There are no trees in Iceland. It is a barren landscape of karst rock cliffs and shrubby undergrowth; it is a desert covered in green grass and snow and rivers; it’s a vast, empty land of overwhelming natural beauty, but at every opportunity it seems to drive us out. It seems to be one of the places that God does not want us to tread, and the people who continue to live there, hard men and women, are as stubborn as the rocks in their desire to outlast the valleys and the hills.
Hlynur Pálmason’s Godland has two main inspirations. The first is a box of photographs of Iceland’s coast, which were found at the bottom of the ocean. These photographs were taken by a Danish priest who perished on his journey, but were later recovered and now give the film its lifeblood. The second of these inspirations is a poem called ‘Volaða land’, or ‘miserable land’ by Icelandic poet Matthias Jochumsson. Its first stanza translated into English is:
Miserable land
Its hunger-laced pathetic paths
Are paced by processions of beggars.
Miserable land.
If there is one word to describe Godland, it is austere. There are long stretches without dialogue where the landscape speaks for itself and one gets the impression that even the most civilised parts of Iceland only act as a muslin-thin layer between humanity and the elements and barbarism of the natural world.
Set against the backdrop of the late 19th century, the film follows a young Danish priest, Lucas (Elliott Hove Crosset), who embarks on a transformative journey to the west coast of Iceland. His initial purpose is to erect a Lutheran church, but the priest hungers after the real and authentic Iceland, taking a treacherous overland journey through the valleys and the fjords and, in the process, records his journey and the local populace through the still blossoming art of photography. The film’s breathtaking visuals, captured on 35-millimetre film in a 1:1 aspect ratio, skillfully emulate the essence of vintage photographs with their square frames and gentle curves; the choice is deliberate and colours the tone of the entire film; it’s a film about portraits of people in and among the landscape as much as it is a film about Iceland. We witness Iceland’s pristine beauty through the eyes of Lucas, yet, as he delves further into the unforgiving terrain, it’s precisely this pristine and beautiful Icelandic landscape that begins to blacken Lucas’ soul.
What makes the film truly great is Palmason’s exploration of the intractable dissonance between who we are and who we want to be. The narrative commences with Lucas joining an older priest for a meal. Amidst the older priest’s indulgence in a lavish meal of chicken and boiled eggs, a one-sided discourse ensues on the trials that await Lucas. Noteworthy is Lucas’ lack of autonomy as he is compelled to travel on foot and horseback over miles of harsh, unforgiving terrain, rather than simply sail to his destination, which would be safer and faster. While he and his superior may justify this as a homage to pilgrimage and empathy for the Icelandic people, Lucas is rendered speechless when questioned by his Icelandic host, Carl, about his choice. This instance unveils the hollowness of his odyssey when he himself has forsaken the sanctity of his mission. His suppressed bitterness begins to surface as he begins a life in Iceland.
Pálmason cultivates a unique viewer-film relationship through his astute depiction of chronology. From a long, still shot of a mountain disappearing and reappearing behind layers of mist, to close-up shots of molten lava flowing down a volcano, Palmason’s naturalistic scenes are shockingly alien and unforgiving as he attempts to invoke the un-humanness of his “miserable land”. At his most grotesque, Palmason lurks upon shots of the travellers ripping open a lamb carcass to feed themselves, not shying away from the rivers of offal, but the film never loses its soberness or its modesty.
The cinematographic brilliance of the film is undeniable: be it a time-lapsed montage of a horse’s decay and its reabsorption into the landscape or a panoramic view capturing the essence of an Icelandic wedding. It’s this fascinating mix of influences that marks Pálmason as a truly unique director: he is a more naturalistic Bergman mixed with a much more violent Tarkovsky, and in his warmer moments, one can see stunning flashes of Fellini. That isn’t to say that Palmason is derivative, but rather that his film reminds one of meeting someone new and the airy delight in finding that they seem to be, in large part, a beautiful mosaic of people we already knew.
Godland leaves such an impression because it is precisely what so many Nordic films aspire to and fall short of. Those in the mood for a truly gritty noir that never loses its audience will find a welcome experience in Godland. It’s the sort of movie that sends an entire audience into a frenzied hush of whispers and discussion after its credits roll, because it’s a film worth talking about.
