According to Epicurus, death needn’t be feared as it is a “loss of all sensibility1”. As if carried away into a dreamless sleep, we thus cease to exist. For others, a new life, a new world, await us after our death. There are also some, who believe that the deceased continue to wander amongst the living.
Some also think that certain places, marked by tragedies, shelter these mysterious beings. Described as
invisible entities, which presence can be felt through the coldness of a breath, the unexplained movement of an object or a momentary feeling of dispossession of one’s own body, these ghosts — as we name them — are both frightening and fascinating at the same time.
Accompanied by these tales, Angelika Markul has gone in search of these enigmatic places, in order to
interrogate what these beliefs tell of our own conception of existence. This quest has led her to the doors of the Fougeret Castle, a centuries-old fortress known to be the theatre of many unearthly phenomena.
Far from any spectacular or scientific ambition, aiming to elucidate the veracity of these phenomena,
Haunted House favours the establishment of a dialogue between contrary forces: life and death, presence and absence, the visible and the invisible. The first is illustrated by the instauration of a contradiction between the vital momentum of the living — embodied within the scenes depicting the fauna and flora — and the immobility of disappearance, made palpable by these portraits of anonymous people that seem to have been locked in time. This duality transforms the interior of the castle into an alternative space and time, as if it were isolated from the rest of its environment and impervious to any exterior interference. The simple gaze of the spectator in this other space almost appears as an act of voyeurism, as if they were penetrating into a forbidden world, in the manner of Dante venturing into the depths of Hell escorted by Virgil. Here, it is an invisible and floating entity — a revenant? — that replaces the poet in order to guide the clandestine observer. It is its airy and incorporeal look that we follow — but its presence is often betrayed by the subtle movement of a paper or a sheet — and that becomes the intermediary between the world of the living and the
disappeared.
However, the world of the dead is far from being deprived of life, on the contrary, this castle is filled with traces of past existences belonging to different temporalities, as suggested by the countless carefully conserved relics. Even though we do not know the history, nor the identity of their possessors, the numerous portraits that inhabit the film express the fact that these objects once belonged to someone, increasing at the same time our feeling of intrusion. By submitting us under the scrutiny of these many faces, and by reversing the traditional power dynamics of the gaze, transforming the observer into an observed, Angelika Markul makes it impossible to ignore these existences. Thus, these objects are not anecdotal anymore, but the scattered links of a life that was, but is no more.
The conservation of these relics and their survival also takes us to a new temporality: that of the present. Indeed, despite the fact that they belong to other times, it is the artist’s contemporary eye that brings them back to life. But it is also the attention they were given by the owners that have come one after another, until today, that has enabled their permanence. Invisible yet omnipresent, their imprint appears in the subtle crease of a pillow, suggesting the recent presence of a body, the meticulous disposition of statuettes on a bed table, or the sounds of footsteps that run through the soundtrack. However, this present is almost impalpable in comparison to the ubiquity of the past. Is it the will of the owners, or the impossibility to set free from what was, the evidence of a supernatural force that inhabits the castle?
By playing with this double temporality and by erecting the almost stifling inventory of this heap of objects, Angelika Markul’s work creates a new Xanadu 2. Recalling Orson Welles’ characters, the camera endorses a double part, both trying to assemble the puzzle of these past existences while contemplating this disproportionate pile of items, gathered in the hope of reaching blissfulness. Yet, each of these two enterprises reveals itself to be vain, as none can summarise a life with a simple word or a simple object, just like opulence does not enable to reach the plenitude of existence. Haunted House thus stages this impossible quest and the anxiety that comes with it — increased by the soundtrack, conceived by Wojciech Puś and alternating between moments of euphoria and latent angst — eventually leading to a form of confinement. The film concludes itself behind a closed window, showing the glimpse of a verdant exterior from which we now remain estranged, as if we had become ghosts ourselves.
By using these different references, to which can be applied various levels of interpretation, Angelika Markul creates a complex visual mosaic that interrogates our own conception of time and existence. Haunted House thus raises the following question: will we make the choice of life, with the violence that it involves, or will we remain prisoners of our own ghosts, to the point of becoming one?
1 « Lettre à Ménécée », Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale, vol. 18, no. 3, 1910, p. 436,
JSTOR,[http://www.jstor.org/stable/40894220]. Consulted on March 4h 2025.
2
Immense house built by the character of Citizen Kane, eponymous protagonist of Orson Welles’ 1941 film. Described by the narrator as the “largest private pleasure ground’, this building shelters the enormous collection of objects and artworks of its owner. A symbol of Kane’s wealth and power, Xanadu also illustrates the impossibility of providing him with the joy and carelessness of childhood.