Years later, an adult Albrun lives alone in the same cabin, raising an infant daughter out of wedlock and tending to a herd of goats. The village community continues to torment her, viewing her very existence as an existential threat to their Christian purity.
Brother Markus arrives in the village, not to exorcise, but to document . He has a wax tablet and a lancet. He asks Swinda about Albrun: “Does she bleed at the new moon? Does she speak to the water?” Swinda lies enthusiastically. Markus visits Albrun’s hut. He is not cruel—worse, he is curious . He asks to examine her cough. She lets him listen to her chest. He presses a cold metal cross to her sternum. No burn. He frowns. “You are not a witch,” he says. “You are a wound that hasn’t healed. That is far more dangerous.”
: Albrun's life is a cycle of exclusion. Growing up with an outcast mother, she inherits the community’s fear and hatred before she even understands it. Her "witchhood" is not a supernatural choice but a social label forced upon her by a community gripped by misogyny and superstition. Hagazussa
, you can explore its unique position as a "psychedelic death trip" that prioritizes atmosphere over traditional narrative.
Hagazussa is structured into four distinct parts, focusing on Albrun, a young goatherd living in isolation in the Austrian mountains. Part I: The Burden of Inheritance Years later, an adult Albrun lives alone in
: The Hagazussa was a woman who existed on this exact threshold. She lived on the fringes of society, acting as a bridge between the known and the unknown, the living and the spirit world, herbs and poisons.
The film exemplifies the "post-horror" or elevated horror genre, prioritizing atmospheric dread, psychological horror, and visual storytelling over traditional jump scares. It explores the themes of: He has a wax tablet and a lancet
Aleksandra Cwen delivers a raw, often wordless performance that anchors the film. Albrun is not immediately sympathetic in a conventional sense; she’s stubborn, sullen, and socially ostracized. But through Cwen’s physicality and muted expressions, Feigelfeld invites identification with her vulnerability and increasing isolation. Supporting performances — notably the hostile villagers and Albrun’s ambiguous mother — flesh out a community that oscillates between cruelty, fear, and religious fervor.
Sound is Hagazussa’s secret weapon. Rather than relying on a conventional musical score, the film uses environmental textures — wind, animal cries, the creak of timber — to build tension. When music appears, it’s sparse and uncanny, amplifying the sense of unease. The sonic landscape complements the visuals to create a sustained dread that is psychological more than spectacle-driven.
To prepare for a viewing or study of (2017), it is essential to understand it as a dense, atmospheric folk-horror film
