Ah, Belgium. The land that gave us waffles, chocolate, and Jean-Claude Van Damme’s splits. And then it gave us Calvaire (The Ordeal)—a psychological horror film so bleak, so baffling, and so grotesquely self-serious that it makes The Human Centipede look like The Muppet Movie.
Directed by Fabrice Du Welz, Calvaire is marketed as a harrowing exploration of madness, isolation, and the fragile line between love and violence. What it really is, however, is 90 minutes of one man’s descent into hell via bad luck, broken vehicles, and the most deranged community theater troupe you’ve ever seen. Imagine Deliverance on a Belgian budget, but with less banjo and more sexual humiliation.
Meet Marc: Crooner of the Damned
Our tragic hero is Marc Stevens (Laurent Lucas), a traveling lounge singer whose gigs are less “rock star” and more “karaoke night at a nursing home.” We meet him serenading the elderly with syrupy ballads, which is the first horror element in the movie. After the applause of arthritic hands, Marc packs up his van-home and heads for his next gig. But alas, his van dies in the middle of nowhere. In horror movies, vehicles always break down, but here it feels less like fate and more like the van was simply tired of listening to Marc’s music.
Enter Boris, a creepy local who looks like he lost a fight with puberty and never recovered. Boris leads Marc to an inn run by Mr. Bartel (Jackie Berroyer), a lonely innkeeper with all the red flags of a future Dateline episode. Bartel, once a comedian (which is frankly the scariest part), insists Marc stay while he “fixes” the van. This is like inviting Norman Bates to valet your car—your keys aren’t coming back.
From Hospitality to Hostility
At first Bartel is friendly, even nostalgic. He regales Marc with tales of his lost wife Gloria, who left him years ago. Then things get… strange. Bartel asks Marc to sing him a song at bedtime. Marc obliges because apparently no one in this film has heard of stranger danger. By morning, Bartel has gone full “Motel Hell,” snooping through Marc’s belongings and stealing his porn stash like a creepy Secret Santa.
When Marc tries to call for help, he discovers the inn’s phone is just a prop. That’s right—Bartel has been fake-phone-calling this whole time, which is both psychotic and kind of sad. Finally, Bartel torches Marc’s van in a fit of jealousy. Marc’s career wasn’t going anywhere, but even so, setting fire to a man’s entire existence feels extreme.
Gloria Has Returned
Marc wakes up shaved, dressed in Gloria’s old clothes, and chained like the world’s least enthusiastic drag queen. Bartel is convinced Marc is Gloria, back to torment him for leaving. This is where Calvaire officially veers into WTF territory. Bartel alternates between sobbing affection and violent rages, cuddling Marc in bed one moment and crucifying him in the backyard the next.
The message? Men dealing with heartbreak will either eat ice cream and stalk Facebook profiles—or they’ll kidnap you, shave your head, and force you into roleplay. Belgium apparently prefers the latter.
Meanwhile in Creepy Village Theater
Just when you think things can’t get weirder, Marc wanders into the village pub. The locals, who all look like they were rejected extras from The Hills Have Eyes, suddenly break into a surreal waltz as one man hammers away at a piano like a possessed Liberace. Watching these men whirl around the room, grinning manically, is less terrifying and more like catching your uncle drunk-dancing at a wedding you didn’t want to attend.
This sequence adds nothing to the plot but screams, “We’re an arthouse horror film! Behold our metaphorical absurdity!” Spoiler: it’s just weird dudes dancing. Stanley Kubrick these guys are not.
The Calf, The Pig, and The Christmas Dinner
Things spiral further into nightmare fuel when Boris reappears, dragging a calf he believes is his missing dog. Yes, a calf. Apparently in this village, distinguishing farm animals from pets is optional. Bartel tries to host a bizarre Christmas dinner, complete with Marc dressed as Gloria and Boris proudly presenting his “dog.” It’s a dinner scene that makes The Texas Chain Saw Massacre look like The Great British Bake Off.
Then—bang! Boris is shot dead through the window, and the villagers storm the inn like drunken Santas on meth. They bring along a pig on a leash, because why not? Their mission: to claim Gloria (Marc) as their communal sex toy. One villager rapes Marc on the dining room table while others cheer. If you’re wondering, “Is there a point to this?” the answer is no. The horror here isn’t narrative—it’s just raw exploitation with subtitles.
The Escape Nobody Asked For
Amid the chaos, Bartel is mortally wounded, leaving Marc to flee into the woods. He stumbles across a cemetery with a giant crucifix, because subtlety is for cowards. One villager chases him into a bog and begins to sink. Instead of saving him or running, Marc pauses for a heart-to-heart. The villager pleads for Gloria’s love. Marc, broken and delusional, replies, “I love you,” before watching the man drown like it’s the evening’s entertainment.
So after rape, humiliation, and rural madness, our protagonist’s final act is gaslighting a dying man into eternal despair. That’s the kind of character arc you get when your writers confuse trauma with profundity.
The Horror Isn’t What You Think
Yes, Calvaire is horrifying—but not because of its villains or violence. It’s horrifying because it mistakes misery for meaning. Every scene screams “LOOK AT THIS SYMBOLISM” while providing none. Want a bleak allegory about loss, masculinity, and rural decay? Too bad, you’re getting shaved heads, bestiality jokes, and an innkeeper cuddling a man in drag.
The cinematography is admittedly moody, but even the most artful lighting can’t disguise that the plot is essentially: “Singer gets lost. Crazy guy thinks he’s his wife. Bad things happen. The end.” It’s Misery if Kathy Bates had traded her sledgehammer for a cross-dressing fetish and a Christmas ham.
Final Thoughts: Belgium, Please Explain
Calvaire wants to be a meditation on madness, but it’s really just a 90-minute endurance test. It punishes its protagonist, its audience, and even farm animals. By the time the credits roll, you’re not enlightened—you’re just relieved it’s over, like finishing an ill-advised rollercoaster ride powered by existential dread.
So what’s the ordeal of Calvaire? Not Marc’s suffering, not Gloria’s absence, not Bartel’s delusions. No, the real ordeal is being the poor soul who rented this movie thinking it was going to be a fun horror flick with maybe a scary nun or two.
