Films About the Middle Ages to Watch

Cinema has often looked to the Middle Ages as an age of glittering swords, imposing castles, and noble knights. Colossal productions like Braveheart or Kingdom of Heaven have defined the collective imagination, offering grand historical frescoes and spectacular adventures. However, there exists another cinematic tradition, more underground and radical, that distances itself from this romantic vision. Independent films and auteur films don’t use the Middle Ages as a mere backdrop for entertainment, but as a raw, primordial canvas on which to paint the eternal anxieties of the human soul. In these works, the so-called “Dark Ages” become a distorting mirror to explore faith, power, violence, and the existential condition.

These films share a common approach: stripping the past of its mythical aura to reveal its brutal, almost alien nature. Here, the search for meaning collides with God’s deafening silence, chivalry is a fragile illusion in a world dominated by mud and blood, and the landscape itself becomes an active character, a merciless entity that reflects the protagonists’ inner chaos. Medieval auteur cinema uses the historical setting as an allegory for contemporary anxieties, deconstructing myths to confront uncomfortable truths about our very nature.

This guide is not a simple list, but a map to navigate a challenging and fascinating cinematic landscape. It is a journey through the desolate landscapes of the soul, guided by some of the seventh art’s most uncompromising visionaries. A journey that, while challenging, proves profoundly rewarding, offering a more complex understanding not only of the Middle Ages, but also of cinema itself as a form of philosophical inquiry.

Here is a curated selection of films that perfectly embody this spirit: works that transcend the historical genre to become powerful meditations on the human condition.

The Seventh Seal (1957)

Returning from the Crusades, the knight Antonius Block finds his homeland ravaged by the Black Death. On the shore, he encounters Death, who has come to claim him, and challenges him to a game of chess, hoping to gain time to find answers to his questions about life, faith, and the existence of God. On his journey, he is joined by a small troupe of traveling actors, whose simple joy for life contrasts with his existential anguish.

With The Seventh Seal Ingmar Bergman transforms a medieval allegory into a deeply personal and universal exploration of existential anguish. Shot in just 35 days on a shoestring budget, the film draws heavily on the director’s theatrical roots and his Lutheran upbringing, dramatizing the drama of faith in the modern world. The famous chess game is not just a narrative device, but a powerful metaphor for man’s struggle with mortality and his desperate search for meaning in a seemingly indifferent universe.

Bergman orchestrates a powerful visual and thematic counterpoint. On one side, the tormented intellectualism of the knight, who seeks God through reason and finds only silence. On the other, the instinctive faith and simple humanity of the acting family, Jof and Mia, who find meaning not in big questions, but in small gestures of love and the wonder of everyday life. In a world dominated by fear, flagellants, and religious hypocrisy, their humble caravan represents an ark of salvation. Gunnar Fischer’s austere black and white sculpts the faces like landscapes of the soul, making the film a timeless masterpiece on human fragility in the face of ultimate mystery.

Andrei Rublev (1966)

The film traces, through eight episodes, the life of the great 15th-century Russian icon painter Andrei Rublev. His spiritual and artistic journey unfolds during an era of unprecedented violence, marked by the Tatar invasions, plague, famine, and the brutality of Russian princes. Witnessing unspeakable horrors, Rublev suffers a profound crisis of faith, stops painting, and takes a vow of silence, questioning the meaning of art in a world seemingly abandoned by God.

Andrei Tarkovsky’s epic is much more than a biopic; it is a monumental meditation on the role of the artist, the necessity of faith, and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of history’s cruelty. The film’s troubled production, long opposed and censored by Soviet authorities who deemed it too negative, violent, and spiritually complex, perfectly reflects its central theme: artistic creation as an act of resistance against an oppressive power. Tarkovsky is not interested in a conventional historical reconstruction, but in evoking the almost tactile materiality of an era.

His black and white sculpts a primordial world of mud, snow, fire, and water. In this hellish landscape, Rublev’s faith is tested not by abstract theological doubts, but by the physical violence and suffering that surround him. The film argues that art is not an escape from reality, but an act of faith born precisely from suffering. The long final sequence, in which the camera explores the details of Rublev’s icons in color, is not only an aesthetic revelation, but the catharsis of an entire journey: after hours of silence and darkness, art emerges as the sole, fragile testimony to the possibility of transcendence.

The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)

Based on the original trial transcripts, the film focuses on the final hours of Joan of Arc, a prisoner of the English and tried for heresy by a French ecclesiastical court. Subjected to a psychologically grueling interrogation, Joan faces her accusers with unshakable faith, moving from fear to hope, from suffering to spiritual ecstasy, until her tragic fate at the stake.

An absolute masterpiece of silent cinema, Carl Theodor Dreyer’s work is a radical and unprecedented cinematic experience. The Danish director makes a revolutionary choice: he eliminates all spectacular elements to focus almost exclusively on the faces of his characters. Through an obsessive and innovative use of close-ups, Dreyer transforms the historical drama into a purely psychological and spiritual investigation. The face of Renée Jeanne Falconetti, in her unique and legendary cinematic performance, becomes the film’s true battlefield, a landscape where the torment of doubt, the agony of persecution, and the light of divine grace unfold.

