Welcome to Wales, Where Hope Goes to Die Beautifully
There are “feel-bad” movies, and then there’s Gwen — a film so bleak it makes The Witch look like a tourism commercial for New England. It’s a slow-burning, mud-drenched slice of gothic folk horror that’s equal parts Emily Brontë and A24 fever dream. And somehow, it’s gorgeous.
Directed by William McGregor in his feature debut, Gwen isn’t your typical horror movie. There are no jump scares, no demons with bad dental hygiene, and not a single CGI ghost to be found. Instead, you get creeping dread, rotting crops, suspicious villagers, and one of the most unsettling depictions of rural oppression ever committed to film.
In short: if you’ve ever thought your hometown was depressing, try living in 19th-century North Wales during a corporate land grab.
Plot: Bleak House, But Make It Folklore
We open with a charming scene of death. Gwen (Eleanor Worthington Cox), a young farm girl with big eyes and even bigger emotional trauma, lives with her stoic, steely mother Elen (Maxine Peake) and her innocent little sister Mari. Their life is a grim cycle of toil, grief, and potatoes.
The local quarry company — the 19th-century equivalent of Amazon — is buying up land, and Gwen’s family is standing in the way. Naturally, bad things start happening.
Their crops rot. Their livestock turn into abstract art installations of viscera. An animal heart gets nailed to their front door — the period-appropriate version of a nasty Yelp review. The villagers glare. The doctor (Kobna Holdbrook-Smith) prescribes “tonic wine” and a healthy dose of gaslighting. And through it all, Gwen’s mother starts acting a little… off. You know things are bad when your mom spends her evenings bleeding into a bowl like she’s auditioning for The Exorcist: Welsh Edition.
By the time a group of quarry goons shows up demanding the family sell their land, you half expect Gwen to start fashioning a shiv out of a rosary. Instead, the situation spirals into tragedy — murder, arson, and one final haunting image of two girls watching their world burn to ash.
It’s not a “fun” movie, but it’s one that lingers — like smoke, grief, or the smell of dead sheep.
Eleanor Worthington Cox: The Face of Despair (and the Future of Horror)
Let’s talk about Eleanor Worthington Cox. She carries Gwen on her small, trembling shoulders like she’s been method acting misery since birth. It’s a performance so raw and restrained that you can practically feel the damp Welsh air seeping into your bones.
Cox plays Gwen as a child forced to become a survivor — wide-eyed, exhausted, and permanently on the verge of tears. It’s not melodramatic; it’s heartbreakingly human. Every flicker of fear, every shudder of defiance, feels earned. By the time she’s wielding a knife in self-defense, you’re half cheering, half whispering, “Just let the girl catch a break.”
And then there’s Maxine Peake, the human thunderstorm. As Gwen’s mother, she delivers a masterclass in repression. Peake doesn’t act madness — she simmers with it. You can never quite tell if she’s cursed, possessed, or simply crushed under the weight of grief and patriarchy. Either way, she makes Mrs. Bates look like a well-adjusted parent.
Together, Cox and Peake create one of the most convincing mother-daughter dynamics in modern horror — equal parts love, fear, and inherited doom.
Cinematography: Pastoral Horror Never Looked So Pretty
If bleak rural misery could be hung in a gallery, it would look like Gwen. Cinematographer Adam Etherington captures the Welsh countryside like it’s both heaven and hell — a place where fog never lifts and sunlight is a cruel rumor.
Every frame looks painted in mud and sorrow. The rolling hills are vast and empty, the cottages claustrophobic, and the color palette runs the full emotional spectrum from “wet grey” to “slightly darker grey.” It’s stunning.
Even the blood looks elegant — deep, wine-red splashes against pale skin and stone walls. You could freeze any frame and call it “Portrait of Despair with Lamb.”
And that’s the trick of Gwen: it’s visually gorgeous even as it makes you want to crawl under a blanket and never return to the countryside.
The Horror: Subtle, Slow, and Spiritually Taxing
Unlike its jump-scare-obsessed cousins, Gwen plays the long game. It’s horror as atmosphere — dread that seeps under your skin like damp wood.
Is there something supernatural at play? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just human cruelty doing what it does best. The film never commits to one explanation, and that ambiguity is what makes it so effective.
When Gwen sees a heart nailed to her door, or hears whispers in the night, you’re never sure if it’s witchcraft, corporate sabotage, or the sound of sanity eroding. Either way, it’s deeply unsettling.
And then there’s the violence — brief, shocking, and grounded. When it happens, it hits like a hammer to the soul. There’s no music cue, no slow build — just raw, ugly inevitability.
It’s the kind of horror that doesn’t make you scream — it makes you sigh heavily and question the fairness of existence.
Themes: Feminism in the Fog
Beneath all the gothic gloom, Gwen is a quietly furious film about female suffering — and resistance.
Horror has always loved the “final girl,” but Gwen doesn’t deal in tropes. Its women aren’t victims or villains; they’re survivors in a system built to break them. Gwen’s mother is a prisoner of her faith and grief. Gwen herself becomes a product of both love and despair.
There’s something profoundly feminist about watching two women try to hold onto their land, their sanity, and each other while the men around them alternate between apathetic and evil. The quarry men, the doctor, the priest — all serve as avatars of oppression, wielding religion and commerce like weapons.
In that sense, Gwen feels less like a horror movie and more like a historical revenge fantasy — except, of course, there’s no revenge, just endurance.
Dark Humor: Misery With a Wink
Now, let’s be clear: Gwen is not a comedy. But there’s a wicked sense of irony running beneath all that bleakness.
The villagers blaming the Jews for the plague? Classic. The doctor prescribing tonic wine like he’s the 19th-century Dr. Oz? Perfect. The poor horse who runs away only to get decapitated five minutes later? Tragic, yes — but also a reminder that even animals can’t stand the vibes here.
There’s a grim, almost absurdist humor in how much suffering one small family endures. Crops rot, sheep die, Mom bleeds into bowls — and through it all, the world just shrugs. It’s the cinematic equivalent of God saying, “Oh, you thought 2020 was bad?”
The Ending: Fire, Fury, and Freedom
By the time Gwen and her little sister flee their burning home, you’re emotionally wrecked — but strangely uplifted. In a world that’s taken everything from them, their survival feels defiant.
As they walk into the mist, you realize the horror isn’t that their world ended — it’s that they’re still willing to keep walking. Gwen’s final line, “We’ll find Father,” isn’t hope so much as stubborn human instinct — the refusal to stop searching for meaning in a world that clearly hates you.
Final Thoughts: Doom Has Never Been So Divine
Gwen is a slow, punishing, and breathtaking experience — part gothic fable, part social horror, part pastoral nightmare. It’s not for everyone; if you prefer your horror loud, fast, and full of CGI clowns, you’ll be checking your watch before the first sheep dies.
But for those who appreciate atmospheric dread, powerhouse performances, and the kind of beauty that makes you deeply uncomfortable, Gwen is a minor masterpiece.
It’s not here to scare you — it’s here to haunt you.
Final Rating: ★★★★☆
(Four out of five rotting sheep — one deducted because I’m still emotionally recovering from that poor horse.)
