Dakota Johnson plays Susie Bannion, a shy Mennonite from Ohio who arrives in Berlin with raw, untapped talent. But this is not Black Swan . The choreography by Damien Jalet is not beautiful; it is occult geometry. The dancers contort themselves into ritualistic shapes that seem to dislocate reality.
The climax is not a chase scene with a knife. It is a coven tribunal. It is a siphoning of souls. It is a ritual so bloody and cathartic that when the credits roll—with Thom Yorke’s haunting, lonely ballad—you realize you’ve just watched a funeral for an era of innocence. Is Suspiria (2018) better than Suspiria (1977)? That is the wrong question. One is a punk rock album. The other is a dirge for a broken world. suspiria -2018-
Argento gave us a nightmare you could dance to. Guadagnino gave us a history lesson you can’t wake up from. Dakota Johnson plays Susie Bannion, a shy Mennonite
The answer, as it turns out, was brutal, brilliant, and unexpected. Guadagnino didn’t remake Suspiria . He exhumed it. He stripped away the Technicolor dreamcoat and buried the film in the Cold War mud of 1977 Berlin. The result is not just a great horror remake; it is a dense, political, and profoundly disturbing work of art that demands to be taken seriously. Let’s address the elephant in the dance studio. Argento’s film is a fever dream of saturated primaries. Guadagnino’s film is the color of a bruise: grey, brown, ochre, and sepia. The dancers contort themselves into ritualistic shapes that
Tilda Swinton, in a triple role (including a startlingly prosthetic turn as the ancient, necrotic Mother Markos), anchors the film’s central argument: What does power look like when men are irrelevant?
So, when Luca Guadagnino ( Call Me By Your Name ) announced a remake 41 years later, purists were ready to riot. How could a director known for sun-drenched sensuality and longing gazes possibly capture Argento’s psychotic energy?
This desaturation is not a lack of imagination; it is a deliberate act of violence. By stripping away the fairy-tale gloss, Guadagnino forces us to feel the grime. Berlin is divided by a concrete wall, haunted by the whispers of the Baader-Meinhof complex and lingering Nazi shame. The rain never stops. The Markos Dance Academy is not a gothic castle but a brutalist bank building—cold, institutional, and bureaucratic.