The production itself was an exercise in total immersion. Dreyer had an imposing set inspired by medieval architecture built, but only showed it in rare fragments, using it primarily to create an atmosphere of oppression for the actors. Filming took place chronologically, without the use of makeup, to capture the real fatigue and suffering on their faces. This quest for an almost documentary-like authenticity makes Falconetti’s performance a once-in-a-lifetime event. The film, mutilated by censorship, destroyed by fire, and then miraculously rediscovered decades later in its original version, embodies the same resilience as its heroine, remaining one of the most powerful testaments to cinema’s ability to transcend narrative to touch the essence of human experience.

Marketa Lazarová (1967)

In the 13th century, in a savage, pagan land, two rival bandit clans, the Kozlíks and the Lazars, clash in a brutal feud. During one of their raids, Kozlíks’ sons kidnap Marketa, Lazar’s young daughter, betrothed to God and destined for a convent. Torn from her pious life, Marketa is thrust into a world of primal violence, where the boundaries between love and brutality, Christianity and paganism, dissolve in bloody chaos.

Often voted the greatest Czech film ever made,Marketa Lazarová František Vláčil’s “The Dark Side of the Moon” is not a historical drama, but a total and uncompromising immersion in the alien mentality of the Middle Ages. Vláčil’s goal is not to tell a linear story, but to recreate the sensorial texture of a bygone era. The result is an almost physical cinematic experience, a feverish and disorienting epic that assails the viewer with its savage beauty and relentless cruelty.

The production, which lasted nearly three years, with 548 days of shooting in extreme conditions, is key to understanding the film’s power. Vláčil created an environment where the actors could “live” the Middle Ages, not just act them out. His innovative cinemascope photography, fragmented editing, and immersive sound design create a visual stream of consciousness that prioritizes atmosphere over narrative. The viewer feels lost in a world of snow-covered forests, mud-stained faces, and incomprehensible rituals. More than a film, Marketa Lazarová It is a controlled hallucination, a work that rejects convention to offer one of the most authentic and disturbing visions of the past ever seen on screen.

Aguirre, Furore di Dio (Aguirre, the Wrath of God, 1972)

In 1560, an expedition of Spanish conquistadors descends the Amazon River in search of the mythical city of gold, El Dorado. When the official commander hesitates, his second-in-command, the fanatical and ruthless Lope de Aguirre, takes command through mutiny. Under his obsessive leadership, the expedition becomes a descent into hell, a journey into madness and megalomania, as the relentless jungle consumes men and hopes.

Werner Herzog’s masterpiece is the definitive depiction of human obsession and colonial hubris. Shot in the harsh conditions of the Peruvian jungle, the film is inseparable from its legend, particularly the explosive relationship between the director and his lead actor, the indomitable Klaus Kinski. The palpable tension on set, the logistical challenges, and the wild, hostile nature of the location are not mere production anecdotes, but the very essence of the film, which exudes an oppressive, hallucinatory atmosphere.

Herzog adopts a minimalist approach to narration and dialogue, letting the images do the talking. The camera observes the expedition’s slow disintegration with an almost documentary gaze, as the raft slides inexorably toward madness. The jungle is not a backdrop, but a living, threatening entity engulfing civilization. Kinski’s performance, with his feverish gaze and lopsided gait, perfectly embodies the figure of a man who, in his quest to conquer an empire, creates only a kingdom of death and delusion, becoming a powerful warning against the arrogance of power and limitless greed.

Ran (1985)

Loosely based on Shakespeare’s King Lear, the film tells the story of Hidetora Ichimonji, an elderly and powerful warlord in 16th-century Japan. Determined to retire, he divides his kingdom between his three sons, Taro, Jiro, and Saburo. When his youngest son, Saburo, warns him that this decision will only lead to conflict, Hidetora banishes him in a fit of pride. Soon, the two eldest sons turn against their father, throwing him into a vortex of betrayal, war, and madness.

Akira Kurosawa’s last great epic is a work of breathtaking visual beauty and shocking nihilism. Made when the director was nearly blind, Ran (meaning “chaos”) is the testament of a master who orchestrates destruction with the precision of a painter. Kurosawa prepared the film for years, creating hundreds of hand-painted storyboards that served as a guide for every single shot, composition, and color scheme. The result is a film where every frame is a work of art.

Unlike many historical epics, Ran It doesn’t glorify war, but rather portrays it as a senseless and destructive force. The battle scenes are grandiose yet strangely silent, often devoid of dialogue or sounds of combat, accompanied only by Toru Takemitsu’s melancholic music. This stylistic choice creates a sense of distance, as if we were observing the tragedy from a divine perspective, helpless in the face of cyclical human folly. Kurosawa’s vision is bleak: in a world without gods, ambition, pride, and violence inevitably lead to annihilation, leaving only ruins and despair in their wake.

