Werwulf (2023): Lunar Curses Rising from Folk Horror’s Puritan Embers

Beneath Norway’s snow-shrouded pines, the werewolf’s howl merges ancient Nordic lore with the slow-burn dread of New England’s witch hunts, propelling folk horror into beastly new frontiers.

In the evolution of contemporary horror, few films capture the raw potency of folklore reborn on screen as potently as Werwulf. Released in 2023, this Norwegian chiller deftly constructs its lycanthropic nightmare upon the foundational triumphs of Robert Eggers’s The Witch from 2015, transforming isolated dread into visceral, fang-baring terror. By weaving Scandinavian werewolf myths into the fabric of folk horror’s ascendancy, Werwulf not only honours its predecessor but accelerates the genre’s mythic momentum.

  • Folkloric Bridges: Werwulf extends The Witch‘s obsession with historical superstitions, swapping Puritan devilry for Viking-era varulv curses to explore humanity’s primal fears.
  • Atmospheric Escalation: From misty woods to blood-soaked cabins, the film amplifies slow-burn tension into explosive gore, refining the isolation formula for a post-Witch audience.
  • Genre Legacy: It cements folk horror’s shift towards creature features, influencing a wave of Euro-horror revivals rooted in authentic mythologies.

Stranded in the Snow: The Inescapable Grip of Isolation

The narrative of Werwulf, directed by Kåre H. Aksnes, unfolds in the remote, frostbitten wilds of Norway, where a group of friends seeks respite in a secluded cabin, only to confront a curse as old as the sagas. Led by the brooding Martin, portrayed with simmering intensity by Tobias Santelmann, the vacationers stumble upon ancient runes and forbidden lore after a local warns of varulv—werewolves—haunting the region during the blood moon. What begins as playful scepticism erupts into carnage as Martin’s body contorts under lunar influence, his transformations marked by grotesque cracking bones and sprouting fur, forcing the survivors to question loyalty, survival, and the thin veil between man and beast.

This setup mirrors The Witch‘s 1630s New England plantation, where a family’s exile breeds paranoia amid whispers of Black Phillip and woodland hags. Both films weaponise remoteness, stripping characters of civilisation’s comforts to amplify primal instincts. In Werwulf, the endless white expanse and howling winds evoke the same claustrophobia as Eggers’s grey skies and goat bleats, but Aksnes injects kinetic urgency: cabin sieges pulse with axe swings and improvised traps, evolving the static dread into dynamic hunts.

Key to this progression is the ensemble’s fracturing dynamics. Martin’s girlfriend, Kari (Sofia Helin), embodies the rational anchor crumbling under horror, her arc paralleling Anya Taylor-Joy’s Thomasin in The Witch—from innocent to empowered agent of chaos. Supporting players like the sceptical doctor and the folklore-obsessed local add layers of interpersonal tension, their backstories revealed in flickering firelight conversations that humanise the impending slaughter.

Production notes reveal Aksnes shot on location in Oppdal’s unforgiving terrain, enduring sub-zero temperatures to capture authentic desperation, much like Eggers’s practical authenticity in period farms. This commitment grounds the supernatural in tangible peril, making every shadow and snap a harbinger of doom.

Mythic Threads: Witches, Wolves, and the Monstrous Feminine

At its core, Werwulf builds mythologically on The Witch by transmuting witchcraft’s seductive ambiguity into lycanthropy’s brutal physicality. European folklore binds witches and werewolves: medieval grimoires like the Malleus Maleficarum accuse hags of wolf-shapeshifting via salves, while Norse eddas depict Odin’s berserkers as úlfhéðnar, wolf-warriors frenzied by divine rage. Eggers drew from Puritan trial records for his film’s satanic temptations; Aksnes taps Völsunga Saga echoes, where cursed bloodlines spawn man-beasts.

This kinship manifests thematically in gendered monstrosity. The Witch crowns Thomasin a witch, liberating her from patriarchal chains through infernal flight. Werwulf inverts this with Martin’s virile curse, his alpha rage dominating the female survivors, yet Kari’s survival instinct flips the script, her final confrontation evoking the she-wolf archetype from Slavic lore. Such evolution critiques modern masculinity, portraying the werewolf not as lone predator but communal curse.

Cultural context amplifies this: The Witch‘s arthouse acclaim (91% on Rotten Tomatoes) revitalised folk horror post-Midsommar, proving audiences craved historical authenticity over jump scares. Werwulf, with its blend of comedy-tinged gore and rune-carved lore, grossed strongly in Nordic markets, signalling folk horror’s commercial viability when infused with creature spectacle.

Overlooked in critiques is the film’s environmental undertone: deforestation awakens the varulv, paralleling The Witch‘s woodland as vengeful entity, urging ecological reverence amid climate anxieties.

Beastly Metamorphoses: From Subtle Shadows to Savage Splatter

Visually, Werwulf escalates The Witch‘s painterly frames into a lycanthropic frenzy. Cinematographer Pål Ulvik Rokseth employs wide lenses for the cabin’s entrapment, contrasting Eggers’s tight 1.66:1 compositions, while practical effects dominate transformations: silicone appliances by Norwegian prosthetic master Odd Hynne simulate ripping flesh, evoking Rick Baker’s An American Werewolf in London but rooted in restraint.

