Mark Jenkin’s Enys Men gives the trio one of their most intricate puzzles yet, a film that marries Cornish landscape, ritual repetition, and fractured time into something hypnotic and quietly unsettling. Set on a remote stone island off the Cornish coast, the story follows an unnamed volunteer who spends her days observing a cluster of flowers, maintaining a failing generator, and dropping stones into an abandoned tin mine. Her routine appears simple, but the repetition reveals changes that cannot be explained by ordinary time. Lichen grows on the flowers at the same moment it begins to creep across the scar on her own body, a scar tied to a long buried trauma. The date is the first of May, the anniversary of a maritime tragedy that haunts both her and the island.

The conversation explores how the film treats time as a fluid and circular force rather than a linear path. Ghostly miners, drowned sailors, children from a vanished school, and folk singers appear and disappear as if the past is pushing its way into the present. The group unpack how the film’s heavy grain, radio static, and repeated imagery create a sense of permanence that exceeds any human scale. Andy, who grew up near the filming locations, recognises home in the standing stones and cliff paths, deepening the discussion around place and memory.

FolknHell consider the volunteer not simply as a character but as a living extension of the island itself. Her stillness, her red coat, her lack of dialogue, and her connection to both the stone and the earth below all imply that she is the vessel through which the island remembers its own history. Every ritual drop of a stone into the mine becomes an act that links present moments with the island’s centuries of labour, loss, and buried stories. The lichen on the flowers and on her body suggests a slow merging of human and landscape.

When the question of folk horror arises, the boys find an unusually clear answer. The threat comes directly from the land. The isolated community exists in fragments of memory. The connection to an older world is woven into every frame. The horror is not found in monsters or sudden frights but in the overwhelming sense of an island that has existed far longer than any of the people who walk across it. This makes Enys Men a refined example of the genre, one that replaces shock with atmosphere and uses silence as its primary tool.

The trio debate how the film rewards patience while offering very little in the way of conventional narrative comfort. For Dave it is demanding and at times opaque, though artistically compelling. David admires its depth but finds it less emotionally gripping on a second viewing. Andy is captivated by its artistry and by its deep roots in Cornish culture and geography. Their combined score of twenty five point five out of thirty reflects a film that is challenging, visually striking, and rich with ideas. It evokes isolation, the passage of time, and the eerie sense that the ground beneath your feet is alive with memory.

Wikipedia: link

IMBD: link

Rotten Tomatos: link

FolknHell: www.folknhell.com

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In the Welsh Valleys and Yorkshire fields, something stirs. Two couples, two hauntings; one whispered through fairy rings, the other screamed through roots and ritual. Rabbit Trap offers tenderness in the face of loss; Starve Acre finds horror in what the land remembers.

Our Halloween special, a double helping of ritual, grief, and mycelial menace, pairs Bryn Chainey’s dreamlike Rabbit Trap with Daniel Kokotajlo’s devastating Starve Acre.

Different tones, same soil. One heals, the other devours.

A sound engineer (Dev Patel) and his composer wife (Rose McEwen) retreat to the Welsh Valleys to rediscover inspiration. Instead, they find a mysterious child in the woods, and the faint pull of the fairy realm.

Blurring the line between healing and haunting, Rabbit Trap weaves changeling myth, fairy-ring folklore, and electronic soundscapes into a story of grief transfigured.

Its intimacy is hypnotic: a film where sound carries half the story, and the unseen hums just beneath the soil.

“It’s not a film about fear. It’s about finally meaning it.” — Andy Davidson

Score: 28/30

Verdict: A beautiful, immersive folk horror, poetic, unsettling, and quietly redemptive.

Matt Smith and Morfydd Clark play a grieving couple drawn into an ancient ritual tied to the land beneath their Yorkshire home.

Here, loss becomes obsession and the soil answers back with cruelty. Starve Acre takes the folklore of sacrifice and drags it into raw, contemporary grief — a story of necromancy, love, and the terrible cost of devotion.

Where Rabbit Trap whispers, this one roars. Wide landscapes, heavy silences, and the suffocating inevitability of myth.

“Where Rabbit Trap gives your life back, Starve Acre asks what you’ll give up to get it.” — David Hall

Score: 24/30

Verdict: Traditional and brutal. The Wicker Man’s darker cousin, steeped in earth and loss.

