FolknHell

A remote hotel. A haunted honeymoon suite. A chalk circle that really should have been finished properly. Hokum gives us scares, screams and one very busy dumbwaiter, but does it give us folk horror?In this episode the FolknHell trio check into Hokum, Damien McCarthy’s 2026 horror about a cynical, suicidal writer retreating to a remote Irish inn to scatter his parents’ ashes, finish his book, and generally be horrible to almost everyone he meets. Before long, there are rumours of a witch, a locked honeymoon suite, a missing hotel worker, magic mushrooms, a terrifying cellar, and a plot that starts behaving like a locked-room mystery after several pints.The good news: the film is genuinely scary. Andy and Dave both found it tense, jumpy and effective in the cinema, while David admits it made him scream “like a lemon”. The bad news: the more they talk, the more Hokum starts to wobble. Om Bauman is hard to care about, the backstory arrives far too late, the police apparently cannot search a building properly, and the folk horror elements feel less woven in than nailed on.The big debate lands on whether Hokum is folk horror at all. There is an isolated setting, a witch, folklore, chalk protection and a buried basement, but the real threat is human panic, cowardice and Mel making every possible wrong decision.Final verdict: scary once, flawed on reflection, and probably folk horror adjacent rather than the real thing.Total FolknHell score: 15 out of 30.For more reviews, scores and discussions visit the FolknHell websiteFolknhell is the folk horror podcast where Andy Davidson, Dave Houghton and David Hall dig into strange cinema, argue about whether it really counts as folk horror, and score every film out of 30.Add your own score and comments about the films at https://www.folknhell.com/scoresFind us on the socials:YouTube: @folknhellFacebook: FolknHellX: @FolknHellBluesky: FolknHellSee acast.com/privacy for info. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Witchfinder General finally gets its turn under the FolknHell microscope and immediately starts causing problems. It turns up with a big reputation a lot of baggage and the confidence of a film that has been told for decades that it belongs in the folk horror big leagues. The trouble is once you actually sit down and watch it that claim starts wobbling almost immediately.The set up is simple and relentlessly grim. Matthew Hopkins a self appointed witchfinder rides from village to village across East Anglia turning petty grudges fear and sexual repression into a very profitable little business. People accuse their neighbours not because they genuinely believe in witchcraft but because it is useful. Hopkins is not uncovering ancient evils or dark rituals. He is just a horrible man spotting an opportunity and taking it.This is where the argument really kicks off around the table. There is no sense of shared belief. No community bound together by folklore. No land that feels cursed or alive or pushing back. Compared with The Wicker Man or Blood on Satan’s Claw where belief itself becomes the monster Witchfinder General feels hollow. The countryside looks lovely but does absolutely nothing except provide somewhere for people to be tortured.That does not mean it is toothless. Far from it. This is a late 1960s British exploitation film and it is not shy about it. The violence is blunt nasty and often mean spirited. There are hangings burnings stabbings and a lot of deeply uncomfortable sexual menace. Watching it now feels less like being scared and more like being slowly worn down which depending on your mood may or may not be your idea of a good evening.Vincent Price is doing a lot of the heavy lifting. His accent belongs exclusively to Vincent Price and nobody else but his presence is undeniable. One of us was all in calling this one of his best performances. The other two were less convinced but still admitted that without him the whole thing would collapse in a heap of mud wigs and bad decisions.At one point the film gets described as a 15th century John Wick which is both surprisingly accurate and probably kinder than it deserves. Strip away the period trappings and what you have is a revenge story about abuse of power with no interest at all in the supernatural. Which brings us neatly back to the big question. Why does this keep getting called folk horror.By the time the scores were handed out the damage was done. A combined 12 out of 30 says it all. One FolknHeller respected the rawness and Price’s performance. The other two mostly wanted it to be over and were still baffled by its genre credentials.Witchfinder General is important. It is influential. It is also a slog and about as folk horror as a bloke in a big hat being awful to everyone he meets. Worth watching once for context and conversation. Just do not expect ancient gods cursed fields or anything lurking in the hedgerows apart from another reason to argue.Folknhell is the folk horror podcast where Andy Davidson, Dave Houghton and David Hall dig into strange cinema, argue about whether it really counts as folk horror, and score every film out of 30.Add your own score and comments about the films at https://www.folknhell.com/scoresFind us on the socials:YouTube: @folknhellFacebook: FolknHellX: @FolknHellBluesky: FolknHellSee acast.com/privacy for info. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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: linkIMBD: linkRotten Tomatos: linkFolknHell: www.folknhell.comFolknhell is the folk horror podcast where Andy Davidson, Dave Houghton and David Hall dig into strange cinema, argue about whether it really counts as folk horror, and score every film out of 30.Add your own score and comments about the films at https://www.folknhell.com/scoresFind us on the socials:YouTube: @folknhellFacebook: FolknHellX: @FolknHellBluesky: FolknHellSee acast.com/privacy for info. