Häxan (1922)

Häxan is special because it feels like cinema discovering, in real time, how to be both a lecture and a nightmare—part illustrated history lesson, part feverish horror pageant, all bound together by Benjamin Christensen’s audacious imagination. It moves from scholarly images of medieval demonology into staged vignettes that are by turns eerie, grotesquely funny, and genuinely unsettling, with production design and makeup that still have the power to jolt you a century later. Christensen’s direction has the mischievous confidence of someone smuggling big ideas into lurid entertainment, and the performances lean into the madness with a straight-faced intensity that makes the satire bite. It’s not for everyone—silent-era pacing and shocking imagery can be a hurdle—but if you’re on the fence, this is the rare classic that doesn’t ask for your patience so much as dare you to look closer.

Häxan is trying to be both a visual lecture on medieval witchcraft and a provocative argument that “possession” was often misunderstood mental illness, and that mix is exactly why it’s still famous. The catch is that its pacing can feel like a stop-start slideshow of ideas and vignettes rather than a satisfying story, and the “educational” framing doesn’t soften how gleefully it leans into torture, blasphemous imagery, and grotesque humor. If you’re expecting a conventional horror movie, a coherent narrative, or anything remotely subtle about religion and cruelty, this will likely feel more like a daring museum exhibit that occasionally wants to shock you on purpose. Still, if you can handle silent-film acting and rough edges, the imagery is genuinely striking and historically fascinating in a way few films even attempt.