Aislinn Clarke’s hypnotic folk horror enchants the senses, but its symbolic weight and languid pace may leave some viewers lost in the mist.

Aislinn Clarke’s Fréwaka: Fréamhacha is an Irish folk horror steeped in grief, mythology, and atmosphere — a hypnotic, slow-burning tale that seduces the eye even as it keeps the heart at a distance. Cloaked in shadows and silence, the film follows Shoo, a care worker carrying her own unresolved pain, who’s sent to a secluded village to tend to an agoraphobic woman terrified of both her tight-knit neighbours and the Na Sídhe — ancient, otherworldly beings from Irish folklore.

Clarke, previously lauded for her sharp direction in The Devil’s Doorway, leans further into abstraction here. The cinematography is stunning, bathed in misty blues and deep greens, echoing the isolation and fractured psyche of its characters. Symbolism runs thick, and the film often feels like a visual poem mourning lost time and personal trauma.

But where Fréamhacha excels in tone, it falters in engagement. Narrative threads unravel into the ether, characters remain emotionally remote, and the pacing — glacial by design — asks more patience than it rewards. For all its visual allure and thematic ambition, the film’s dreamlike drift can feel aimless, as if lost in the very fog it conjures.

The Prognosis:

Clarke’s vision remains singular. Fans of folk horror who appreciate the meditative and the metaphorical may find something to latch onto. But for others, Fréamhacha risks becoming a beautiful but intangible whisper — haunting, yes, but fleeting as smoke in the trees.

• Saul Muerte