• Ritual & Sacrifice: In one story, ritual heals; in the other, it devours.
• Loss & Renewal: Rabbit Trap mourns the child never born; Starve Acre the one buried too soon.
• Sound & Silence: The former is composed in close-mic whispers; the latter in wind and soil.
• Fungi & Folklore: Mycelium as metaphor and menace. Rot, rebirth, and everything between.
• The Land as Consciousness: Both films remind us the ground remembers, even when we try to forget.

In Rabbit Trap, sound is not background, it’s the bloodstream. Recording equipment, field tapes, and the hiss of the landscape shape every emotional turn.

In Starve Acre, the sound is absence, the breath before a scream, the creak of a root giving way.

Together they form a conversation between microphones and ghosts.

Two sides of the same ritual. Rabbit Trap offers poetic rebirth; Starve Acre drags you through the mud and makes you pay for it.

Together they form a perfect Halloween pairing, proof that British folk horror is alive, growing, and quietly colonising your subconscious.

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A starving village, a lovesick girl, and a devil with a taste for mischief.

This week on Folk ’n’ Hell enters the snow-caked world of November (2017), Rainer Sarnet’s monochrome masterpiece of Estonian folklore and unrequited love. Adapted from Andrus Kivirähk’s novel, it is part fairy tale, part fever dream, and, depending on your tolerance for mud and magic, possibly the most beautiful film ever made about utter poverty.

The trio sink their boots into the film’s strange logic and haunting tone. In this medieval village, peasants barter their souls to the devil to build Kratts, creatures cobbled together from tools and bones that do their bidding. The dead dine with the living on All Souls’ Night, wolves roam the woods, and love becomes the cruellest magic of all. At its heart lies Lena, who adores Hans, who in turn is besotted with the Baron’s unnamed daughter. The result is a love triangle soaked in soot and longing, filmed in stark black and white that turns every frame into a living etching.

The hosts revel in the film’s rich mix of absurdity and allegory: peasants eating bark and soap, nobles decaying in empty grandeur, and the devil himself arriving like an Estonian Brian Blessed. Beneath the filth and humour lies a sharp reflection on faith, class, and survival. For all its surreal touches, talking snowmen, flying cows, and trousers worn on heads to ward off plague, November feels deeply human. Its horror is not in monsters or blood but in the endless grind of existence and the futility of desire.

Is it folk horror? The gang debate the question with uncharacteristic earnestness. While it may lack jump scares or creeping dread, November is steeped in folklore, environmental menace, and spiritual decay. It earns a unanimous 9 out of 10, the highest rating in Folk ’n’ Hell history, and a heartfelt recommendation even for those who usually avoid horror altogether. Shot through with humour, sorrow, and snowy beauty, November proves that folk horror can be tender, tragic, and strangely uplifting all at once.

Watch the film, listen to the chatter, and decide for yourself whether this tale of love, magic, and mud deserves its place among the genre’s finest.

🎬 Film: November (2017)

🎥 Director: Rainer Sarnet

📚 Based on: Rehepapp ehk November by Andrus Kivirähk

🔗 Wikipedia | IMDb | Rotten Tomatoes

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A mother and daughter rock band film themselves into witchcraft legend. Hellbender (2021) is the Adams family’s lockdown-born tale of spells, riffs, and rebellion, brewed in the forests of upstate New York. FolknHell dives into its homemade horror, punk-fuelled ambition, and questionable folk credentials, asking what really happens when cabin fever meets black magic.

Shot at the family home during the pandemic, Hellbender is a curious mix of family therapy, DIY filmmaking, and teenage witch fantasy. Mum Toby Poser, dad John Adams, and daughters Zelda and Lulu share writing, directing, editing, and acting duties, creating a home-spun brew of coming-of-age angst and occult awakening. The result is part music video, part family art project, and part fanged parable about isolation, appetite, and inherited power.

The story follows Izzy, a teenage girl kept away from civilisation by her mother, who insists she is ill. In reality, both are witches, members of a near-extinct line called Hellbenders who feed on fear to grow stronger. When Izzy meets a local girl and tastes her first worm, the magic takes hold, triggering a gory self-discovery that sets her against her protective, equally dangerous mother. What begins as a bond between two outsiders becomes a slow collision of maternal control and adolescent rebellion, shot through with buzzing guitars and pine-forest mysticism.

As always, the trio pull the film apart to test whether it truly belongs in the folk horror coven. Andy admires the ambition and momentum despite rough edges. Dave Houghton recognises the charm but points out the uneven tone that comes from four directors working on alternate days. David Hall argues that while witchcraft lies at the genre’s heart, Hellbender lacks the rural community and ancestral dread that define true folk horror. Instead, it is a modern fairy tale about power, parenting, and punk spirit, more Sabrina than The Wicker Man.

