The classic subgenre of folk horror, with origins in the late 1960s, is finding new popularity in the twenty-first century. The 2010s saw the beginnings of a “folk horror revival” (Andres 79) with the release films such as Ben Wheatley’s A Field in England (2013), Robert Eggers’s The Witch (2015), David Bruckner’s The Ritual (2017), Lukas Feigelfeld’s Hagazussa (2017), Gareth Evans’s Apostle (2018), and Ari Aster’s Midsommar (2019). 

The term “folk horror” was first used in reference to film in 1970, in a review of Piers Haggard’s The Blood on Satan’s Claw (Woodlands 0:11:44). Folk horror films often include elements such as cults or isolated religious groups, rural settings, and themes of ritual or sacrifice. Adam Scovell, author of Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange, outlines a set of conventions—or “Folk Horror Chain”—that can be used to define the subgenre. The first link in the chain is landscape, “where elements within its topography have adverse effects on the social and moral identity of its inhabitants” (Scovell 17). The next is isolation, meaning that characters are “cut off from some established social progress of the diegetic world” (18). This isolation leads to the next link, a community with “skewed belief systems and morality,” finally culminating in a “happening” or “summoning,” which often takes the form of “death in the slowest, most ritualistic of ways, occasionally encompassing supernatural elements, where the group belief systems summon up something demonic or generally supernatural” (18). While this chain can be a helpful lens through which to examine folk horror, Scovell also notes that his theory is not an exact science, and that not every folk horror film will conform to these conventions (25). In his essay on the topic, Andy Paciorek argues that “There is frequently an indefinable ‘certain something’ that makes a work appear more or less Folk Horror” and that to clearly define the subgenre, “one may as well attempt to build a box the exact shape of mist; for like the mist, Folk Horror is atmospheric and sinuous.” 

A similarly enigmatic film style is elevated horror, or as film scholar David Church more commonly refers to it, “post-horror.” A fairly succinct definition can be found in the introductory chapter of Church’s book, Post-Horror: Art, Genre and Cultural Elevation, in which he describes elevated horror as “an emerging cycle of independently produced (and potentially profitable) horror films that merge art-cinema style with decentered genre tropes, privileging lingering dread and visual restraint over audiovisual shocks and monstrous disgust” (1). Films often classified as elevated horror include Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin (2013), David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows (2014), and Jordan Peele’s Get Out (2017), as well as the aforementioned Midsommar and The Witch (Church 14). These films often evoke deeper psychological or sociopolitical themes, prioritize artistic cinematography, and avoid relying on jump scares to evoke fear. The validity of the term “elevated horror” is widely debated, with some critics arguing that it is “snooty,” “snobbish,” and “elitist” (Ehrlich). For my purposes, the term will be used descriptively rather than evaluatively—it is beyond the scope of this essay to argue whether these films are better or more meaningful than older or non- “elevated” horror. 

As interest in folk horror continues to grow, the question arises: how has the recent trend of elevated horror affected the folk horror subgenre? To offer an answer, this essay examines the three British folk horror films from the ‘60s and ‘70s: Piers Haggard’s The Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971), Robin Hardy’s The Wicker Man (1973), and Michael Reeves’s Witchfinder General (1968), dubbed by Scovell as the “Unholy Trinity” (8). These films are often among the first to be mentioned when discussing folk horror, cited as examples that “[represent] the genre as a whole” (Scovell 12). I compare the elements of this trinity to newer works of “elevated” folk horror, including Midsommar and The Witch, as well as Evans’s Apostle and Feigelfeld’s Hagazussa. I begin by highlighting tonal differences between classic and elevated folk horror, then move on to a discussion of the thematic and narrative differences. An exploration of these films leads to the conclusion that while the recent additions to the folk horror subgenre bear many similarities to the Unholy Trinity, the recent popularity of elevated horror has resulted in folk horror films with more minimalistic tones, intentional social commentary, ambiguous narratives, and complex conclusions.

