FolknHell – Détails, épisodes et analyse

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.

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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.

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.

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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.

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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