Ladyhawke (1985) - Review

The 1980s certainly were a great time to be a kid going to the theatre as fantasy movies lit up the screen like never before, with such great films as Dragonslayer, Conan the Barbarian and one of my favourites and today’s pick, Richard Donner’s Ladyhawke. It’s a film that feels like it wandered in from a more romantic, less cynical era, even if it occasionally trips over its own ambition. Still, for all its oddities, it remains one of the more unique fantasy offerings of the decade.

The story takes place in 12th-century Europe, where, although everyone may have French or Italian names, it being a Hollywood movie, there is nary an accent to be found. Our guide into this linguistically confused world is the thief Philippe Gaston (Matthew Broderick), known to all as “The Mouse,” who we meet mid-escape from the supposedly inescapable dungeons of Aquila. Philippe’s defining trait is his ongoing commentary with God, which somehow never becomes as irritating as it really should. When Captain Marquet (Ken Hutchison) reports this minor embarrassment to the Bishop of Aquila (John Wood), the Bishop dismisses the notion outright because, naturally, reality should conform to his expectations.

A powerfully corrupt man whom people fear.  So, a man of the cloth then?

Philippe’s brief taste of freedom is cut short when he’s recaptured, only to be rescued by the brooding and extremely photogenic Etienne of Navarre (Rutger Hauer), who arrives with a hawk and a crossbow that looks like it came from a medieval sporting goods catalogue. Navarre needs Philippe’s help because Philippe is the only man who has ever escaped Aquila, and Navarre wants to break back in and kill the Bishop. Philippe, displaying rare common sense, is less than thrilled with this plan. Their uneasy partnership is cemented through a series of events involving soldiers, bad decisions, and Navarre’s general tendency to solve problems by looking intense and shooting things.

Rutger Hauer is a pro at being intense.

Things get properly strange when Philippe encounters both a massive black wolf and a mysterious woman named Isabeau (Michelle Pfeiffer), who appears and disappears with the kind of eerie calm that suggests something supernatural is afoot. As the trio travels, the truth comes out: Navarre and Isabeau are cursed by the Bishop, doomed to be “always together, eternally apart.” By day, she is a hawk, by night, he is a wolf, which is romantic in a tragic sense and deeply inconvenient in every practical sense. Philippe, who signed up for none of this, finds himself emotionally invested despite his better instincts.

Michelle Pfeiffer could get a rock emotionally invested in her.

Enter Imperius (Leo McKern), a disgraced priest with a fondness for wine and guilt, who conveniently happens to be the man who helped the Bishop ruin Navarre and Isabeau’s lives in the first place. Through a divine vision, he reveals the loophole: the curse can be broken if the lovers stand before the Bishop as man and woman during “a day without night and a night without day.” Naturally, this leads to an elaborate plan involving infiltration, wolf-smuggling, bell-ringing, and a solar eclipse that shows up exactly when the plot needs it most. Against all odds, the plan works, the Bishop gets what’s coming to him, and the lovers finally get a moment of peace after what must be the worst relationship arrangement in medieval history.

A proper fairy tale ending.

Stray Observations:

• Philippe spends half the film trying to escape danger and the other half voluntarily running back into it. Growth, apparently.
• Navarre has a perfectly good chance to deal with Captain Marquet and just… doesn’t, because apparently, revenge is best served in the final act when the lighting is more dramatic.
• The Bishop trusts absolutely no one, yet somehow keeps getting outmaneuvered by a thief and a man who periodically becomes wildlife.
• Medieval guards continue their proud tradition of being utterly useless in the face of mild inconvenience.
• The curse is wildly overcomplicated. Turning them both into frogs would’ve been simpler and just as effective.
• Imperius receives divine visions only after heavy drinking, which raises some interesting theological questions.
• Real animals were used for the hawk and wolf, which explains why the wolf occasionally looks like it’s reconsidering its career choices.
• Isabeau only turns human at night, which would be more convincing if the film’s “nighttime” didn’t occasionally look like a slightly dim Tuesday afternoon.
• Michelle Pfeiffer apparently wasn’t done dating men with fur problems, signing up again in Wolf to fall for yet another part-time canine.

Is she a secret furry?

Getting into the craft, Richard Donner directs Ladyhawke with a sincerity that feels almost rebellious by modern standards. There’s no ironic detachment here, no sense that the film is embarrassed by its own premise. Donner treats the material like a genuine fairy tale, allowing the romance and tragedy to take centre stage. One of the film’s best creative decisions is how it handles the transformations. Instead of leaning on elaborate prosthetics or effects, the changes occur through flashes of light or shifts in time, giving them a poetic quality that feels far more in line with myth than mechanics.

“Always together, eternally apart.”

Visually, the film is stunning, thanks in large part to Vittorio Storaro. His use of natural light and rich, painterly compositions elevates the material far beyond what the script alone might achieve. Sunrises and sunsets become narrative tools, not just pretty backdrops, reinforcing the central tragedy of two lovers who can never quite share the same moment. It’s the kind of cinematography that makes you forgive the occasional narrative convenience because at least you’re watching something beautiful while it happens.

We get a nice grounded fantasy aesthetic.

Then there’s the music, which remains one of the film’s most divisive choices. Instead of following the well-worn path of sweeping orchestral scores like those from John Williams, James Horner, or Jerry Goldsmith, the filmmakers opted for a blend of Gregorian chants and contemporary, progressive rock-infused sounds by Alan Parsons and Andrew Powell. It’s a choice that feels either boldly inventive or completely out of place, depending on your tolerance for hearing what sounds like 1980s radio drifting into medieval France. It doesn’t always work, but it certainly ensures the film won’t be mistaken for anything else.

I’m betting medieval soldiers also didn’t have this kind of helm.

The cast is uniformly excellent, grounding the film’s more fantastical elements in genuine emotion. Rutger Hauer brings a stoic, almost mythic quality to Navarre, while Michelle Pfeiffer is luminous as Isabeau, embodying both vulnerability and strength. Matthew Broderick provides a modern, comedic counterpoint that somehow fits without completely breaking the illusion. John Wood makes for a superb villain, a man so consumed by jealousy that he literally turns to the Devil out of spite, which is commitment if nothing else. Interestingly, Kurt Russell was originally cast as Navarre opposite Pfeiffer, but when he bowed out during rehearsals, Hauer stepped in, resulting in a performance that leans far more into melancholy than rugged heroics.

I like Kurt Russell, but this cast is pretty damn perfect.

In conclusion, Ladyhawke is a film that thrives on contrasts. It’s earnest yet odd, romantic yet occasionally clunky, visually timeless yet sonically locked in the 1980s. And somehow, all of those contradictions work in its favour, giving it a personality that more polished, predictable fantasy films often lack. It may not be perfect, but it has heart, style, and just enough weirdness to make it an unforgettable classic.