The Jewish Frankenstein (and Then Some)
In a cinematic world overflowing with haunted dolls, creepy nuns, and possessed smartphones, The Golem (2018) feels like a refreshing blast of Old Testament terror — an ancient story that manages to feel hauntingly modern. Directed by Doron and Yoav Paz (yes, the same brothers who gave us JeruZalem, aka “Cloverfield goes on Birthright”), The Golemtakes the legendary Jewish myth and shapes it into something equal parts eerie, emotional, and weirdly profound.
It’s The Witch meets The Babadook — except instead of a talking children’s book, the monster is a muddy boy with mommy issues and a Hebrew vocabulary lesson carved into his forehead.
And it works. Against all odds, this low-budget Israeli horror film spins its folklore roots into a gripping allegory about grief, creation, and the terrifying consequences of thinking you know better than God.
Plot: Raising Hell, One Mud Baby at a Time
The story unfolds in 17th-century Lithuania, a time when Europe was as full of superstition as it was of plagues. Hanna (Hani Furstenberg) lives in a small Jewish shtetl where tragedy has become her shadow — seven years have passed since the death of her son, and her husband Benjamin (Ishai Golan) is running out of patience (and apparently, romantic interest).
When a group of plague-masked Christian peasants led by the extremely punchable Vladimir shows up to accuse the Jews of witchcraft — because nothing says “love thy neighbor” like mob violence — Hanna proposes the unthinkable: summon a Golem to protect them. The Rabbi says, “Absolutely not.” Naturally, she does it anyway.
Like every bad decision in horror history, this one starts with sneaking into a holy place, reading forbidden texts, and molding something out of dirt that you definitely shouldn’t bring to life. Hanna’s clay creation rises as a small, mute child — not coincidentally, the spitting image of her dead son.
At first, it’s sweet — in that unsettling “my child can snap a man’s spine like celery” kind of way. But as the Golem grows stronger, so does the body count. And when he starts killing people just because Mom’s having an emotional day, Hanna learns that maternal instinct can be the deadliest force of all.
By the time she realizes her clay baby’s gone full Old Testament on everyone, it’s too late. Love, death, and divine punishment collide in a finale that’s as tragic as it is inevitable.
Hani Furstenberg: The Mud Queen
If The Golem succeeds — and it does, spectacularly — it’s thanks to Hani Furstenberg. She gives Hanna a blend of intelligence, vulnerability, and quiet fury that anchors the supernatural chaos around her. This isn’t your typical “woman goes mad in period costume” performance. Furstenberg’s Hanna is more like a proto-scientist, determined to outthink fate and outpray the patriarchy.
Her relationship with the Golem is genuinely unsettling — equal parts tender and horrifying. One moment she’s cradling him like a child; the next, he’s committing homicide on her behalf. It’s like if Carrie had a stage mom.
There’s real emotional depth here — a meditation on motherhood, grief, and guilt — hidden beneath the mud and mysticism. Furstenberg manages to make you sympathize with a woman who’s essentially created a weaponized toddler. That’s no small feat.
The Golem Itself: Muddy, Bloody, and Surprisingly Touching
In traditional Jewish folklore, the Golem is a hulking clay guardian — a giant made of mud who protects the innocent. The Paz brothers twist that idea into something more intimate and sinister. Their Golem is a child — pale, bald, and silent, with eyes that could make even Damien from The Omen say, “Okay, kid, chill.”
It’s a brilliant reimagining. The smaller, childlike Golem gives the story an emotional charge the monster version wouldn’t have. He’s terrifying not because he’s big, but because he’s innocent — a mirror reflecting Hanna’s grief and God complex. When he stabs himself to show he feels her pain, it’s chilling. When he slaughters a man because she felt jealous, it’s horrifyingly poetic.
You don’t know whether to hug him or exorcise him.
Cinematography: Shtetl Chic
Shot in the Ukrainian countryside, The Golem is visually stunning in a bleak, mud-caked way. The cinematography captures the isolation of the shtetl — endless fields, dark woods, and a sky that looks like it hasn’t seen sunlight since Genesis.
Every frame feels painted in earth tones — a palette of browns, greys, and shadowy golds that perfectly suits a film about man-made life. It’s all grounded, gritty, and gorgeously miserable.
The Paz brothers know how to shoot horror — lingering on dread instead of jump scares. When the Golem moves, it’s not with CGI spectacle but with unnerving stillness. When blood is spilled, it feels earned, not gratuitous.
And then there’s the sound design: whispering winds, creaking wood, faint prayers. You can practically smell the damp Torah pages.
The Themes: Faith, Feminism, and Fatal Hubris
Beneath the folklore, The Golem is a smart, surprisingly modern story about control. Hanna’s defiance of her rabbi and husband isn’t just about magic — it’s about agency. In a world where women are told to mourn quietly and obey blindly, she chooses to create.
Of course, the moral lesson is clear: defy God’s natural order, and the mud hits the fan. But the Paz brothers don’t turn this into a morality lecture. Instead, they explore how power — divine or otherwise — corrupts the best intentions. Hanna doesn’t summon evil; she births it from love.
It’s basically Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein with circumcision jokes and Hebrew incantations.
Dark Humor: Oy Vey, the Horror
Part of what makes The Golem work so well is its sly undercurrent of dark humor. There’s something inherently absurd about a mud child saving a Jewish village from a mob of anti-Semitic plague victims. It’s horror with a touch of irony — a reminder that, yes, the world has always been this stupid.
Even the Golem’s kills have a grim wit to them. Watching him protect his “mother” by tearing out a man’s heart or flattening an invader feels both horrifying and cathartic — like a violent punchline to centuries of persecution.
And the villagers, bless them, are peak shtetl energy: perpetually worried, constantly praying, and somehow still arguing about whose fault the apocalypse is.
The Ending: The Price of Playing God
When Hanna finally kisses the Golem and removes the sacred parchment from his mouth — the literal Word of God that gave him life — it’s heartbreaking. Not because she’s killing a monster, but because she’s losing her last connection to her child.
It’s a rare horror ending that earns its tragedy. No fake jump scare, no last-minute resurrection — just a mother, her mistake, and the silence that follows. It’s grim, beautiful, and haunting in all the right ways.
Final Thoughts: A Muddy Masterpiece
The Golem isn’t just one of the best folk horror films of the decade — it’s one of the most underrated. It takes a centuries-old myth and reshapes it into a story about grief, identity, and faith that feels startlingly relevant.
Yes, it’s slow in parts. Yes, it occasionally dips into melodrama. But when the clay settles, what’s left is a film that’s smart, scary, and deeply human.
It’s proof that sometimes the smallest monsters leave the biggest scars — and that even a mud child can have more personality than half of Hollywood’s CGI demons.
Final Rating: ★★★★☆
(Four out of five sacred scrolls — one deducted for making me cry over a homicidal lump of dirt.)
