SXSW Review Master- A Spectacle Of White Ambivalence And Ghostly Witches

Social justice as horror can be effective. Us, The Nightingale, and the highly anticipated Don’t Worry Darling from Olivia Wilde are examples. Demons, ghosts, and slashers are all scary, but hate is even more frightening. Master brings that fear to the revered halls of higher education. There’s nothing more fraught with systemic inequity than a New England elite college. The bricks were practically mortared with the blood of those who were stepped on, taken advantage of, or worse. These can be bad places. In so much as a place can be bad. More times than not the people that reside there taint it with the pain and monstrosity of an all too human kind.

An ivy league adjacent school in New England has just hired its first black House Master a point the school is ridiculously proud of. It shouldn’t be a big deal that Ancaster has its first black HouseMaster. That should have happened so long ago and shouldn’t be used as a propaganda point to attract pretentious whites pretending to be allies. It also shouldn’t be cause for concern, but both are true. This is the kind of place that doesn’t even try to hide its wrongness. Think of it as a horrific extension of PCU from 1994. Instead of Balls and Shaft, there are troves of entitled kids and assuming adults. Professors push agendas and unsympathetic peers take jabs. Simultaneously a freshman Jasmine(Zoe Renee) has arrived on campus full of hope. Instead, she finds prejudice and ridicule.

Writer and director Mariama Dialla beautifully mixes the creepiness of a Bell Witch-type folklore with the psychological horror of bone-deep hate. Master will make you uncomfortable because it’s designed to. She, along with DP Charlotte Hornsby, knows how to capture the endless hallways and oppressive shadows of an institution like this. The Salem witch trials are reimagined not as some patriarchal attack on women but as a systemic attack on race. That’s not to say women don’t get abused here as well.

Sweaty suspicious whiteness permeates the air. Red lit buildings don’t invite curiosity but invoke evil. Casually thoughtless comments from Jasmine’s predominantly white crew who take over her room one night wonder aloud which of many black superstars she is. Coming on the heels of the New York Times article that ran the wrong Williams sister’s picture with their piece, it is a pattern. Facial recognition software still cannot distinguish people of color. Racism exists and Dialla uses the mob mentality of group fear and an ambiguous supernatural threat to highlight it.

At Ancaster College, disgusting crimes are juxtaposed with ridiculous inclusivity speak commercials designed to force you to see the hypocrisy that many of us are fortunate enough to be blind to. Women are discarded and disregarded, and POC are expected to fall in line and take the stares, whispers, and slights with a smile on their faces. That’s before the question of whether there is a ghost haunting the halls.

Jasmine’s roommate leaves school after what probably was a date rape one night leaving her all alone in the room to fend off nightmares imagined and very real. Everyone is out of touch and indifferent to anyone else’s plight. Men get skewered right along with catty women in Master. Seeing white kids sing the n-word while drunkenly groping each other is appalling. I am from the NWA era. I loved Tupac and Easy E, but I understood Hip Hop for white kids can and should be different. Some lines shouldn’t be crossed.

Regina Hall’s Gail Bishop is an intelligent, confident woman who is proud of her accomplishments but knows there will be some who aren’t thrilled. She is tremendous, walking the line between vulnerable and powerful, and it is a highlight of the film.

Dialla deftly builds context and layers in what could be a one-note story. A vile woman shouts at Jasmine, “This is my house,” but what she really means is, “This is my America.” Watching the sublime Regina Hall navigate this viper’s nest is anxiety-inducing. The simple act of cleaning her house carries context in this terrible place. A ceaseless ringing of a bell jars the nerves just as it informs Gail. It’s wrong to ring a bell at someone particularly if they are black. Full stop. America’s nasty past with slavery should inform that choice.

Some things never change, and some institutions are just too well entrenched to change course. That’s the disturbing takeaway. Mariama Diallo leaves the question of supernatural elements unanswered because some stains never go away, whether they are mundane or paranormal.

With twenty minutes left, something happens that will shock you. There’s a final twist that you felt but won’t see coming that makes more sense when you look back on the film. It could feel exploitive if, in other hands, but instead, it’s an aha moment that makes you angry.

There are a few two many narrative swerves that would be better served sitting on the sideline but as an unnerving metaphor for the specter of ongoing racism and insensitivity, it is thoughtful. Like a sister of Get Out, whiteness becomes a weapon and a tool to be wielded by the ignorant and the woke alike. Some plot beats like Amelia’s rape are shoehorned in and deserve a bit more attention. Her hurried departure hardly registers and seems needlessly pointless, while the unanswered supernatural questions feel untethered in a witchy limbo.

It’s not the cackling of crones but the forced laughter of privileged white women. There’s nothing wrong with witches but bitches are another thing. Master premiered at SXSW and is currently playing on Prime Video. Find all our SXSW coverage here.