Tragic History Informs the Slow Burn Horrors of The Devil’s Bath
Springtime. Germany, 1704. A lowly serving woman named Agnes Catherina Schickin arrived at the small village of Krumhard where she came across seven-year-old Hans Michael Furch playing with a group of boys along the roadside. She convinced Hans to guide her to a nearby town with the promise of a reward, and the pair soon embarked on a journey through dense, mostly secluded forest. When evening came, young Hans asked to return to his home, but before he could do so, Agnes pulled out a knife and murdered the child. Then, she walked to the town of Schorndorf and immediately turned herself in. Agnes would later be beheaded for the brutal slaying, but her heinous crime and punishment would only act as inspiration for like-minded murderers such as Johanna Martauschin, Sophia Charlotte Krügerin and Ewa Lizlfellner, melancholy women who found a loophole to attaining eternal salvation through infanticide after their faiths told them that there was no greater sin than suicide. Their morbid yet relatively unheard histories form the catalyst for Veronika Franz and Severin Fiala’s latest dark drama, The Devil’s Bath.
The Devil’s Bath melds the very true stories of Lizlfellner (an 18th-century woman who, after several unsuccessful suicide attempts, threw a baby into a river so that she’d be sentenced to death) and Schickin to conjure up Agnes (Anja Plaschg), a devout countrywoman living in rural Upper Austria in 1750.
The film introduces the protagonist on the cusp of her new life: the morning of her wedding. The lighting is soft and golden as she sits in lush woodland, softly singing a hymn to the Blessed Mary while collecting foliage to make a bridal crown. Her mother rushes her inside and she bids farewell to her childhood home by measuring and marking her height on a wooden door frame one last time. And just like that, they’re off—marching through the Austrian wilderness with her dowry on a wagon. At first, things seem fairly optimistic for the newlyweds. The wedding was festive and well-attended. A new dwelling was obtained by her husband. And the thought that children of her own will soon fill their quiet home brings Agnes a sense of hope. But when her beloved shows no interest in consummating their marriage—and the dreadful reality of daily chores, expectations and an overbearing mother-in-law settle in—Agnes sinks deeper and deeper into an all-consuming depression, until a single act of violence proves to be the only thing that can free her from her dreadful disease.
The Devil’s Bath’s opening scene is punctuated with a confession, “As my troubles left me weary of this life, it came to me to commit a murder,” making it abundantly clear where its story is headed. But the film is not nearly as interested in the brutality of its proganist’s final act as much as it’s concerned with the personal and societal conditions that brought it about. The Devil’s Bath is motivated by its character study, exploring the dread found at the intersections of rural peasant life, untreated mental health issues, a patriarchal environment and religious dogma through its almost documentary-like lens.
Shot on gorgeous 35mm by cinematographer Martin Gschlact, the film studies mundane moments, meditating on farmhands clearing rocks from fields and women washing their linens in a shallow creek. For many sequences, the directing duo’s camera sits motionless while watching the quietness of the Austrian countryside in the mid-1700s. There’s a sense of realism in the way Plaschg interacts with her surroundings. While preparing a meal of porridge over a dark cooker, she places burning wood chips in her mouth to better illuminate the bubbling mush; it’s a small, practical detail that signals a level of experience working with in a gas-less, electricity-free kitchen. From basket fishing in muddy bodies of water to food preparation, the work practices depicted in The Devil’s Bath feel genuine and lived-in, much like Plaschg’s performance as the dejected Agnes.