They discuss the film’s resourceful but patchy visual effects, improvised dialogue, and lighting that sometimes turns homemade into half-haunted. With only two main characters, the supposed isolation feels more like lockdown necessity than mythic setting. The music, provided by the family’s own band, adds drive but not always menace, leading to a film that fascinates more than it frightens.

Scoring the film out of 30, the panel agree on its good intentions but modest success. Andy gives it five, David Hall three and a half, and Dave Houghton three, for a total of eleven and a half. All agree that the Adams family’s spirit and imagination outstrip their resources, but that Hellbender’s claim to folk horror status relies more on marketing than merit.

Still, there is admiration for the effort. Making a feature film from scratch during lockdown deserves respect, even if the cauldron bubbles over. The trio conclude that Hellbender might be more of a family diary in disguise, a story about creativity and confinement rather than ancient rites or rural terror.

Join in and raise a glass (and an eyebrow) to the Adams family’s DIY witchery, ponder whether feeding on fear ever pays off, and debate once more the immortal question: Is it really folk horror?

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In this episode of FolknHell, Andy, Dave, and David take on Azrael (2024), Simon Barrett and E.L. Katz’s tense, wordless horror starring Samara Weaving. Set after the Rapture, the film drops us into a mute Christian fundamentalist cult who have severed their vocal cords in pursuit of purity, and the fiery “burned ones” who stalk the forests around them. Azrael herself is caught in a relentless cycle of capture, escape, and pursuit, with blood rituals, underground tunnels, and a climactic birth scene that veers into the demonic.

The trio weigh up the film’s survivalist atmosphere, its biblical overtones, and the striking choice to dispense almost entirely with dialogue. They explore whether the film’s rustling woods, mute cult, and sacrificial rites amount to genuine folk horror or whether these are merely borrowed tropes designed to ride the current wave of folk horror popularity.

Discussion ranges from the unexplained “mysterious winds” that herald the burned ones, to comparisons with The Descent and Mad Max, to the confusing symbolism of Azrael’s apparent satisfaction at a demonic child’s birth. While the group acknowledge the film’s tense pacing and some striking imagery, they find its folk horror credentials thin, its theology muddled, and its climax more frustrating than fulfilling.

In the end, the panel agree that Azrael is a lean, often gripping chase horror, but one that fails to root itself in the earthy authenticity that defines the folk horror tradition. Their final score of 11 out of 30 marks the lowest yet on the podcast, with Andy defending its visceral thrills while Dave and David knock it down for cheapness, repetition, and lack of genuine folk resonance.

For those curious, Azrael is worth a watch for its atmosphere, unusual silence, and brisk 86-minute runtim, just don’t expect the folkloric depths its marketing suggests.

IMDB: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt22173666/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_1_tt_6_nm_2_in_0_q_Azreal

Rotten Tomatoes: https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/azrael

Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Azrael_(film)

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In this episode of Folk ’n’ Hell, Andy, David, and Dave dive into Laurin (1989), Robert Sigl’s German oddity that blurs the line between fairy tale, Hammer horror homage, and supernatural thriller. Set in a rural village where children begin to vanish, the film follows nine-year-old Laurin as she receives visions from spirits, guiding her towards the unsettling truth: the schoolmaster, returned from military service, is a predatory murderer.

The trio wrestle with the film’s esoteric storytelling and oblique structure, noting how its dreamlike quality lends it a fairy-tale atmosphere. From the heavily saturated reds and 1960s Hammer-inspired visuals to the claustrophobic compression of the village setting, Laurin dazzles visually even as its narrative proves difficult to pin down. The group debate whether it truly counts as folk horror, weighing it against their three criteria: isolated rural community (yes), threat from the environment (no), and menace rooted in folklore (no). While Andy makes a case for including it in the wider folk horror canon alongside films like The Anchoress and Flower of Evil, Dave and David see it more as a supernatural coming-of-age story with horror-adjacent leanings.

The discussion touches on gender roles, psychological trauma, and the protective presence of Laurin’s mother’s spirit, symbolised by a haunting musical box. The trio also find humour in the hard-drinking grandmother and the mercifully short runtime, which keeps the film from becoming too heavy. Ultimately, Laurin scores 14 out of 30, the lowest rating so far, admired for its atmosphere but criticised for its lack of narrative clarity and folk horror credentials.