Perhaps the most obvious difference between classic folk horror films and their elevated counterparts is their tone. Witchfinder General and The Witch both explore superstition and witchcraft but have significant stylistic differences. Witchfinder General is based on the true story of Matthew Hopkins, a self-proclaimed witchfinder during the English Civil War. While certainly dark and violent for the time it was produced, Witchfinder General is at times more reminiscent of a “nihilistic” western than a horror film (Woodlands 00:09:36), as evidenced by its adventurous soundtrack, horseback chases, and gunfights. 

The Witch, however, has a much slower but arguably more dread-inducing tone. Set in Puritan New England, the film follows a young girl, Thomasin, whose family suspects her of being a witch. The film’s score, full of haunting and dissonant string instruments, is deliberately “minimalistic and amelodic” (Andres 87). Visually, The Witch is almost entirely devoid of bright colors, instead favoring dark shadows, barely saturated earth tones, and “expressionistic lighting” (Hart 87). There are very few scenes of direct character-on-character violence; when there is, it is swift and shocking. Near the end of the film, when Thomasin is forced to stab her mother in self-defense, the brutality is starkly contrasted by its aftermath. The music goes silent, and birds chirp in the distance as the camera cuts to a long shot of Thomasin unceremoniously heaving her mother’s body off of her. Where Witchfinder General is thrilling, The Witch is quietly bleak. 

Likewise, The Wicker Man and Midsommar share many structural similarities, but deviate in mood. The Wicker Man follows a police sergeant, Neil Howie, as he investigates the disappearance of a young girl on the island of Summerisle. Howie discovers that Summerisle is home to a pagan cult, and the film culminates with Howie being immolated in a ritual sacrifice. Despite its grim conclusion, The Wicker Man takes on a surprisingly lighthearted tone. The film includes several musical numbers performed by characters, such as the whimsical “Maypole Song.”

In her review of Midsommar, horror scholar Dawn Keetley notes how closely its narrative structure mirrors that of The Wicker Man (267). The film follows Dani, whose family has recently been killed in a murder-suicide, on a trip to a remote Swedish commune with her boyfriend and his friends. The film culminates in each outsider being sacrificed, except for Dani, who is initiated into the cult. Despite their similarities, Midsommar is far more bleak in tone than The Wicker Man. The film centers Dani’s emotional turmoil over the death of her family and the lack of support from her boyfriend, Christian. Death and grief are interspersed consistently throughout the film, from the suicide of Dani’s sister to the ättestupa ceremony where elderly cult members jump to their deaths, to the increasingly grisly fates of Christian and his friends. The film, however gory and disturbing, is almost entirely devoid of jump scares, instead allowing the viewer to simmer in both the anticipation and aftermath of each death. In comparison to their counterparts in the Unholy Trinity, both Midsommar and The Witch evoke dread with their score, visuals, and pacing, consistent with the “distinctly slow, austere, and minimalist style” of elevated horror (Church 15).

Thematically, many early folk horror films reflect somewhat conservative societal fears, while elevated folk horror films often have more progressive messages, despite having similar settings and storylines. For example, The Blood on Satan’s Claw features a Satanic cult of children, led by the highly sexualized Angel Blake, who is portrayed as a temptress figure. Angel wields her sexuality as a weapon; in one scene, she attempts to seduce and corrupt the village’s reverend into joining the cult, stripping naked and telling him “We want you with us, sir.” After he rejects her advances, Angel falsely accuses the reverend of sexual assault. The film therefore draws association between young female sexuality and demonic influence, depicting the female body as an object used against innocent men. In an interview for the documentary Woodlands Dark and Days Bewitched: A History of Folk Horror, Samm Deighan states that “The Blood on Satan’s Claw seems to be more about this sort of terror of female sexuality and this terror of kind of a youth population coming up against the establishment” (0:13:19). Piers Haggard, the director of The Blood on Satan’s Claw, adds that “Chaos or violence or a lack of discipline in the young is a perennial concern. And at the time when it was written, you know, there was worry about gangs and so on” (0:13:37). 

