If you want to understand the exact moment that high fantasy on the big screen transitioned from campy fairy tales into something visceral, blood-soaked, and operatic, you have to look at John Boorman’s 1981 masterpiece, Excalibur. Long before Peter Jackson brought a literalist grit to Middle-earth, Boorman was out in the Irish countryside capturing a version of the Arthurian legend that feels less like a history lesson and more like a collective fever dream. It is a film that exists in a state of constant, shimmering intensity, where every suit of armor glows with an otherworldly chrome and every forest seems to be breathing. It is easily one of the most beautiful and deeply strange movies ever made, and it remains the definitive cinematic take on the rise and fall of Camelot. The story follows the entire arc of the legend, starting with the brutal, rain-slicked nights of Uther Pendragon and ending with the misty departure to Avalon. What makes Boorman’s approach so unique is that he ...