I've probably watched Robert Eggers' debut film five or six times now, and every single time, I find myself spiraling into a deep analysis of the witch and what she actually represents in those bleak, grey New England woods. It's not the kind of movie you just "watch" and then move on to a comedy to lighten the mood. It sticks to your ribs. It makes you feel cold, even if you're wrapped in a blanket on your couch.
When The Witch (or The VVitch, if you want to be fancy about the typography) first came out in 2015, a lot of people were annoyed because it wasn't a jump-scare fest. There were no ghosts popping out of closets or loud violin screeches every five minutes. Instead, it gave us something much more terrifying: the slow, agonizing disintegration of a family.
The Horror of Isolation and Pride
The movie starts with a rejection. William, the father, is so incredibly stubborn and self-righteous that he gets his entire family kicked out of a comfortable plantation because he thinks their version of Christianity isn't "pure" enough. That's the first big red flag. Most people would compromise a little bit to keep their kids safe and fed, but not William.
In any analysis of the witch, you have to look at the setting as a character itself. They move to the edge of a massive, dark forest. It's beautiful in a haunting way, but it's also a death sentence. They have no safety net. When the corn fails and the baby, Samuel, disappears under Thomasin's watch, the isolation stops being a spiritual choice and starts being a physical trap.
What's brilliant here is how Eggers uses the period accuracy to heighten the fear. These people genuinely believed that the devil was a physical being lurking in the trees. To them, a bad harvest wasn't just bad luck; it was a sign that God had abandoned them or that someone in the family was a sinner. That kind of pressure is a pressure cooker for madness.
Religion as a Double-Edged Sword
You can't really dive into an analysis of the witch without talking about the suffocating nature of their faith. This isn't just "going to church on Sunday" religion. This is "we are all born evil and might go to hell regardless of what we do" religion.
The character of Caleb, the eldest son, is heartbreaking. He's trying so hard to be "good," but he's also a teenage boy experiencing natural urges. He feels guilty just for looking at his sister in a way he shouldn't, and he's terrified that his unbaptized baby brother is burning in hell. The scene where he returns from the woods and has that ecstatic, terrifying religious fit is one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever seen on film.
The parents, William and Katherine, are just as lost. Katherine is drowning in grief, and instead of supporting her, William lies to her about the silver cup. He's a man who prides himself on his honesty and his strength, but he's actually quite weak. He can't even chop wood properly without looking like he's struggling. His failure to provide for his family creates the crack that the "witch" (or the devil) eventually crawls through.
Thomasin and the Burden of Girlhood
At its core, my analysis of the witch always centers on Thomasin. Anya Taylor-Joy was a revelation in this role. Thomasin is stuck in the worst possible position. She's the eldest child, she's becoming a woman, and she's the family's designated scapegoat.
Every time something goes wrong, it's her fault. She's the one who was watching the baby. She's the one who "scares" the twins by pretending to be a witch (a joke that backfires spectacularly). Her mother clearly resents her, partly because Thomasin is young and fertile while the mother is mourning and "past her prime" in the eyes of that society.
There's a really interesting feminist reading here. Thomasin is a girl who wants to be good. She prays, she works hard, and she tries to please her parents. But no matter what she does, she's condemned. If the world is going to call you a monster anyway, at what point do you just decide to become one?
Is the Witch Real or Imagined?
This is where the fan theories usually go wild. Some people argue that the whole thing is a result of ergot poisoning—fungus on the corn that causes hallucinations. It would explain the weird visions and the talking goat.
However, in a literal analysis of the witch, I think it's much more effective to accept that the witch is 100% real. Eggers shows us the witch in the first ten minutes. We see her—or at least a version of her—in the woods with the baby. By making the supernatural elements real, the movie moves away from being a "psychological thriller" and becomes a genuine folktale.
The witch isn't just a lady in the woods with a broomstick. She represents the "Wild." She is everything that the family's rigid, Puritan lifestyle tries to suppress. She is chaos, she is nature, and she is terrifyingly free. The family tries to tame the land, but the land (and the witch) eventually swallows them whole.
The Legend of Black Phillip
We have to talk about the goat. Black Phillip has become a bit of an internet icon, but in the context of the film, he's terrifying. For most of the movie, he's just a cranky farm animal. But the way the twins talk to him creates this mounting sense of dread.
The final scene, where Thomasin goes to the barn and asks the goat to speak to her, is legendary. When he finally answers in that smooth, seductive voice—"Wouldst thou like the taste of butter?"—it's a perfect climax. He doesn't offer her gold or power in the traditional sense; he offers her sensuality. He offers her the things her religion denied her: the taste of butter, a pretty dress, the ability to see the world. He offers her "living deliciously."
That Ending (and why it's not actually "happy")
The ending is where most people's analysis of the witch gets divided. Thomasin walks into the woods, finds a coven of witches dancing around a fire, and begins to levitate. She's laughing. She looks happy for the first time in the entire movie.
Is it a "good" ending? In one sense, yes. She's free from her abusive, dying family. She has found a community. But let's not forget what she had to do to get there. She had to watch her family die—and in her father's case, she basically let it happen—and she had to sign her soul away to the devil.
It's a dark triumph. It's the ultimate "fine, I'll be the villain" moment. She trades her soul for the chance to finally breathe, to finally be seen, and to finally have power in a world that gave her none.
Why We Are Still Talking About It
There's a reason this movie didn't just fade away. It's because an analysis of the witch reveals so many layers about human nature. It's about how fear can destroy a family faster than any monster. It's about how we project our own guilt onto others. And it's about the terrifying, seductive allure of the unknown.
Robert Eggers managed to create a film that feels like it was unearthed from a time capsule. The language, the costumes, and the lighting all work together to make you feel like you're eavesdropping on a real tragedy from the 1630s. It doesn't rely on cheap tricks; it relies on the fundamental fear of being alone in the dark with your own thoughts—and finding out that your thoughts might just be as evil as the thing lurking in the woods.
If you haven't seen it in a while, it's definitely worth a re-watch. Just maybe keep the lights on. And maybe don't trust your goat if he starts looking at you funny.