In The Head Hunter, Sword-and-Sorcery Meets Sam Raimi

With the upcoming J.R.R. Tolkien biopic and the prospect of even more, even nerdier Lord of the Rings stories about to air on television, it’s fair to wonder why one of Tolkien’s genre fiction contemporaries has not gotten a bit more exposure. There’s been something of a half-hearted attempt to adapt the more famous works of author Robert E. Howard into film in the last decade or so, with 2009’s Solomon Kane and 2011’s Conan the Barbarian. Neither made a big impression. It’s a shame, because some good old-fashioned mud-and-blood violence would be a welcome change of pace in light of the last few years of fantasy movies, which have bizarrely chosen to keep trying to rehash Peter Jackson’s interpretation of Middle Earth, even if they’re adapting properties that have absolutely nothing to do with epic fantasy war.
With a new Red Sonja movie languishing in production hell, I did not expect 2019 to give us the best actual sword-and-sorcery movie I’ve seen in years, nor for it to be a mostly one-man show by a director whose most well-known work so far is a campy horror movie about a murderous Thanksgiving turkey spirit. Yet, here is The Head Hunter, and yes, it is correctly spelled as two words in this case.
In some medieval age, seemingly far from civilization, a man (Christopher Rygh) lives in the wilderness with his daughter (Cora Kaufman). Neither are given names. In the entire film there are maybe just enough lines of dialogue to count on the fingers of one hand. In 72 minutes, there is far less to tell than there is to show.
We are shown that the father (as he is named in the film’s credits) lives in a world stalked by what have to be legions of unnatural predatory creatures. His daughter was taken by one in a scene we are never shown, and when we see him again, we discover that he’s become a man of habit. That habit just happens to be getting up in the morning, responding to a call from some distant authority to go hunt a nightmarish creature, hunting down and decapitating that creature, and then impaling its head on his wall to join the rest of his collection.
This is where high fantasy would bust out lore and world-building and all sorts of grandiosity. Thank Crom that Downey doesn’t care about any of that, or at least doesn’t care to waste dialogue on it. We know from one shot of him throwing a handful of gold into an overflowing chest that he is both paid for his work and doesn’t care to spend it. We know this is a world of inscrutable magic because Rygh keeps himself vertical by smearing his wounds with the foulest of healing potions and consults an old tome before donning his scary-face helmet to go a-slayin’.
And we know, in the tense moments when we see his eagerness to charge off to the slaughter, that his carelessness and single-mindedness are going to have repercussions.