The Northman (2022)

In 10th-century Iceland, young Prince Amleth witnesses the murder of his father, King Aurvandil, at the hands of his uncle Fjölnir, who also kidnaps his mother, Queen Gudrún. Escaped and raised as a fierce Viking warrior, Amleth never forgets his oath: to avenge his father, save his mother, and kill his uncle. Years later, he poses as a slave to infiltrate Fjölnir’s farm and carry out his bloody revenge.

With The Northman Robert Eggers attempts a bold undertaking: creating a Viking epic that is both an accessible blockbuster and an uncompromising auteur work, dedicated to a total immersion in the mindset of an era. Despite a sizable budget for a director with an independent background ($70-90 million), the film retains an arthouse sensibility, prioritizing historical and mythological accuracy over action film conventions. Eggers, known for his meticulous research, draws heavily on Norse sagas and archaeological discoveries to construct a world where the supernatural is real, visions are prophecies, and revenge is not just a motive but a sacred destiny.

The film deliberately rejects modern morality, forcing the viewer to confront its protagonist’s brutal logic. The violence is not stylized, but visceral and terrifying, presented as an integral part of a culture where honor is measured on the battlefield. The true strength of The Northman lies in its ability to make us feel the weight of a world governed by primordial forces, where the boundary between man and beast is tenuous and destiny is written in blood.

Valhalla Rising (2009)

At an unspecified time in the Scottish Highlands, a mute, one-eyed warrior, held prisoner and forced to fight, manages to free himself by slaughtering his captors. Along with a young boy who follows him, he joins a group of Christian crusaders heading to the Holy Land. Their ship, however, is shrouded in impenetrable fog, and after a grueling journey, they land in an unknown and hostile land, a “new world” that will prove to be hell.

Valhalla Rising is the radical antithesis of the traditional Viking epic. Director Nicolas Winding Refn strips the genre of all conventional narrative elements to create a purely sensorial and metaphysical experience. With dialogue reduced to the bare minimum, the film relies on a brutal and hallucinatory aesthetic, an existential journey that evokes both the2001: A Space Odysseyof Kubrick as theHeart of Darknessby Conrad. There is no plot, just an inexorable descent into an abyss of violence and silence.

The film is a hypnotic and repulsive work, using its historical setting to explore universal themes such as faith, violence, and the nature of evil. The Scottish landscape, desolate and primordial, becomes the reflection of an inner world devoid of certainties. One-Eye, played by a magnetic Mads Mikkelsen, is not a hero, but a force of nature, an enigma who embodies an almost divine or infernal violence.Valhalla RisingIt is an extreme cinematic experience, a work that offers no answers but rather drags the viewer into a waking nightmare, leaving him to meditate on the boundary between sacred and profane.

Francis, God’s Jester (The Flowers of St. Francis, 1950)

Through a series of simple, joyful vignettes, the film recounts episodes from the life of Saint Francis of Assisi and his first followers. The scenes, taken from the Little Flowers, do not follow a linear plot, but illustrate the spirit of Franciscanism: humility, compassion, absolute faith, and the joy found in poverty and service. From a confrontation with a tyrant to preaching to the birds, the film paints a portrait of the search for holiness in everyday life.

In an era dominated by lavish Hollywood religious productions, Roberto Rossellini applies the principles of Italian Neorealism to a historical and spiritual subject, creating a work of revolutionary purity and authenticity. Co-written by Federico Fellini, the film rejects conventional dramaturgy for an almost documentary style. Rossellini’s most radical choice is to cast the roles of the friars in the role of real monks from the Nocera Inferiore convent, a decision that imbues the film with unparalleled sincerity and authenticity.

Rossellini’s camera observes humbly, without artifice. Holiness emerges not from spectacular miracles, but from everyday gestures, from the simplicity of faces and the comical awkwardness of the friars. The film celebrates a faith lived, not preached, a spirituality manifested in the joyful acceptance of hardship and in love for every creature. Francis, God’s Jester It is a luminous anomaly, a film that finds the transcendent in reality and demonstrates how cinema, stripped of all frills, can become a form of prayer.

The Decameron (1971)

Inspired by Giovanni Boccaccio’s 14th-century work, the film interweaves a selection of his most earthy and licentious tales. The stories, set in a vibrant, working-class Naples, tell of cunning lovers, lustful nuns, grave robbers, and swindlers. Among the various episodes, the story of young Andreuccio da Perugia and that of Ser Ciappelletto, a hardened sinner who manages to be canonized on his deathbed, stand out.

First chapter of the “Trilogy of Life” by Pier Paolo Pasolini, The Decameron It is an exuberant and provocative celebration of pre-industrial sexuality, seen by the director as a vital and innocent force, not yet corrupted by consumerism and bourgeois hypocrisy. Pasolini makes a radical choice: he dismantles the aristocratic framework of Boccaccio’s book, populated by young nobles telling each other stories to escape the plague, and replaces it with the teeming and authentic world of the Neapolitan underclass.