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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 TomatoesFolknhell is the folk horror podcast where Andy Davidson, Dave Houghton and David Hall dig into strange cinema, argue about whether it really counts as folk horror, and score every film out of 30.Add your own score and comments about the films at https://www.folknhell.com/scoresFind us on the socials:YouTube: @folknhellFacebook: FolknHellX: @FolknHellBluesky: FolknHellSee acast.com/privacy for info. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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_AzrealRotten Tomatoes: https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/azraelWikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Azrael_(film)Folknhell is the folk horror podcast where Andy Davidson, Dave Houghton and David Hall dig into strange cinema, argue about whether it really counts as folk horror, and score every film out of 30.Add your own score and comments about the films at https://www.folknhell.com/scoresFind us on the socials:YouTube: @folknhellFacebook: FolknHellX: @FolknHellBluesky: FolknHellSee acast.com/privacy for info. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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 TomatoesFolknhell is the folk horror podcast where Andy Davidson, Dave Houghton and David Hall dig into strange cinema, argue about whether it really counts as folk horror, and score every film out of 30.Add your own score and comments about the films at https://www.folknhell.com/scoresFind us on the socials:YouTube: @folknhellFacebook: FolknHellX: @FolknHellBluesky: FolknHellSee acast.com/privacy for info. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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.Folknhell is the folk horror podcast where Andy Davidson, Dave Houghton and David Hall dig into strange cinema, argue about whether it really counts as folk horror, and score every film out of 30.Add your own score and comments about the films at https://www.folknhell.com/scoresFind us on the socials:YouTube: @folknhellFacebook: FolknHellX: @FolknHellBluesky: FolknHellSee acast.com/privacy for info. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Grief loops, dead roosters, and a white-suited psycho: the lads tackle Koko-di Koko-da and argue whether made-up myths count as folk horror, or just chicken-fuelled existential dread.What do you get when you hand a grief-stricken Scandi loop-nightmare of a film to three British blokes obsessed with folk horror taxonomy? A very long conversation about grief, chickens, and whether your bollocks can be haunted. This week on Folk ’n’ Hell, Andy, Dave H. and David dive headfirst into the strange, cyclical misery of Koko-di Koko-da—a 2019 Swedish-Danish oddity that might be a fairy tale, might be a psychological horror, and might be (but might not be) folk horror. Let the shouting commence.Here’s the setup: a grieving couple go camping. That’s it. They park up by a forest clearing and get stuck in a surreal time loop, reliving the same brutal ambush by three grotesque fairytale figures—a white-suited dandy, a terrifying crone with electroshock hair, and a lumbering brute with a dog (dead or not, depending on the loop). It’s a film about trauma, avoidance, and coping… mostly by running away in your pants.Naturally, the gang spend the first ten minutes arguing about the correct pronunciation of the title. Then it’s straight into the big questions: is it folk horror if the nursery rhyme is made up? If the forest isn’t really haunted? If the only community is a bickering couple and three walking Jungian archetypes with murder on their minds? Andy thinks it’s folk horror—sort of. Dave H. definitely doesn’t. David just wants someone to explain the shadow-puppet interludes and the dog that’s always been dead.But while the episode is packed with tangent-fuelled silliness (seafood pizza rage, Right to Roam envy, an unexpected book plug for The Book of Trespass), there’s something serious under the surface. Koko-di Koko-da hits a nerve—not through gore or shocks, but through the way it portrays grief as relentless, looping, and oddly theatrical. Each time the couple wake up, they’re further apart. The husband grows more aware, but also more useless. The wife, despite being murdered repeatedly, has to do most of the emotional heavy lifting. And the hosts—surprisingly for a trio who once spent twenty minutes debating scarecrow taxonomy—actually sit in that discomfort for a bit.There’s admiration, too, for how Johannes Nyholm pulls off so much with so little. Guerrilla day-for-night shooting, tight camerawork (often literally shot from the backseat), and a weirdly catchy refrain about a dead rooster build an atmosphere that’s uniquely Scandinavian: bleak, bonkers, but beautiful. Compared with other low-budget Nordic chillers like Moloch, this one lingers.Scoring sparks the usual chaos. Dave H. calls it a “six” and praises the nursery rhyme but wasn’t fussed about the couple’s emotional journey. David gives it a “strong seven” for believability and auteur ambition—despite dinging it for its fright factor. Andy, visibly vibrating, tries to give it a “nine” before settling on a more sensible “eight,” saying it disturbed him more than it scared him, which for him is basically a rave review.So: is it folk horror? Official ruling: sort of. The setting’s invented, the myth’s personal, the characters isolated only by their own minds. But it hits enough of the Folk ’n’ Hell checklist to count—just not at the bullseye. It’s folk horror with an asterisk. Asterisk horror, if you will.Whether you’ve seen Koko-di Koko-da or not, this episode’s a doozy: wild theories, genuine insight, and possibly the only podcast on Earth where someone says “shot right in the willy” while talking about grief metaphors. Stick it in your ears.Folknhell is the folk horror podcast where Andy Davidson, Dave Houghton and David Hall dig into strange cinema, argue about whether it really counts as folk horror, and score every film out of 30.Add your own score and comments about the films at https://www.folknhell.com/scoresFind us on the socials:YouTube: @folknhellFacebook: FolknHellX: @FolknHellBluesky: FolknHellSee acast.com/privacy for info. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.