This movie starts intriguingly and shockingly, but it spirals pretty much downhill from there.
I am a lover of Iceland, and visit the country each winter. This movie brings out the arctic nation's exquisite geography beautifully. I am also a fan of Icelandic box-office favorite Ingvar Sigurdsson, who plays angry widower Ingimundur and shows off his body quite stunningly in a couple of shower scenes.
However, the story line here is weak and drawn-out, and the characterizations are shallow. Still, given my interest in the country and its language, I'm glad I got to see this during a special screening at New York City's Scandinavian House.
We have the story here of retired cop Ingimundur, a recent widower whose most significant remaining relationship is with his eight-year-old granddaughter, Salka (Ida Mekkin Hlynsdottir). Through means that are not very clear, he begins to suspect that his late wife was having an affair with a guy on his soccer team. Ingimundur confronts the man who cuckolded him in a crude and primitive manner that felt jarring in an Icelandic film, and more suited to a thriller from America or some other more corrupt locale.
This movie is full of filler that does nothing to enrich the film. For example, Ingimundur's car gets hit by a jagged chunk of rock and we take time out to watch him hurl it over the side of a mountain to its fjord-bottom resting spot. Guess that's supposed to remind us of his wife's sad fate. Deep!
There were many other time-wasting passages in this film, and I'm surprised an actor of Sigurdsson's stature dignified this production by accepting this role.
The movie seems particularly weak in its characterizations of women, and it ends with some gratuitous female full-frontal nudity. (Incredibly, young actress Ida also flashes a millisecond of flesh.)
Ostensibly, this is a movie about an inarticulate man coming to terms with grief. In the end, however, it was "svolítið af geispa" (a bit of a yawn).
I am a lover of Iceland, and visit the country each winter. This movie brings out the arctic nation's exquisite geography beautifully. I am also a fan of Icelandic box-office favorite Ingvar Sigurdsson, who plays angry widower Ingimundur and shows off his body quite stunningly in a couple of shower scenes.
However, the story line here is weak and drawn-out, and the characterizations are shallow. Still, given my interest in the country and its language, I'm glad I got to see this during a special screening at New York City's Scandinavian House.
We have the story here of retired cop Ingimundur, a recent widower whose most significant remaining relationship is with his eight-year-old granddaughter, Salka (Ida Mekkin Hlynsdottir). Through means that are not very clear, he begins to suspect that his late wife was having an affair with a guy on his soccer team. Ingimundur confronts the man who cuckolded him in a crude and primitive manner that felt jarring in an Icelandic film, and more suited to a thriller from America or some other more corrupt locale.
This movie is full of filler that does nothing to enrich the film. For example, Ingimundur's car gets hit by a jagged chunk of rock and we take time out to watch him hurl it over the side of a mountain to its fjord-bottom resting spot. Guess that's supposed to remind us of his wife's sad fate. Deep!
There were many other time-wasting passages in this film, and I'm surprised an actor of Sigurdsson's stature dignified this production by accepting this role.
The movie seems particularly weak in its characterizations of women, and it ends with some gratuitous female full-frontal nudity. (Incredibly, young actress Ida also flashes a millisecond of flesh.)
Ostensibly, this is a movie about an inarticulate man coming to terms with grief. In the end, however, it was "svolítið af geispa" (a bit of a yawn).