This transposition is not only geographical, but ideological. The film becomes a political act, a hymn to the joy of the body and to a popular culture that Pasolini saw as threatened by modernity. Its depiction of nudity and sex is candid, joyful, and devoid of malice, a gesture of rebellion against Catholic morality and the commodification of the body. With a style that blends realism and a pictorial beauty inspired by Giotto (played by Pasolini himself), the film is a scandalous and vital work, a dream of a world where pleasure was still an act of freedom.

The Canterbury Tales (1972)

The second installment in the “Life Trilogy,” the film adapts eight of Geoffrey Chaucer’s tales, set in medieval England. A motley crew of pilgrims journeying to Canterbury entertain themselves with tales ranging from the comical to the grotesque, the licentious to the macabre. These include the tale of an old nobleman blinded after marrying an unfaithful young wife, and a final journey into a hell populated by greedy friars and flatulent devils.

If The Decameron it was a sunny celebration of life, The Canterbury Tales represents its flipside, a darker, more grotesque, and scatological work. Pasolini, who plays Chaucer himself here, shifts the setting from Mediterranean Italy to gray England, and this climactic shift is reflected in the film’s tone. The joy of the body is still present, but it is increasingly intertwined with pain, corruption, and death.

The film is a “cheerful blasphemy” that culminates in one of the most outrageous sequences in cinematic history: a vision of hell inspired by Bosch and Bruegel, where sin is punished with a comical and terrifying imagination. Pasolini uses crude humor and exaggerated physicality to launch an even more ferocious attack on the hypocrisy of power, particularly that of the ecclesiastical. Despite being the most desperate episode of the trilogy, the film retains an anarchic vitality and visual power that make it an unforgettable work, a fascinating and disturbing journey into the dark side of the body and soul.

The Virgin Spring (1960)

In 14th-century Sweden, young and devout Karin is sent by her pious parents to carry candles to church. While traveling through the forest, accompanied by her half-sister Ingeri, she is brutally raped and murdered by three shepherds. By a twist of fate, the murderers seek shelter at Karin’s parents’ farm. When her father, Töre, discovers the truth, his Christian faith clashes with a primal instinct for revenge.

Ingmar Bergman’s early masterpiece, The Virgin’s Spring It is a cruel and powerful parable about the conflict between faith and violence, between the Christian morality of forgiveness and the ancient pagan law of an eye for an eye. Based on a medieval ballad, the film explores with almost unbearable clarity the dilemma of a man of faith forced to confront absolute evil. The depiction of violence, both that suffered by Karin and that inflicted by Töre, is direct and devoid of complacency, serving a purely theological purpose.

Bergman offers no easy answers. The father’s revenge, carried out after an almost pagan purification ritual, brings no catharsis, only further pain and guilt. It is only when faced with his daughter’s body that Töre turns again to a silent God, questioning his faith and promising to build a church as an act of penance. The final miracle, the spring that gushes from the spot where Karin lay, is not a consolation, but a difficult and demanding promise of grace, a sign that redemption can arise even from the most unbearable suffering.

The Green Knight (2021)

During the Christmas celebrations at King Arthur’s court, a mysterious, gigantic creature, the Green Knight, issues a challenge: whoever dares strike him may keep his axe, but must accept a similar blow a year and a day later. The young and ambitious Gawain, the king’s nephew, accepts the challenge and beheads the creature, but it rises, picks up its own head, and reminds him of the appointment. Thus begins an epic journey for Gawain to honor the pact.

David Lowery’s work is a sumptuous and mesmerizing deconstruction of the chivalric myth. Rather than focusing on action and heroism, the film transforms the original medieval poem into an inner odyssey, a surreal and psychological journey into the mind of a protagonist struggling with his fears, desires, and the very idea of ​​honor. The question the film asks is not whether Gawain is brave, but what it truly means to be brave in a world where legend matters more than reality.

Visually stunning, The Green Knight immerses the viewer in a dreamlike and menacing landscape populated by giants, ghosts, and talking foxes. Each stage of Gawain’s journey is a test that challenges his integrity and forces him to confront his own mortality. The film subverts expectations of the Arthurian genre, offering a melancholy and profoundly modern meditation on the nature of storytelling, legacy, and the courage to face one’s destiny, even when it means accepting one’s imperfection.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975)

In the year 932, King Arthur and his faithful Knights of the Round Table receive a sacred mission from God himself: to find the Holy Grail. Their journey, undertaken on an evidently limited budget and with imaginary horses, will lead them to face a series of insane obstacles: an invincible black knight despite his mutilations, anarcho-syndicalist peasants, a murderous rabbit, and knights who say “Ni!

Monty Python and the Holy Grail It’s much more than a simple parody; it’s the definitive and most intelligent comic deconstruction of medieval myth. The Pythons’ genius lies in their ability to blend the wildest absurdity with a deep, almost academic knowledge of the historical period and its literary conventions. The film doesn’t just poke fun at knights and castles; it attacks the very foundations of the epic genre.

