Most films about the apocalypse tend to focus on the actual cataclysm and the days leading up to it.  The tension in those movies comes from whether or not disaster can be averted, what can be done to save the human race, and whether or not the special effects budget was big enough to convey the necessary amount of carnage.  Michael Haneke’s Time Of The Wolf takes the exact opposite approach.  What if the apocalypse already happened and nothing could be done to stop it.  What then?  How does humanity carry on?  How do we pick up the pieces?

As such, Time Of The Wolf never feels like an apocalypse movie, at least for those of us, such as myself, who have been weaned on Hollywood’s disasters.  In fact, the apocalypse is never even mentioned in the film, though it’s clear from the brief snatches of terse dialog about rations, energy conservation, and from the eerily abandoned countrysides littered with dead animals, that something has happened.

Whatever it is, people are trying to escape it.  As the film opens, Anna (Isabelle Huppert), her husband, and her two children are retreating to their vacation home, a cabin located deep in the forest.  When they arrive, they find the cabin is already occupied by another family.  In the ensuing confusion, Anna’s husband is shot and she and her children—Eva and Ben—are left with only a bicycle, a little food, and the clothes on their back.  Noone back in town will help them, and so the three set off across the eerie countryside, looking for shelter.

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Todd over at Twitch has been raving about this film almost nonstop, so much so that I picked up a copy when I was in Toronto (gotta love those 6 DVDs for $30 deals in Chinatown)... and promptly set it on my shelf where it has been gathering dust ever since.  I’m not really sure why I took so long to watch it.  I’m sure part of it has to do with the fact that I’m not much of a horror fan, though A Tale Of Two Sisters is most definitely not a retread of the Ring/Ju-On formula that’s been done to death these days.  And I also suppose part of the reason is my natural skepticism about films that have received heaps of praise, and that is definitely the case with A Tale Of Two Sisters.

But in all honesty, it does deserve quite a bit of that praise.  For starters, the film is just absolutely gorgeous to watch.  Writer/director Kim Ji-woon (who first burst on the scene with The Foul King) shoots some beautiful film, especially inside the house in which the film is set.  He loves to capture the textures and patterns throughout the house, leading your eye into the background where the scares often happen.  And unlike many horror directors, he’s not afraid of suffusing his scenes with bright sunlight, creating cheery, nostalgic scenes that are promptly turned inside out.

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Even those who are in the most committed of relationships have probably found themselves, at one time or another, wondering, “What if I were with someone else?”  Perhaps the relationship has hit a dry spot, or things have become too mundane and boring, or perhaps some longlost memory about someone else resurfaces, and for a brief time, the “What if?” question raises its head.  Most people probably brush aside such questions as mere fanciful thinking and get back to life at hand.  However, such is not the case in Reconstruction, which explores that “What if?” and adds a new one: “What if being with someone else entirely rewrote your reality?”

Alex (Nikolaj Lie Kaas) is a young photographer working in Copenhagen who seems to have a pretty comfortable life.  He’s been in a relationship with his girlfriend Simone (Maria Bonnevie) for a long time, perhaps too long.  Whilst out to dinner with Simone and his father, Alex, feeling restless and unable to bear the monotony of being with Simone, ditches them both and heads off to a bar where he meets Aimee (also played by Bonnevie).

Aimee is married to August Holm (Krister Henriksson), an acclaimed author who is in Copenhagen promoting his latest book.  She too has grown bored with her relationship, tired of her husband’s neglect as he focuses on his career, and is out on the town as well.  Somehow, Alex manages to charm Aimee—or maybe it’s the other way around—and the two end up spending the night together.

Alex manages to leave before August returns, but upon leaving the hotel, his entire world seems to unravel.  His apartment inexplicably disappears altogether, and neither his best friend nor his neighbor recognize him.  Not even Simone recognizes him, and she grows increasingly alarmed as he tries to convince her of the life they had together.  The only one who does remember him is Aimee, and perhaps because of this, he continues to pursue this new affair.

However, August has become suspicious of his wife’s activities and soon wises up to her affair with Alex.  Distraught, he begins work on a new novel, the plot of which seems to be describing Alex and Aimee’s affair as it unfolds, and perhaps even describes how it will end.

Due to its nonlinear nature—we see Alex and Aimee’s affair unfold in a rather disjointed manner—and because of its surreal atmosphere, Christoffer Boe’s debut full-length has often been compared to Memento.  However, because of its focus on the surreal vagaries of love and broken relationships, the film also bears a marked similarity to a nightmarish, David Lynch-esque version of Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind.  At the beginning of the film, the narrator (who turns out to be August), compares what is about to take place to a fairy tale, and that’s a good way of looking at it.

As he pursues this new affair with Aimee, Alex seems to slip through the cracks of reality, ending up in a version of Copenhagen that is both familiar and terribly alien.  Much of this is attributable to the film’s cinematography, which makes great use of DV’s unique look to cast an alien pall over the city’s streets, shops, and alleys.  And as the film progresses, the plot grows increasingly surreal.

Indeed, parts of it feel entirely Kaufman-esque (e.g., Alex not being able to find his apartment, August’s book apparently planning out the affair before it happens).  And it doesn’t help matters that the same actress is used for both female leads, which raises some interesting questions.  Is Alex simply trying to pursue a different, alternate version of Simone?  Who is the real woman, Simone or Aimee?  Was he attracted to Aimee because she reminded him of Simone or vice versa?

