"Mudbrick" is less a film and more a ritual—an unsettling invocation of folklore, familial grief, and the inevitability of past sins bleeding into the present. Directed by Nikola Petrovic and steeped in the rich, rugged landscape of the Serbian village of Činiglavci, this folklore horror piece refuses to cater to the impatient.
From the first frame, "Mudbrick" announces its intentions with a haunting visual tableau: a family kneeling before a gnarled tree, their whispered prayer binding them to something ancient and implacable. This imagery sets the tone for the story that follows, as protagonist Paul—estranged from his roots—returns to a crumbling family home brimming with secrets. His reluctant reunion with his brother Jakov ignites a powder keg of resentment, jealousy, and grief, but these human tensions are only the surface. Beneath lies the ominous specter of Veles, the Slavic god of the underworld, whose presence lingers like smoke in the air, insidious and unshakable.
There's a lot to admire about "Mudbrick," but none more-so than its commitment to ambiguity. The film knows its audience isn't incapable, so don't expect any handholding or overexplaining here. Instead it scatters its clues like breadcrumbs through cryptic dialogues, fleeting gestures, and the unnerving repetition of symbols. Runes etched into walls, totems hidden in plain sight, and whispered warnings from fearful family. It’s a puzzle as much as it is a narrative, and the more one sifts through its layers, the more the film rewards them with thematic depth.
At its heart, this film is a meditation on generational trauma and the burdens passed down through bloodlines, which is something I can relate too in spades. The decaying family home becomes a visceral metaphor for inheritance—both physical and emotional. Petrovic’s direction is masterful here, using the house as a character in its own right, its creaking walls and shadowy corners teeming with unspoken histories.
The performances anchor this atmospheric dread, particularly Andrew Howard as Paul. His portrayal is raw, layered, and deeply human, capturing the torment of a man caught between rationality and the inescapable pull of something far older and darker. Equally compelling is the dynamic between Paul and Jakov, their animosity simmering with the weight of unspoken betrayals and the suffocating expectations of their shared past.
Mudbrick's reverence for the folklore it draws upon, for me, is up there with the likes of "The Ritual," "Apostle," and "The Witch." Veles, the dual-faced god of death and regeneration, is neither fully villain nor savior but a force of nature—inescapable and indifferent, and the film cleverly mirrors this duality in its storytelling, juxtaposing human conflict with cosmic indifference.
The film’s micro-budget origins are unnoticeable in the face of its craftsmanship, which only speaks positively to the immense talent of its crew. The sound design is particularly noteworthy, a symphony of natural and unnatural noises that amplifies the tension without overwhelming the viewer.
"Mudbrick" is definitely not for everyone. Its deliberate pacing and refusal to provide easy answers will frustrate some, but for those willing to sit with its complexities, the experience is profoundly rewarding. It is a film that lingers, its whispers growing louder the more one reflects on its layers. At its core, it poses a chilling question: Are we bound to the sins of our ancestors, or do we choose to carry the weight of their burdens?
8/10
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