Every gag, from the debate over the carrying capacity of African swallows to the critique of the constitutional basis of monarchy, is a brilliant example of how anachronism and logic taken to the extreme can reveal the latent absurdity in stories we take for granted. Shot on a shoestring budget but with boundless inventiveness, the film has become an enduring cult classic, a work that, beneath the laughs, offers a sharp and timeless satire on heroism, religion, and the human tendency to take our own narratives too seriously.

The Hour of the Pig (1993)

In 15th-century rural France, young Parisian lawyer Richard Courtois, seeking a simpler life, moves to the town of Abbeville. His hopes are quickly dashed when he finds himself immersed in a world governed by archaic superstitions and corruption. His idealism is severely tested when he is assigned a bizarre and seemingly impossible case: defending a pig accused of the murder of a Jewish child.

This unique and unjustly overlooked film is a darkly comic legal procedural that uses its surreal premise to explore the clash between the nascent rationality of the Renaissance and the superstitious dogmatism of the Middle Ages. The historical, real-life practice of trying animals for crimes becomes the pretext for a sharp satire on the nature of justice, faith, and prejudice.

As Richard attempts to apply logic and law in a system where devils and witchcraft are considered tangible evidence, the film exposes the hypocrisy and brutality that lie beneath the facade of religious piety. The investigation into the “murder” of the pig turns into an investigation into a far more human and sinister conspiracy. The Hour of the Pig It is an intelligent and original work that uses the absurd to stage a very serious drama about the difficulty of making reason prevail in a world dominated by the irrational.

The Tragedy of Macbeth (2021)

After receiving a prophecy from three witches that he will become king of Scotland, the valiant general Macbeth, driven by ambition and egged on by his wife, assassinates King Duncan to usurp the throne. Overwhelmed by guilt and paranoia, Macbeth transforms into a bloodthirsty tyrant, whose descent into madness will lead him to an inevitable and violent end, thus fulfilling the second part of the prophecy.

Joel Coen’s take on Shakespeare’s tragedy is a work of austere and terrifying beauty. Shot in expressionistic black and white and set against minimalist, abstract sets, the film strips the story of all historical realism, transforming it into a timeless psychological nightmare. The influence of medieval masters of auteur cinema, such as Dreyer and Bergman, is evident in every frame, where the oppressive geometry of the spaces and the play of light and shadow reflect the moral disintegration of the protagonists.

This is not a representation of the Middle Ages, but its distillation into pure existential drama. Architecture becomes a prison of the mind, fog a veil that blurs the real from the supernatural. The performances of Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand, older than traditional interpretations, add a weight of weariness and desperation to their ambition. The result is a powerful and claustrophobic work, a medieval tale that, freed from the weight of history, speaks directly to our times with an ancient and frighteningly current voice.

It’s Hard to Be a God (2013)

A group of Earth scientists are sent on a mission to the planet Arkanar, an extraterrestrial civilization stuck in a historical phase identical to Earth’s Middle Ages. Operating incognito, their task is to observe without intervening. One of them, Don Rumata, lives among the planet’s inhabitants, who regard him as almost a deity, but he is powerless in the face of the brutality, ignorance, and systematic persecution of intellectuals around him.

Aleksei German’s posthumous work is one of the most extreme and immersive cinematic experiences ever made. More than a film, it’s a three-hour sensory immersion into a hell of mud, violence, and bodily fluids. Based on a science fiction novel by the Strugatsky brothers, the film uses its premise to create not a narrative, but an environment. The viewer is literally thrown into the world of Arkanar, a Bruegelian nightmare filmed in dazzling, hyper-detailed black and white.

The camera moves in long, complex sequences through an overcrowded and grotesque world, where every surface is covered in filth and every human interaction is marked by brutality. There is no respite, no critical distance. German forces us to experience Don Rumata’s desperation, to smell the scent and texture of a decaying world. It is a devastating allegory on Russian history, but also a universal reflection on the impotence of the intellect in the face of barbarism. A monumental and repulsive work, an assault on the senses that redefines the limits of cinema.

A Field in England (2013)

During the 17th-century English Civil War, a small band of deserters flees a battle and is captured by an alchemist named O’Neil. After forcing them to consume hallucinogenic mushrooms, O’Neil forces them to dig in a field in search of hidden treasure. Under the influence of the drugs, reality disintegrates and the camp transforms into a psychedelic arena of paranoia, violence, and cosmic terror.

Ben Wheatley’s film is a masterpiece of low-budget folk horror, a haunting and terrifying journey into the dark heart of history and the human psyche. Shot in evocative black and white, the film uses its historical setting not for faithful reconstruction, but as a starting point for an exploration of madness and mysticism. The camp is not just a place, but a character, a liminal space where the laws of physics and reason are suspended.

Wheatley orchestrates a claustrophobic and disorienting experience, with frenetic editing, stroboscopic images, and a deafening sound design that catapults the viewer into the protagonists’ altered minds. The film is an enigmatic puzzle that blends alchemy, English folklore, and psychological horror, creating a descent into chaos that is both frightening and strangely comical. A Field in England demonstrates how independent cinema, with little means but great audacity, can create powerful and original visions, transforming a simple field into a purgatory with no way out.