Although it’s easy to get wrapped up in the film’s visuals and the vagaries of its plot, Boe and his cast do a good job of keeping the characters sympathetic and well defined as well.  Although what Alex is getting into is clearly wrong, and the film thankfully doesn’t find his affair a thing worth celebrating, it’s not difficult to find some sort of sympathy for Alex as his world unravels around him.  Likewise, Aimee is not painted in flattering colors either, but the film doesn’t gloss over the neglect she has experienced from her husband.

In most films, the affair between Alex and Aimee would be portrayed as this liberating, praiseworthy relationship, a chance for them to leave behind boring, passionless relationships for something truly sensual and fulfilling.  And interestingly enough, most of the quotes I’ve seen from critics seem to lean in this direction.  However, I can’t help but wonder if they’re missing the point.  When the film finished, I was not left with warm, fuzzy feelings about Alex and Aimee and their fling; I wasn’t singing the praises of the wonderful, passionate relationship they had.

Rather, I was left with a sense of emptiness, a sense of loss and confusion.  What Alex did have was thrown away for what he might have had, and as a result, he ends up with nothing.  Perhaps that point got lost for some in the film’s nonlinear structure and surreal, paranoid atmosphere.  But it came through loud and clear for me, and as such, made the film an even more intriguing and emotional one than it might’ve been otherwise.

Over the past couple of years, hipsters and pundits have been extolling the virtues of Iceland’s burgeoning music scene.  And with groups such as Sigur Rós, Múm, Worm Is Green, Leaves, Singapore Sling, and, of course Björk all gaining varying amounts of acclaim around the world, that’s easy to see why.  However, if Dagur Kari’s Nói is any indication, there’s an equally-thriving film scene just waiting to be discovered.

Set in a remote and permanently ice-locked Icelandic village, Nói follows the misadventures of its titular character, a disaffected and cynical 17-year-old who spends most of his days skipping school, bumming change at the local convenience store, and basically waiting for his chance to leave Iceland for someplace a bit warmer.  However, it’s not too hard to sympathize with him.  He lives with his grandmother, a slightly kooky old lady who wakes him up with shotgun blasts, his estranged father shifts between attempts at giving him advice and drunken karaoke sessions, and his sleepy little town doesn’t exactly offer too many prospects.

The only bright spot that emerges in Nói’s life is the bookstore owner’s daughter Iris, who has come to live with her father.  Although initially creeped out by Nói, they soon start up a feverish relationship, much to the chagrin of her father.  Even so, there’s still not much hope for Nói, who insists on drifting through life and sloughing off his classes, even when it’s revealed that he might be the most brilliant student in school.

Many comparisons have been made between Nói and the films of other young, up and coming directors, including Richard Kelly (Donnie Darko) and Wes Anderson (Rushmore).  Of all the comparisons, the one that seems strongest is the Anderson one.  Like Anderson, Kari fills his films with unique characters and quirky humor (just wait for the sausage-making scene), though it’s played much more subtly and drily than in any of Anderson’s features.

I must confess that, throughout much of the film, I was plagued with this notion that Nói was veering too close to cliche territory for its own good.  All of the usual ideas were present; a disaffected young man, an inspiring young beauty who eventually sees past the cynicism, a dead-end town with no opportunities, the unexpected twist of the main character being brilliant, etc.  It all sounded a bit too Good Will Hunting-esque for me.  That is, up until the last 10 minutes, when the film completely subverted my expectations and went in a direction I was not expecting.

Due to that sort of language being bandied about (“act of God” and whatnot), I was expecting some mighty convenient turn of events to unfold in the final act, something that would pass for “miraculous” and “uplifting”.  Obviously, I won’t spoil the ending, but suffice to say, the film takes a surprisingly and immensely tragic turn of events.

I was quite surprised at how mature this ending felt.  Throughout much of the film, Nói is allowed to revel in his (understandable) rebellion.  However, the final ending strips Nói away of his bravado, forcing him to confront, possibly for the first time in his short life, the emptiness of his life.  It does end the film on a remarkably tragic note, but also one ambiguous enough to possibly allow for something a little brighter.

Admittedly, as much as I like the ending, I also struggle with it as well.  As much as I like it, it also allows for some disturbing possibilities, which I don’t spill here.  However, it’s to Kari’s credit that he doesn’t spell out everything for the viewer, but rather, asks them to make their own choice as to what exactly happens and what it means.

And even when Nói (and the film) hits this point, it’s hard not to sympathize with him.  Even when he’s at his most rebellious, you get caught up in his mischeviousness.  And as such, it’s not hard to sympathize with him when the film begins taking a darker, more tragic turn, even though we’ve no real reason to like the scoundrel.  This is all due to Tomas Lemarquis, who does a remarkable job at portraying Nói.

During Nói, I was once again struck with the notion that all Icelandic films should give top billing to the Icelandic countryside.  I’ve rarely seen films that are shaped and impacted so much by their setting as those made in Iceland, and this one is no different.  Nói’s town is permanently locked in ice, it seems, and the stark white countryside makes for some haunting scenes; especially at night when the empty snow-covered streets seem to glow with an alien light.  Furthermore, the town lives in the shadow of a glacier, its presence always looming in the background, adding a slightly ominous tint to the film’s events.

In an interview, Kari said that he wanted to create a universe for his film that didn’t really exist, that had a strange and eerie atmosphere.  And that’s exactly the case with Nói.  There is a strange otherness to the film, as if Nói’s life is permanently removed from the real world by miles of snow and ice.  And this otherness makes Nói a truly surprising, engaging, and thought-provoking debut feature.