folk horror’s purpose is to entertain (and yes, I grant the genre can also transcend mere entertainment), folklore’s is not. We know that folkloric beliefs can have deadly consequences – the murder of Bridget Cleary, the normalisation of infanticide of disabled children via folklore of changelings, and of course the persecution of people accused of witchcraft. And folklore has been used for centuries across many cultures to oppress and control women, to justify and excuse child abuse, and to reinforce unjust structures of power. This is serious stuff, and in the same way the atrocities committed by religious believers give people pause when it comes to buying into institutional religion, so folklore had a dark side that is genuinely unattractive rather than just ‘edgy vibes’.

I suspect that people find it so easy to ignore this genuinely unappealing dark side of folklore because they don’t think folklore really matter anymore – certainly not in the way religion still matters to some people. Changeling belief isn’t a threat, because no-one seriously believes that stuff. So it’s just one of those gory stories of history that can become a guilty pleasure for those who enjoy the perverse and the macabre. And people certainly don’t think folklore is actually true. But if folklore is nothing more than cultural wallpaper, I am not sure where this leaves the folklorist. Folklorists will differ, of course, on whether they think folklore expresses any essential truth; but most will agree that folklore is not a thing of the past. It is still alive, and can still be created today, so if it has resulted in harm in the past, there is no obvious reason why it shouldn’t result in harm in the future. And whether or not the supernatural beings of folklore have any existence, the fairies and their kin reflect some troubling facets of human nature. The fairies stand for implacable justice, merciless punishment, unlimited vengeance. They reflect the unforgiving society of a close-knit rural village where the trade-off for cosy familiarity is conformity – and woe betide the nonconforming.

Some folklore is obviously and graphically horrific, of course. The Estonian sauna spirits who flay you and rip your flesh from your body if you forget to pour them a small offering of beer on entering the sauna. But there is also a more subtle horror to folklore; the cumulative sense of how oppressive it must be to live in a world entirely circumscribed by ritual taboos and requirements. I remember being struck by this once, when reading about (of all things) Lithuanian wedding customs. The sheer horror of being this afraid of bad luck, of having to perform all these pre-wedding rituals perfectly and without error in order to avert bad fortune. And perhaps the most horrifying academic writing I have ever read, which puts most folk horror in the shade, is Jeanne Favret-Saada’s chilling account of research into witchcraft in the French countryside in the 1970s – research she eventually had to terminate, as she became aware she was herself being drawn ineluctably into the folkloric logic that sustains witchcraft and witch-belief. Favret-Saada evoked a kind of epistemic claustrophobia where the beliefs of the community are as inescapable as Avebury in Children of the Stones.

I would encourage everyone to learn about folklore. I don’t think it’s possible to understand what it means to be human without it; and I lament the decline of folk culture in the face of internationalised pop culture. But at the same time we need to confront the fact that folklore gives access to the worst of human nature – our desire to control, to dominate, to exact revenge. It has justified murder, rape, child abuse, and oppression. Such features of folklore can’t simply be passed over for the sake of edgy vibes. Folklore emerged, more often than not, from the claustrophobic, controlling communities of the agrarian pre-modern world. It is rich, deep, complex, paradoxical – but also, sometimes, downright nasty. And that nastiness wasn’t just narrative technique, but reflected the grim reality of those societies. So folklore isn’t some sort of life-affirming, rebellious, unproblematic alternative to the dark historical deeds of religion. It’s every bit as problematic – but also just as interesting.