Hagazussa: A Heathen’s Curse (2017)

In an isolated 15th-century Alpine village, young Albrun lives on the fringes of the community, haunted by the memory of her mother, who died of the plague and was considered a witch. Marginalized and persecuted because of ancient superstitions and deep-rooted misogyny, Albrun grows up in solitude, finding solace only in her goats and the wilderness. Her fragile stability is shattered when the villagers’ cruelty pushes her into an abyss of madness and supernatural horror.

In Hagazu is a superb and terrifying example of contemporary folk horror. Director Lukas Feigelfeld creates a slow, atmospheric, and deeply disturbing work that explores how isolation, trauma, and social oppression can create a monster. The film, almost devoid of dialogue, relies on powerful images and a haunting sound design to build an almost unbearable tension. The Alpine landscape, magnificent yet hostile, becomes a reflection of the protagonist’s fractured psyche.

The narrative treads an ambiguous line between psychological drama and supernatural horror. It’s never clear whether Albrun’s descent into witchcraft is a true manifestation of evil or the tragic result of a life of abuse and loneliness. The film doesn’t judge its protagonist, but forces us to enter her perspective, to share her alienation and rage. The result is a visceral and distressing experience, a slow immersion in a morass of despair that leaves the viewer questioning the nature of evil and the fine line separating victim from perpetrator.

Sauna (2008)

In 1595, at the end of a long and brutal war between Sweden and Russia, two Finnish brothers, members of a commission to demarcate the new borders, cross a desolate land. Erik is a hardened and ruthless soldier, while Knut, a scholar, is tormented by guilt for a sin committed during the war. Their journey leads them to a mysterious village lost in a swamp, where it is said there is a sauna that can wash away all sins.

This gem of Finnish horror cinema is a dark and atmospheric tale about the indelible burden of guilt. Set in a “no man’s land” that is not only geographical but also spiritual, on the border between Christianity and paganism, the film uses its historical setting to create a unique form of psychological terror. The titular sauna is not a place of purification, but a catalyst for horrors, a point of convergence where sins are not erased, but take on a physical and terrifying form.

The direction builds an oppressive tension through a slow pace, desaturated photography that enhances the desolation of the landscape and an atmosphere of melancholy and foreboding.SaunaIt doesn’t rely on facile scares, but on a sense of existential dread. It’s a film that suggests that hell isn’t an afterlife, but a state of mind, and that certain sins are so profound they contaminate the earth itself, making any form of redemption impossible.

Perceval the Welshman (1978)

Young and naive Perceval, raised isolated from the world in the forest by his mother, accidentally encounters a group of knights and decides to travel to King Arthur’s court to become one of them. Thus begins his journey of learning, an adventure that will lead him to meet ladies, fight duels, and reach the Fisher King’s castle, where he witnesses the mysterious procession of the Holy Grail without daring to ask questions, making a mistake that will have grave consequences.

Éric Rohmer’s adaptation of Chrétien de Troyes’s Arthurian epic is a radically anti-realist work, a fascinating experiment that rejects all conventions of historical cinema. Rather than seeking immersion in a believable medieval world, Rohmer opts for a deliberate and stylized theatricality. The film is shot entirely in studio, with painted sets imitating medieval miniatures, cardboard trees, and a chorus that narrates and comments on the action.

Rohmer’s goal is not to create an illusion of reality, but to present the 12th-century text as faithfully as possible to its original conception, including the recitation in verse and rhyme. The result is a “moving storybook,” a work that appears deliberately artificial and alien to modern sensibilities. This stylistic choice, seemingly so far removed from the director’s typical naturalism, actually reveals a profound coherence: it is an attempt to capture the truth not of an era, but of its artistic representation, offering a unique and intellectually stimulating cinematic experience.

Ironclad (2011)

England, 1215. After being forced to sign the Magna Carta, the tyrannical King John assembles an army of Danish mercenaries to regain control of the country. A small band of rebel barons, led by a tormented Knight Templar, barricades themselves in Rochester Castle, a crucial strategic point, to resist the king’s siege. With fewer than twenty men, they must face an overwhelming force in a desperate battle for freedom.

Ironclad is a perfect example of independent action cinema, a film that eschews the romanticism and heroic veneer of the medieval genre to offer a visceral, brutal, and uncompromising experience. Made on a budget of $25 million, the result of complex international financing, the film stands out for its raw and realistic depiction of siege warfare. There’s no glittering armor or elegant duels here, just mud, blood, and almost unbearable violence.

Jonathan English’s direction uses handheld camerawork and frenetic editing to immerse the viewer in the chaos of battle, capturing the brutality of hand-to-hand combat. The film is an assault on the senses, a work that celebrates the “heavy metal” energy of medieval warfare, focusing on physicality and suffering. Despite a conventional plot, Ironclad manages to be compelling thanks to its brutal honesty, proving that an independent approach can bring new life and a welcome dose of realism to an often overly sugar-coated genre.

