A delirious concoction of Rebecca, Hands of Orlac, The Uninvited, and Eyes Without a Face, 1962's El espejo de la bruja wastes no time plunging us into the Gothic and even less time on useless characterization. This is a brutally efficient horror pic which rejects nothing, no matter how absurd, and despises the crippling effect common sense has had on the poetry of the macabre. The protagonists act as if hypnotized, stepping out of ghostly mirrors, wandering doomy-eyed, or running down dark staircases in terror--a Last Year at Marienbad done as a haunted soap opera, and curiously enough, released the same year.
Co-scriptwriter Carlos Enrique Taboada would go on to write and direct several Henry James-style moody horrors, but I much prefer his kitchen sink approach here. The lively, demented plot is well matched with Jorge Stahl Jr's arty, careful camerawork which invokes maximal imaginative power via simple effects such as voice-over, shadows, fog, cut-outs, and double exposure. Budget considerations limit this one to mostly set-bound interiors, but this only adds to the cramped paranoia, punctuated by hysterical outbursts at a piano playing itself or the presence of a dead woman in the title mirror.
The film's characters seem to shift from victim to tormentor on a dime, presided over by a cackling vengeful witch (Isabela Corona) whose folk religion is somewhat like Santissima Muerte mixed with medieval European diabolism (ominous credits and a warning as to the powers of witchcraft crawl over Goya copies, bookending the action). Shadowy and intricate, she prays to alters resembling Surrealist sculptures. Magic is real. There is no cop-out. The detectives at the end wonder what the hell they've seen. Everyone gets their just deserts. The moral: Beware the wrath of women, especially outwardly-loyal housekeepers.
The Witch's Mirror is a fine, mad thing, blissfully short on psychological subtlety, and as locomotive as the flipping pages of a gaudy sensacionale.