Similarly, the pagan cult of The Wicker Man—which is framed as backwards and animalistic—is also very open about sexuality, in contrast to the Christian protagonist’s virginal purity. On the island of Summerisle, schoolchildren are taught about phallic symbols, and orgies take place in public. At the inn where the protagonist, Sergeant Howie, is staying, the landlord’s daughter Willow attempts to seduce him as he prays. Willow fulfills a similar role as Angel Blake in The Blood on Satan’s Claw, literally performing an erotic song and dance in a futile attempt to corrupt a Christian man. Although Scovell states that “the skewed morality is in [the cult’s] blindness and complicity in the pointless final murder, not in their sexually open culture, free from the guilt-ridden, puritanical worldview of Howie and his like” (23), it can also be argued that the portrayal of the murderous cult as being so sexually liberated is a statement against such liberation. 

Conversely, elevated folk horror films rarely conform to more conservative values. For example, The Witch emphasizes the injustice of the young Thomasin being accused of witchcraft simply because of her “budding sexuality and growing defiance of her family patriarch” (Church 13); the film acts as a social commentary on misogyny and conservative religious ideals. Despite being a dutiful eldest daughter and sister, Thomasin faces criticism from her family, most prominently her mother. She accuses Thomasin of seducing her young brother, Caleb: “You bewitched thy brother! Proud slut! Did you not think I saw thy sluttish looks to him, bewitching his eye as any whore? And thy father next?” Through Thomasin’s blatantly unfair treatment, the film highlights the injustice of blaming women and girls for men’s attraction to them. 

Apostle similarly explores patriarchal oppression, in this case through the violent exploitation of women’s bodies. This film follows a man named Thomas as he attempts to rescue his sister from a remote island cult, led by three men who enforce rules using the brute force of their armed guards. It is revealed that they have captured and restrained the goddess of the island where they live, essentially force-feeding her blood sacrifices in order to maintain a fertile harvest. The choice to represent the deity of the island as a woman whose being is exploited by men is significant. This theme becomes more overt toward the end of the film, when the most tyrannical of the cult’s leaders, Quinn, expresses his plans to repeatedly impregnate two imprisoned women: “You will avail your bodies to me. And when it is ripened, I will feed [the goddess] the flesh of your womb.” By making the most overtly villainous character exploit the bodily autonomy of these women and the goddess, the film sends a message against this type of abuse—especially when the women soon violently kill Quinn. The reason behind these more progressive themes could simply be attributed to the era in which the films were produced; however, Church argues that “post-horror films tend to ascribe more narrative weight to such concerns” as racism, patriarchy, and sexual shame, and that “The films’ stylistic minimalism distinctly enhances such themes’ cumulative negative affect” (13). In other words, elevated horror prioritizes themes of social commentary over simply making a scary movie; this results in elevated folk horror being less likely to fall back on misogynistic or conservative tropes that are otherwise common to the subgenre. 

Furthermore, early folk horror often features unambiguous storylines and a clear dichotomy between right and wrong, whereas the lines become much blurrier in elevated folk horror. The films which make up the Unholy Trinity each follow a straightforward narrative, with very little ambiguity about what is real and what is imagined. Each film in the trinity also has a clear antagonistic force: in The Witchfinder General, it is the cartoonishly cruel Matthew Hopkins and his hedonistic lackeys, who consistently rape, torture, and kill suspected witches; in The Blood on Satan’s Claw, it is the lascivious Angel Blake and the demon she raises; in The Wicker Man, it is the cult of Summerisle, led by their eponymous Lord. 