The Head Hunter (2018)

In a desolate and timeless kingdom, a lone warrior lives in an isolated hut, its walls adorned with the heads of the monstrous creatures he has slain. His existence is consumed by a single purpose: to hunt down and kill the monster that took his only daughter years before. Every day is a routine of preparation, anticipation, and brutal combat, fueled by a desire for revenge and an unquenchable pain.

The Head Hunter It’s a small miracle of micro-budget cinema, a stunning example of how creativity and vision can overcome financial constraints. Made for just $30,000, Jordan Downey’s film is an atmospheric and tense work that turns its limitations into strengths. With a single lead actor and almost no dialogue, the narrative relies entirely on visual and aural impact.

The decision to show the battles off-screen, focusing instead on the warrior’s preparation and the grisly aftermath, proves brilliant: it not only solves budgetary constraints, but also heightens the suspense and horror, allowing the viewer’s imagination to fill in the gaps. The film’s world is tangible and desolate, thanks to excellent art direction, detailed costumes, and surprisingly effective practical effects. It’s a spare and powerful work that demonstrates how genre cinema can be simultaneously epic and intimate.

The Valley of the Bees (1968)

In the 13th century, young Ondřej is forced by his father to join the Teutonic Order as penance. Within the order, he develops a deep bond with Armin, a fanatical and devoted knight. Unable to endure the rigid discipline, Ondřej flees to return to his home and his former life. But Armin, bound by his oath and possessive affection, pursues him, determined to restore him to order or kill him.

Made by František Vláčil immediately after the monumental Marketa Lazarová, and using some of the same sets and costumes, The Valley of the Bees It’s a more restrained but no less powerful work. The film is a cold and austere allegory on the conflict between individual freedom and ideological fanaticism, a theme that resonated powerfully in Czechoslovakia in 1968, on the eve of the repression of the Prague Spring.

The stunning black-and-white cinematography highlights the rigidity of the Order’s world, contrasting it with the vitality of the outside world Ondřej yearns for. The clash between the two protagonists is not only physical, but philosophical: on one side, the pursuit of earthly happiness; on the other, absolute devotion to a dogma that brooks no deviation. The film is a tense and relentless psychological drama, a timeless reflection on the destructive nature of fanaticism and the price of freedom.

The Navigator: A Medieval Odyssey (1988)

In 1348, in a Cumbrian mining village ravaged by the Black Death, a young boy named Griffin has a vision: to save themselves, the villagers must dig a tunnel through the Earth and plant a cross on the spire of a great cathedral in a distant land. Guided by his vision, a small group of men begin digging, only to emerge in an unimaginable place: a 1980s New Zealand metropolis.

New Zealand director Vincent Ward’s film is a unique and visionary cult classic, a bold fusion of medieval drama, science fiction, and fantasy. The basic idea is as simple as it is brilliant: to observe the modern world through the eyes of medieval men, for whom skyscrapers, highways, and neon lights are not the future, but an otherworldly manifestation, perhaps heaven or hell.

The shift from the black and white of the 14th century to the bright color of the 20th century is a brilliant cinematic device that underscores the cultural and perceptual shock. The film intelligently and sensitively explores themes such as faith, fear, technological alienation, and the loss of the sacred. Far from being a simple “fish-out-of-water” comedy, The Navigator It is a profoundly melancholy and evocative work, a powerful and original allegory on humanity’s journey between faith and disenchantment.

When the Raven Flies (1984)

Ireland, 9th century. A child helplessly watches his family massacred by a band of Viking raiders. Spared and raised far from his homeland, he returns to Iceland twenty years later, a man consumed by revenge. His goal is to track down and kill those responsible for the massacre, particularly their leader, Thord, who is now a powerful local leader.

This Icelandic film, often described as a “Viking Western,” is a seminal work in Nordic cinema and a precursor to the revisionism of the Viking genre. Director Hrafn Gunnlaugsson strips the myth of all romanticism and frills, eliminating the horned helmets and heroic narratives to offer a raw, dirty, and ruthless tale of revenge. The influence of Sergio Leone’s westerns and Akira Kurosawa’s samurai films is evident, but it is reworked in a uniquely Icelandic context.

The landscape, with its black volcanic expanses and gray skies, is not a mere backdrop, but a reflection of a brutal and lawless world, where survival depends on strength and determination. The film is a low-budget epic that relies entirely on atmosphere and realistic violence, creating a powerful and authentic portrait of an era dominated by seemingly endless cycles of violence.

Blanche (1971)

In a medieval castle, the young and beautiful Blanche is the wife of a much older lord of the castle. Her purity and beauty ignite the desire of all the men at court, including the visiting king and her husband’s stepson. Caught in a web of lustful glances, suspicion, and jealousy, Blanche’s virtue becomes the inadvertent cause of a bloody tragedy that will overwhelm everyone.

