Epic
Iceland pushes a priest to breaking point in Hlynur Pálmason’s impressive epic that places the nation’s colonial past squarely in the frame.
It’s easy to understand why Icelandic films are so rich with landscape. Wild black sand beaches, moss-carpeted lava-fields, active volcanoes – Iceland is so otherworldly it’s difficult to see beyond the familiar ‘humanity humbled by the nature’ trope. But Icelandic writer-director Hlynur Pálmason’s latest film approaches this familiar theme with a historical twist, creating a visually stunning and emotionally clear-eyed reckoning with Iceland’s colonial past under Danish control.
Lucas (Elliott Crosset Hove), a gangly young priest, is sent on a mission by the Church of Denmark to establish a parish in Iceland. Enthusiastic and idealistic, he’s completely unprepared for the hardships ahead – physically, socially and spiritually. Weighed down by books, photographic equipment, an enormous wooden cross and his Danish assumptions about both the Icelandic landscape and its people, from the moment he staggers onto the sand he is out of his depth.
Pálmason’s vision for the film was inspired by the discovery of seven photographs taken by a Danish priest in the 1800s, representing the first visual document of Iceland’s famously wild south-eastern coast. The plot is Pálmason’s imagined version of how this intellectual young priest came to capture these images (using the complicated and convoluted wet plate collodion process and a portable darkroom) on his mission to bring Christianity and enlightenment to the people eking a living from Iceland’s unforgiving landscape.
Tall and spindly, Lucas is the antithesis of the sturdy Icelandic men tasked with guiding him across the interior to the new settlement where his church will be built. Lucas is seasick on the journey from Denmark, gives up on learning Icelandic when confronted with the dozens of different words for rain and can’t ride a horse. His Icelandic guide, Ragnar (Ingvar Sigurðsson) is vital and gruffly self-sufficient. This is a man who pulls people together around a fire with folk tales and travelling songs, his morning ritual of bare-chested, outdoor calisthenics completed regardless of weather conditions. When the party finally reach their destination, a settlement overseen by Carl, (Jacob Hauberg Lohmann), a fellow Dane, the physical and emotional difficulties of the journey seem to have turned the young priest against both the land and its people.
Recovering in Carl’s homestead under the care of his two daughters, Lucas is attracted to Carl’s eldest daughter, Anna (Vic Carmen Sonne). The delightfully wild younger daughter, Ida, (the director’s daughter, Ída Mekkín Hlynsdóttir) steals every scene in which she appears. Expected to settle within and lead this community of wealthy Danes and poor Icelanders in Christianity, Lucas seems to have forgotten his bishop’s advice about fitting in and adapting to the local’s ways. It’s advice he forgets at his peril.
The isolation caused by the language barrier is a significant theme in Godland and it’s unfortunate that my lack of familiarity with both Icelandic and Danish and complete reliance on subtitles lessened the impact of what appeared to be a key element conveyed by dialogue. But even so, the cinematography alone elevates this film to the level of epic. Pálmason’s aspect choice of the square Academy ratio within a round-cornered frame lends an old-style photographic quality to the storytelling and his signature use of time-lapse images to express the passing of seasons is done to superb effect.
Despite the bleakness of this Heart of Darkness in Iceland tale, there are many moments of lightness, saving viewers of this two-and-a-half-hour epic from descent into despair. Following on from the critical success of White, White Day, Pálmason’s original style and narrative pace that refuses to be hurried reinforces his reputation as a director well on the way to becoming an auteur.
Godland opens on August 17th, with preview screenings this weekend.
Reviewed by Rachael Mead
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