But in elevated folk horror, nothing is so black-and-white. The German film Hagazussa: A Heathen’s Curse follows Albrun, a young woman ostracized by her reputation of being a witch, whose internal narrative is often inseparable from reality. Auburn faces sexual abuse by her mother, and later by local townspeople. Many of the stranger sequences in the film can be attributed to Albrun’s use of psychedelic mushrooms, but the viewer is left wondering if there truly was a supernatural element when her body seemingly spontaneously combusts upon exposure to sunlight (Church 160). Similarly, The Witch is somewhat ambiguous as to supernatural involvement. Church notes that the presence of an actual witch could be entirely imagined, influenced by religious paranoia or even ergot poisoning (153). Both of these films are also much less overt about intrinsically “good” characters versus intrinsically “bad” characters. In The Witch, did any member of Thomasin’s family deserve to die? Were the twins really being influenced by the devil, or were they just children being children? In Hagazussa, can Albrun be seen as purely a victim of abuse and mental illness, or do her actions—including drowning and cannibalizing her infant daughter after poisoning the town’s water supply with a dead rat—make her the villain of the story? The nuance required to answer these questions evokes Church’s definition of elevated horror as having “psychologically complex protagonists” and “narrative ambiguity” (12).

Finally, the endings of older folk horror films are often clearly happy or sad endings, with the protagonist either defeating the antagonizing force or being killed in a violent sacrifice. Two obvious examples of this dichotomy are The Blood on Satan’s Claw and The Wicker Man. The former concludes with the recently raised demon being triumphantly killed by the judge, while the latter ends with Sergeant Howie being burned alive as the cult joyously celebrates his death. 

Elevated folk horror films, on the other hand, often conclude with more complexity, leaving the viewer wondering whether or not they should feel satisfied. For example, Midsommar ends with Dani as the only surviving member of her group, smiling as her deadbeat boyfriend is ritualistically immolated. The cult had given her a choice as to who the final sacrifice would be—a willing cult member, or Christian. While some viewers may see this ending as a good-for-her moment, others may see Dani’s acceptance as confirmation that she has finally given in to the cult’s manipulative tactics. As Church explains, “it is unclear whether the viewer’s own negative effects are ‘purged’ in this potentially cathartic ending, or discomfortingly extended via ambiguity about her underlying mental state” because, while Dani’s decision to sacrifice Christian may be a satisfying “revenge fantasy” for viewers who were frustrated by his gaslighting behavior throughout the film, that catharsis is undermined by Dani’s potential insanity (115). 

A similar dilemma is raised by the final sequence of The Witch; Thomasin’s family members, who had accused her of being a witch, have all met their grisly ends. She signs the devil’s book and joins a coven of witches in the woods, laughing maniacally. But while this can be viewed as a satisfying revenge, it also cannot be classified as a universally happy ending. According to Church, “Thomasin has little choice but to turn toward Satan, who has effectively been stalking her throughout the film; like a triumphant gaslighter, he has gradually whittled away her only other sources of support” (155). Dani and Thomasin face parallel fates, both films concluding with a young woman “loosed of her abusive interpersonal relationships in a cathartic moment…but also giving herself up to a new (and dubiously healthy) belief system in the process” (155). These bittersweet, half-satisfying endings fit with Church’s characterization of elevated horror as subverting genre tropes and being psychologically complex.

The purpose of this essay is not to suggest that these newer, “elevated” folk horror films are inherently superior to their counterparts from the ‘60s and ‘70s. Rather, it is to illustrate stylistic differences that have arisen as the subgenre develops. Discourse surrounding elevated horror often centers the question of its validity as a term (Church 7). While that is an important discussion, the emergence of so-called elevated horror has made an impact in the zeitgeist; whether pretentious or artistically revolutionary, its stylistic elements have made their way into practically every category of horror film. Meanwhile, the folk horror revival of the previous decade has continued into the 2020s with films like Ben Wheatley’s in the Earth (2021), Lee Haven Jones’s The Feast (2021), and Goran Stolevski’s You Won’t Be Alone (2022). Still, at present, folk horror is “largely under-theorized” (Andres 79). As the subgenre continues to evolve and further scholarship is published, it is important to consider how the elevation of the horror genre as a whole has affected its trajectory.