Polish director Walerian Borowczyk’s work is a sublime example of formalist cinema, where the medieval setting becomes the pretext for an aesthetic composition of rare beauty and cruelty. More than a narrative drama, Blanche It’s a moving medieval tapestry, a pictorial work in which each frame is meticulously constructed like an early Renaissance painting. The style is hieratic, the dialogue sparse, and the atmosphere claustrophobic.

Borowczyk creates a closed and oppressive world, where beauty is condemned and passion inevitably leads to destruction. The film is a tragic and sensual fable, using its refined aesthetic to explore the brutality of repressed desires and the violence inherent in patriarchal power structures. It is a visual work of art, a cinematic experience that prioritizes form and atmosphere to tell a story of lost innocence.

Pilgrimage (2017)

Ireland, 1209. A small group of monks is ordered to transport their monastery’s most sacred relic to Rome. Their perilous pilgrimage will take them across an island ravaged by tribal warfare and the Norman invasion. Accompanied by a mute crusader with a violent past, the monks will face mortal dangers and test their faith, discovering that the true threat is not theological doubt, but the merciless violence of man.

Pilgrimage is a brutal, tense, and linguistically ambitious medieval thriller. Shot on an independent budget, the film stands out for its bold choice to have the characters speak in their original languages ​​(Irish, Norman French, Latin, and English), creating a sense of authenticity and cultural alienation. This is not the mythical Ireland of legends, but a wild and bloody land.

The film deconstructs the idea of ​​a spiritual journey, transforming it into a desperate struggle for survival. The monks’ faith is tested not by philosophical dilemmas, but by the physical violence and cruelty of the world. The direction is stark and visceral, and the magnificent yet hostile Irish landscape becomes the setting for a journey into humanity’s dark heart. It’s a modern example of how independent cinema can revitalize the historical genre with a raw and uncompromising approach.

Flesh + Blood (1985)

Italy, 1501. A group of mercenaries led by the charismatic Martin are betrayed and expelled by the nobleman Arnolfini, for whom they had just conquered a city. In revenge, they plunder Arnolfini’s caravan and kidnap his future daughter-in-law, the young and determined Agnes. Taking refuge in a castle, the mercenaries must brave Arnolfini’s siege and the plague, while Agnes uses her cunning to survive and manipulate her captors.

Paul Verhoeven’s first English-language film is a deliberate and shocking refutation of all chivalric romance.Flesh + Blood It’s an amoral, dirty, and cynical work that portrays the Renaissance not as an era of artistic rebirth, but as a time of violence, superstition, and opportunism. There are no heroes, only survivors, and every character is driven by greed, lust, or a desire for power.

Verhoeven directs with his trademark provocative energy, not sparing the viewer scenes of explicit violence and ambiguous, brutal sexuality. The film, a box office flop but a cult classic, is a perfect example of the director’s vision, obsessed with the hypocrisy of morality and the brutality lurking beneath the surface of civilization. It is a merciless and unselfconscious portrait of an era when life was short and survival was the only virtue.

Black Death (2010)

England, 1348. As the Black Death ravages the country, news reaches a remote village, sheltered by a swamp, seemingly immune to the contagion. Rumor has it that the village is ruled by a necromancer capable of resurrecting the dead. A group of ruthless knights, sent by the bishop, are sent to investigate. Leading them through the swamp is Osmund, a young monk whose faith will be severely tested by the journey and the horrors he uncovers.

Christopher Smith’s work is a powerful and desolate fusion of historical drama and horror. Produced by a consortium of independent British and German companies, the film uses the plague setting to conduct a merciless investigation into the nature of faith and fanaticism. Osmund’s journey is not only physical, but spiritual, a descent into a hell where theological certainties crumble in the face of human suffering and cruelty.

The film cleverly subverts genre expectations. The real threat comes not from the supernatural, but from humanity itself, both Christian fanatics and pagan villagers.Black Death It suggests that in a world seemingly abandoned by God, the absence of faith can be as terrifying as its most dogmatic and violent incarnation. It’s a clever, dark, and hopeless work, a powerful reminder of how the deepest horror often lies in the human heart.

Echoes from a Dark Age

This journey through thirty independent films about the Middle Ages reveals a vast, complex, and incredibly fertile cinematic landscape. Far from being a monolithic genre, auteur cinema has used this historical period not to escape reality, but to confront it more directly and radically. From the philosophical heights of Bergman and Tarkovsky, where the search for God collides with the silence of the cosmos, to the visceral mud of German and Verhoeven, where the body and violence reign supreme, these films use the past to hold up a dark mirror to our present.

We’ve seen how the deconstruction of chivalric myth can become a satire on narrative itself, how folk horror can explore the roots of fear and superstition, and how a director’s uncompromising vision can transform a limited budget into a work of extraordinary atmospheric power. These films reject easy answers and romantic escapism, offering in exchange something far more precious: a powerful, often unforgettable, confrontation with the persistent darkness and occasional, miraculous light of the human spirit. They demonstrate that the most compelling journeys into the past are those that ultimately lead us deepest within ourselves.