If you’re curious about obscure Euro-horror curiosities, artistic Hammer-style visuals, or cult supernatural tales that sit awkwardly on the folk horror shelf, Laurin may well be worth your time. But be warned: it is as baffling as it is beautiful.

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This week the FolknHell trio trek into the Swiss Alps with Sennentuntschi (2010), Michael Steiner’s strange and unsettling take on an Alpine legend. The story begins with three isolated goatherds who, in a drunken haze of absinthe, fashion a woman out of broomsticks, rags, and paint. To their horror and ours, she comes to life. What follows is not a fairy tale but a grim spiral of abuse, revenge, and a blurred line between folklore and crime thriller.

Andy, Dave, and David wrestle with the film’s slippery timeline that lurches between 1975 and the present day without warning. The result is confusion, compounded by technical slip-ups like modern fences in period scenes, a policeman dressed like he raided C&A, and a soundtrack that veers wildly from orchestral bombast to Serge Gainsbourg and ropey T-Rex covers.

The trio dissect the dual narrative at the film’s heart: on one hand, the folkloric myth of the Sennentuntschi, a woman conjured to serve and then destroy men; on the other, a grim true crime tale of a corrupt priest, a hidden dungeon, and an illegitimate daughter seeking revenge. It is a story so densely packed with contradictions and abrupt shifts that the three hosts spend more time piecing it together than the filmmakers seemingly did.

Is it folk horror? Andy argues that the grotesque finale, with skinned bodies and straw-filled effigies, tips it into the supernatural. Dave and David counter that beneath the Alpine trappings lies only a muddled crime drama dressed in folk horror fancy dress. Whatever the answer, all agree the film lacks the uncanny atmosphere and creeping sense of isolation that make the best folk horror so effective.

The trio break from their usual format and score the film on three fronts; enjoyment, construction, and horror effectiveness. Unfortunately, Sennentuntschi barely staggers to 21 out of 90, one of the lowest scores to date.

Expect bafflement, inappropriate laughter, and more references to Nigel Farage than you would ever want in a Swiss folk tale. If you are after a true taste of mountain dread, the team suggest saving your time for something like Sator or Luz: The Flower of Evil.

🔗 Sennentuntschi on Wikipedia

🔗 Sennentuntschi on Rotten Tomatoes

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In this episode, FolknHell sink their teeth into The Company of Wolves (1984), Neil Jordan’s dreamlike, symbol-laden reimagining of Angela Carter’s tales from The Bloody Chamber. Framed entirely as the fevered dreams of young Rosaleen, the film becomes a hall of mirrors where fairy tales and nightmares tangle, with wolves, both literal and metaphorical, lurking at every turn.

The hosts discuss the film’s deliberately artificial aesthetic: a studio-bound forest littered with bedroom toys, shifting between interior and exterior spaces in a way that mirrors dream logic. While Andy initially saw this as budget limitation, David Houghton argues it’s a strength, a consciously designed, Hammer-esque atmosphere where reality is secondary to mood.

The conversation roams through the film’s core metaphors: wolves as predators, men as dangerous temptations, and the forest as both peril and liberation. Angela Lansbury’s grandmother figure dispenses cautionary tales thick with warnings, “watch out for men who are hairy on the inside”, while Rosaleen’s mother offers a more open, less fearful worldview.

Special attention is paid to the transformation sequences, which are each distinct in tone and implication: from grotesque skin-shedding to seamless metamorphosis, culminating in Rosaleen’s own liberation as she joins the wolves. David Hall relishes one particularly surreal moment — Rosaleen climbing to a heron’s nest to find “the most freakish Kinder Surprise you’ll ever get”, a perfect emblem of the film’s strange, dreamlike logic.

The trio also tackle the film’s gender dynamics, noting how certain 1980s attitudes towards relationships and marriage read differently today, yet remain embedded in the period setting and fairy-tale framework. They debate whether it truly qualifies as horror, ultimately agreeing that while it’s not conventionally scary, it is steeped in folk horror DNA: an isolated community, threats from the surrounding environment, and dangers rooted in age-old traditions.

Scored a robust 25/30, The Company of Wolves earns high praise for its lush production design, layered storytelling, and ability to turn familiar fairy tales into something uncanny, unsettling, and strangely beautiful.

