A rousing rebuttal of the conventions it initially flaunts, Alex de la Iglesia's feminist horror comedy is, in its gender-political stance, notable for casting men in its lead roles. As physical farce turns to verbal humour, Witching and Bitching loses none of its satirical edge, instead more subtly (expect that to be the last time I use that term in any de la Iglesia review) mocking and denouncing the casual chauvinism of the dialogue. To those already attuned to it, it's pretty overt, but it's a delightful designation of de la Iglesia's characteristic flippancy, as he gently subverts our expectations of the genre, whatever that may be. For soft-pedalled slapstick, the post-opening credits sequence is a knockout (literally, at one point), and one which the remainder of Witching and Bitching can't ever live up to. de la Iglesia maintains his signature broadly comedic tone throughout, gratifyingly not too broad mostly, but while he keeps the spirit of that opening ticking over, much of what follows does lack a little of its zest. Though as his emasculating antics take over, the film attains a somewhat different quality. Given the locational and narrative restraint displayed in the first act, one may not expect an escalation into full-blown lunacy as occurs in the third - think the ending to Dario Argento's Mother of Tears, only good - though one would be unwise to expect anything less. The light-hearted tone and consistent commitment to de la Iglesia's charmingly absurd vision justify the length of this third act, which is the film's weakest, despite some strong gags and inventive ideas. And that commitment is channelled perfectly, on those qualities which reflect best on this wonderfully wicked comedy: sharp, snappy, unselfconscious humour, and a vibrant streak of feminism.
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