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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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.

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Three film-obsessed friends watch deep-cut folk-horror, ask “is it really folk-horror and is it any good?”, then argue, spoil and score it out of 30. Come for the obscure movies, stay for the pub-banter exorcisms.

Subscribe… if you dare.

Enjoyed this episode? Follow FolknHell for fresh folk-horror deep dives. Leave us a rating, share your favourite nightmare, and join the cult on Instagram @FolknHell.

Full transcripts, show notes folkandhell.com.

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