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This time on FolknHell, Andy, David, and Dave take their first cinematic trip to India for the visually lush, rain-drenched folk horror tale Tumbbad — a film dripping with myth, greed, and muddy moral compromise. Set across three distinct time periods (starting in 1918), Tumbbad charts the generational consequences of disturbing a slumbering god called Hastar — a deity born from the womb of the Earth itself, cursed for his insatiable hunger for gold and grain.

From the outset, the trio are intrigued by the film’s opening premise: two boys, their fearful mother, and a mummified, flesh-eating grandmother chained in a rain-lashed house. She's more than just scenery-chewing horror — she's a symbolic custodian of a secret too powerful to ignore. As one of the boys (Vinyak) grows up, he inherits more than just the legend — he learns how to exploit it.

The podcast digs into how Tumbbad unfolds as a cursed treasure tale in three acts. Each chapter marks a shift: discovery, exploitation, and eventual inheritance. It’s a slow-burn saga of ambition and consequence, with each generation slipping further into moral decay. And yet, it’s the film’s atmosphere — perpetually soaked in rain and shadow — that captivates the team. As David Hall notes, “it’s like the locks and buildings go back 5,000 years,” a touch that lends the film a tangible, earthy mythology. Dave Houghton likens the treasure chamber to a Lovecraftian womb — grotesque, alive, and utterly compelling.

A key discussion point centres on the folklore itself. Is Hastar a ‘real’ myth from Indian tradition, or a modern invention? The team suspects the latter — but agree that its invented lore still speaks to deep-rooted, folkish fears: cursed wealth, intergenerational sin, and the risks of unearthing that which should stay buried.

Stylistically, Tumbbad impresses across the board. The trio praise the production design, use of colour (especially in the womb scenes), and practical effects. While Andy finds the first act a bit slow and overly long, all three hosts are in agreement that the film delivers richly on mood, world-building, and originality.

Is it folk horror? By the podcast’s own criteria — a threat localised to a community, of the environment, and from another time — the answer is a resounding yes. Hastar lives in the earth, only emerges when summoned with ritual dolls, and the curse is bound to the landscape of Tumbbad itself. As Dave notes, even if the deity isn’t ancient in mythological record, the film still channels the right vibes: a god of limitations, rooted in soil and secrecy.

The final score? A consensus 21/30 — solid sevens across the board. It’s a “low B” in their unofficial ranking system, but a high recommendation. The team wish more people could see Tumbbad easily, noting that the version they watched used fan-made subtitles, a hint at its frustrating lack of UK distribution.

Expect spoilers, references to The Mummy, Kenneth Williams, Monkey magic, and spirited discussion about whether multiple dolls create multiple gods (spoiler: they don’t). As always, the boys close with warmth, irreverence, and a hint that this mysterious Indian horror might just be one of their most memorable discoveries yet.

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In this chilling episode of FolknHell, Andy, Dave, and David descend into the Dutch peatlands for a tense dissection of Moloch (2022), the atmospheric folk horror by Nico van den Brink. Set on the misty edge of a bog, Moloch follows Beatrix and her family as ancient bodies are unearthed around their isolated home—and something far older and far more malevolent stirs beneath the surface.

What begins with a traumatic childhood memory of a grandmother’s murder spirals into full-blown dread as archaeological digs awaken a generational curse tied to the ancient deity Moloch. Our hosts discuss the film’s rich folk horror DNA—isolated rural settings, ancestral guilt, whispers from the earth—blended with surprisingly effective slasher elements and spine-jangling jump scares.

The trio delve into the film’s use of body horror, the powerful folkloric framing of female sacrifice and possession, and the symbolic role of the bog as both graveyard and incubator of past sins. They note the film’s clever exposition through a school play, revealing the tale of Fika, a martyred figure who curses her bloodline after thwarting Moloch’s will—and whose spirit persists by inhabiting women of her lineage. Cue multiple unsettling possessions, grim ritual murders, and a harrowing ending that pulls no punches.

Despite its moments of over-explanation and an arguably unnecessary amount of vomiting (four scenes, if you're counting), Moloch earns praise for its relentless pacing, oppressive atmosphere, and beautifully bleak finale. It’s a film that doesn’t let you off the hook—just when you think it’s all wrapped up, it delivers a final blow that reframes everything.

The gang rate Moloch a solid 21.5 out of 30, with special commendation for its commitment to tone, craftsmanship, and horror grounded in folklore. They firmly agree: this is a folk horror film, and a bloody good one at that.

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