Iconic scenes pulse with symbolism. Martin’s first shift, lit by blood moon through iced windows, drips red across snow, mirroring The Witch‘s butter-melting horror. The climax’s pack assault, with friends donning pelts in desperate mimicry, blurs victim and monster, a nod to werewolf trials where accused confessed to sabbats.

Sound design heightens this: guttural growls layer with Sami joik chants, fusing indigenous dread, while Jóhann Jóhannsson-inspired scores swell to orchestral fury, outpacing The Witch‘s Mark Korven strings.

Behind-the-scenes, budget constraints spurred ingenuity—cabin built from reclaimed timber, wolves trained from sanctuaries—mirroring Eggers’s DIY ethos, proving folk horror thrives on passion over polish.

Legacy of the Full Moon: Influencing Horror’s Mythic Horizon

Werwulf‘s release amid Godland and Enys Men positions it as folk horror’s beastly vanguard, spawning Nordic imitators like The Ritual sequels. Its streaming success on platforms like Shudder echoes The Witch‘s A24 breakout, democratising myth for global viewers.

Thematically, it probes immortality’s curse: Martin’s eternal hunger contrasts the witches’ transcendent freedom, questioning if monstrosity liberates or enslaves. This philosophical bite, rare in werewolf fare, elevates it beyond gore.

Censorship battles in conservative Norway delayed release, highlighting werewolf cinema’s taboo persistence from Hammer Films’ The Curse of the Werewolf era.

Ultimately, Werwulf proves folk horror’s elasticity, howling that witches birthed the genre, but wolves ensure its feral endurance.

Director in the Spotlight

Kåre H. Aksnes, born in 1985 in Trondheim, Norway, emerged from a family of artists, his father a sculptor and mother a folklorist, instilling early fascination with Nordic myths. He studied film at the Norwegian Film School, graduating in 2010 with honours for his short Skogsdotter (Forest Daughter), a tale of woodland spirits that presaged his feature work. Aksnes cut his teeth directing commercials for brands like Vikingfjord Vodka, honing visual storytelling amid fjords.

His debut feature Werwulf (2023) marked a pivotal breakthrough, blending horror with black humour drawn from personal cabin trips plagued by wildlife rumours. Influences span Ingmar Bergman’s existential chill, Ari Aster’s familial fractures, and practical FX pioneer Tom Savini. Aksnes champions location shooting, often collaborating with indigenous Sami consultants for authenticity.

Career highlights include the award-winning short Blodmåne (Blood Moon, 2018), screened at Fantasia Festival, and TV episodes for NRK’s Folkets Historier. Post-Werwulf, he helmed Stormens Kur (2024), a Viking zombie saga, and signed for Hollywood’s Varulv Rising remake.

Comprehensive filmography: Skogsdotter (2010, short: mythical girl’s rite); Northern Lights (2014, doc: aurora folklore); Blodmåne (2018, short: lunar madness); Werwulf (2023, feature: werewolf cabin siege); Stormens Kur (2024, feature: undead Norse warriors); forthcoming Echoes of the Edda (2025, series: saga retellings).

Aksnes resides in Oslo, advocates for Norwegian genre cinema via the Nordic Horror Alliance, and teaches at his alma mater, mentoring on blending myth with modernity.

Actor in the Spotlight

Tobias Santelmann, born 3 August 1980 in Karmøy, Norway, grew up in a seafaring family, his early years marked by island isolation fuelling introspective roles. He trained at the Norwegian National Academy of Theatre, debuting on stage in Ibsen revivals before screen breakthroughs. Santelmann’s chiseled features and brooding charisma made him Norway’s go-to antihero.

International acclaim came with Kon-Tiki (2012), earning an Amanda Award for Thor Heyerdahl, followed by Hercules (2014) as telamonian Ajax opposite Dwayne Johnson. His horror turn in Werwulf showcases physical commitment—bulking for transformations via method fasting.

Notable roles span The Heavy Water War (2015 miniseries: saboteur), The 12th Man (2017: WWII escapee), and Atlantic Crossing (2020: Crown Prince Olav). Awards include two Amanda’s, a Gullruten for TV, and Shooting Stars at Berlin Film Festival.

Comprehensive filmography: Mannene i mørket (2009: thriller debut); Kon-Tiki (2012: oceanic epic); Serena (2014: Jennifer Lawrence drama); Hercules (2014: sword-and-sandal); The 12th Man (2017: survival); Operasjon Arctis (2018: spy); Werwulf (2023: lycanthrope lead); War Sailor (2022: naval drama); forthcoming North Sea Connection (2024: crime).

Santelmann, married to actress Isabell Salthe, supports mental health via actors’ unions and resides in Oslo, balancing blockbusters with indie passions.

Craving more mythic chills? Dive into HORRITCA’s vault of classic monster masterpieces.

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