Is It A Dream by This Window — A Gothic Homage to Hammer Horror
Step into a shadowed world where fog curls like memory and menace. This short film pays tribute to the iconic Gothic horror of Hammer Film Productions, whose chilling legacy from the 1960s and 1970s defined a generation of British cinema. Founded in 1934, Hammer became synonymous with eerie castles, blood-red lighting, and the haunting elegance of Victorian dread.
In this homage, spectral imagery unfolds:
A Female Horror Villain, a Banshee, mocking, floats between realms
A Victorian Gentleman, stoic yet cursed, watches from the gloom. Within the pipe smoke, a woman’s face twists in derision—her laughter a ghostly echo
A Victorian Vicar, cloaked in moral ambiguity, stands at the edge of salvation and sin
The visual tone evokes chiaroscuro and theatrical decay, a dream of horror, filtered through the lens of memory and myth.
“Dance this Way” is a short, searing piece of emotional reportage. In just a handful of lines, it captures the humiliation of being treated as an accessory rather than a partner. The narrator’s repeated “I hate you, I really hate you” is not melodrama but the blunt edge of betrayal — the kind that happens not in grand betrayals, but in the small, public moments where someone you love makes you feel invisible.
The scene is painfully familiar: a couple arrives together at a favourite bar to see a favourite band — a shared ritual. But instead of sharing the night, the man abandons his partner to socialise with his friends. When he does return, it’s not to reconnect, but to issue a command: “dance this way.” The woman is reduced to a performer, summoned at will, her emotional state irrelevant. When she cries, he laughs. The dream — of romance, of mutual respect — collapses in that instant.
Objectification
The man’s behaviour treats the woman as an object in his evening, not a participant in it. She is there to enhance his social experience, to be displayed or activated when it suits him. The “click of the fingers” dynamic is implicit — a gesture of control that assumes compliance. This is not partnership; it’s possession.
Etiquette Then and Now
In the 1940s–1950s, social etiquette — at least in its idealised form — demanded a public code of courtesy between men and women. A man escorting a woman to a dance or bar was expected to remain attentive:
Staying together in public spaces was a sign of respect.
Introducing her to friends rather than abandoning her was considered proper.
Inviting her to dance was done with a request, not a command.
Protecting her dignity in public was part of a man’s social role.
Of course, these codes were not universally upheld, and they often masked deeper inequalities. But the performance of respect was socially enforced. In contrast, the scene in Dance this Way reflects a modern erosion of even that veneer. The man feels no social pressure to maintain appearances; his disregard is casual, unhidden, and unashamed.
The Shift in Power Dynamics
The difference is telling:
1940s–1950s Ideal
Scene in Dance this Way
Man as attentive escort
Man as self-absorbed socialiser
Public courtesy as social currency
Public disregard without consequence
Woman as honoured companion (within patriarchal norms)
Woman as optional entertainment, summoned at will
Emotional restraint in public
Public humiliation without hesitation
Toxicity – the demise of respect
Lyrics
I hate you, I really hate you.
You take me to our favourite bar,
To see our favourite band and you leave me.
You hang out with your mates, you talk and laugh.
Then you come over and tell me to dance this way.
You walk away, I cry, you laugh, our dream is shattered.
I hate you, I really hate you.
Dance this Way is not just a personal lament — it’s a snapshot of a broader cultural shift where the minimal courtesies of mid-century etiquette have been replaced, in some circles, by a casual entitlement. The man’s behaviour is not simply unkind; it’s a small act of social erasure. In the 1940s, he might have been judged for it. Today, in certain settings, it passes without comment — unless, as here, the woman names it for what it is.
This video delivers a rich tapestry of visual symbolism and emotional tension, anchored by a haunting soundtrack and layered narrative. Maybe a ménage à trois set in the Victorian age?
The English gentleman in a top hat evokes tradition and propriety, possibly masking repression or duplicity. His presence suggests a moral façade, hinting at deeper conflicts. The woman positioned before an 1888 American flag becomes both a symbol and a subject—representing national identity, commodification, and the complexities of gender in the Gilded Age. Meanwhile, the Maverick Rancher, marked by his “no brand” status, stands as a self-made outsider. His ambiguous role and potential paternity add emotional depth and narrative intrigue.
Paternity
The question of the baby’s paternity is central to the song’s emotional core. Through split-screen visuals, a Mid-Atlantic accent in the lyric “You Betrayed Me,” and fragmented musical layering, the video crafts a riddle of betrayal and identity. The baby becomes a metaphor for consequence—a product of fractured relationships and unresolved truths.
Musically, the track blends electronic haze with jagged guitar riffs, creating a sonic landscape of dissonance and confrontation. The refrain “You Betrayed Me” transcends mere accusation, becoming a cry of existential rupture.
This is not a ballad—it’s a reckoning. The song challenges viewers to confront the emotional fallout of betrayal, wrapped in a visually and sonically compelling package.
The track Onward Christian Soldiers by This Window offers a layered reinterpretation of the 1865 hymn penned by Sabine Baring-Gould, blending historical, religious, and pop-cultural motifs into a provocative multimedia experience. While Baring-Gould’s original lyrics were intended as a rousing call to Christian unity and spiritual warfare, This Window reframes the hymn through a lens of wartime nostalgia and modern critique.
Religious Undertones: The original hymn, famously set to music by Arthur Sullivan, evokes themes of divine mission and moral righteousness. This Window retains this spiritual backbone but juxtaposes it with imagery that complicates the notion of “holy war”—especially in light of 20th-century and contemporary conflicts.
Commando Comic Book Aesthetic: The video draws heavily from the visual language of 1960s Commando comics—bold, heroic, and often jingoistic depictions of WWII. This retro styling serves both as homage and critique, highlighting how war was mythologised for young readers while subtly questioning the glorification of violence.
European War Retrospective: By referencing the European theatre of WWII (1939–1945), the track situates itself within a historical continuum of conflict. The use of archival-style visuals, evokes the trauma and propaganda of the era, while also gesturing toward the cyclical nature of war.
Modern-Day Parallels: The inclusion of contemporary conflict references—whether visual, lyrical, or symbolic—suggests that the “marching” of Christian soldiers is not confined to history. It invites reflection on how religious and ideological fervour continue to shape global tensions.
This Window’s version isn’t just a cover—it’s a conceptual reimagining. By weaving together religious fervour, wartime propaganda, and modern critique, it challenges viewers to reconsider what it means to march “as to war.” Baring-Gould’s ties to Baring Bank adds another layer—hinting at the entanglement of faith, finance, and empire.
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