Godland

Godland opens with two title cards: one in Danish, and the other in Icelandic. The clashing translations set the tone for the film, serving as a glimpse into what’s about to unfold in a story of differences. To be more specific, it’s a story about the smug audacity of one priest as he hikes across 19th-century Iceland to his new home, where he will be stationed for the foreseeable future, preaching the word of God to a Danish colonial settlement.

The priest is Lucas (Hove), a sniveling, lanky man who hobbles around carrying the weight of a giant camera on his back. Hlynur Pálmason’s film is based on a set of wet box of photographs that were discovered in Iceland that contained the first photos of the southeast coast. The film itself is fictional, filmed in a 1.33:1 ratio to mimic the framing of the inspirational photographs. It’s absolutely breathtaking work – the camera helmed by Maria von Hausswolff captures the unassuming beauty of Iceland, but also does not hide its frigid nature, both terrifying and beautiful.

Lucas’ journey is rough, an omen for what’s to come. He has trouble connecting with the Icelandic natives and prefers the company of his translator (Guðjónsson). A tragic accident increases his animosity for the locals, particularly Ragnar (Sigurðsson), who has only been welcoming to Lucas. This clash of cultures, the colonizer and the colonized, simmers with feelings left unsaid for a majority of the film’s run time, but their hatred toward one another radiates. Ragnar is not a man of God, and Lucas’ superiority is a simmering volcano that burns ever hotter until it bursts.

When the priest finally arrives at the settlement, he is nearly dead, the Icelandic terrain having almost killed him. His arrival awakens something in Danish transplant Anna (Sonne, Holiday), and a romance immediately ignites between them. Sonne’s performance is graceful, with traces of sorrow that’s heavy without words, because her relationship with Lucas feels doomed from the start.

One of the most haunting conversations is between Anna’s father, Carl (Lohmann), and her younger sister Ida (Hlynsdóttir). “We don’t need men like that here,” Carl tells his youngest, who is curious if her older sister is destined to marry the priest. “What kind of men do we need?” she asks curiously. His reply serves as the film’s thesis, wise words that linger long past the credits: “We don’t need more men.”