The Icelandic winter proves formattable terrain for Lucas (Elliott Crosset Hove), a young Danish priest, sent by the church to establish a house of worship for its followers on the Southeastern coast of the island country in the late 19th century.  The journey is an arduous one, made harder due to a feud fueled by distrust and animosity between Lucas and his guide, Ragnar (Ingvar Sigurðsson).  Tensions continue to rise even as the convey reaches their destination and the church is being constructed as Lucas begins to foster a relationship with Anna (Vic Carmen Sonne), the oldest daughter of Carl (Jacob Lohmann), a farmer who has agreed to host Lucas during his stay with the community. 

Hlynur Pálmason’s dual-language epic, Godland, premiered Un Certain Regard during the 2022 iteration of the Cannes Film Festival where it was picked up for state-side distribution as part of the Janus Contemporaries line of home media in addition to its limited theatrical run.  His third written and directed feature effort has also rightfully drawn allusions to the work of Werner Herzog for the way it highlights the beauty of an unforgiving landscape while plumbing the depths of the human soul.  Running 143 minutes, the film is stunningly shot in 4:3 by Maria von Hausswolff and despite the tight and punishing framing, the colors fill the screen with such life that audiences are never left longing for it to have been shot in scope. 

Language plays a huge element in the film, featuring not just its Danish title (Vanskabte Land) but also its Icelandic (Volaða land) and stylized subtitles that indicate when Icelandic is being spoken through the use of italics while Danish is presented in Roman case.  Understanding, or rather the breakdown that occurs when there is no understanding, is the main cause of contention between the two prideful men at the heart of this drama.  Ragnar can mostly be forgiven for his lack of language skills as the film paints him to be a country brute, but audiences will be keen to remember that Lucas was advised by his bishop on the eve of his journey that his adaptation will be key to his success. 

The film is then framed around a box being discovered in the permafrost of Iceland containing seven wet plate photographs taken by Lucas and the story that follows had been inspired by these images.  It is entirely a work of fiction, not just the interstitial material, but also Lucas, the box, the photographs; everything.  It does not take anything away from the effectiveness of the narrative, however, and opens the way for editor Julius Krebs Damsbo, late in the film, to create some incredibly haunting and effective montages seen as if we were looking through the lens of the camera and lining up the perfect shot. 

As the film starts out, it feels like it will follow an arc similar to the Passion of Christ, especially as von Hausswolff’s camera makes certain to focus on the donkey that carries the cross.  Pálmason’s narrative strays from this notion, though, at the fording of a river that results not only in the loss of the cross but also the death of Lucas’ only real friend on the journey, the translator (Hilmar Guðjónsson).  He is now totally alone in the wilderness with no friends, no God, and no way of turning back; Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani?   

But Ragnar does not abandon the priest, and after Lucas falls ill on the journey, he is still delivered to the Southeastern coast by the man and then nursed back to health by Anna.  Lucas, however, still looks with scorn upon Ragnar knowing that the man will return to his own village at the completion of the church, he sees no need to treat the man that saved him kindly.  Hove excels in this complicated role as he needs to make Lucas sympathetic to the audience lest we turn our backs on him, but he still must be such a sinful and despicable character for the dynamic between him and Sigurðsson’s Ragnar to be effective.  He walks the tightrope well, especially when he is living with the community, clean-shaven and looking young in a stark rebuke to the stylization of the burly native men; the Southeast coast does not prove to be the promised land he had envisioned.  Lucas had gone through hell to get here, a hell we learn was of his own making as he could have easily sailed his way to the coast, but he put his own life and the lives of others at risk for his own pride.  Godland, in a purely narrative sense, is the story of a man’s collapsing pride, and once broken, how he is left with nothing. 

Thematically, however, Godland is very interested in the concept that just because one wears the collar of a priest, does not mean they are a pious man.  This is shown early on in Lucas’ rage when the camera collapses on him after he curses the native Icelandic guides for not standing still for the photograph.  This thesis comes to fruition in an incredible scene late in the film, when on the eve of Ragnar’s departure, he asks Lucas for a photograph of himself.  Lucas explodes on the man who has shown him nothing but kindness across the entire journey, calling him all sorts of names and implying that he is of a lesser status because he speaks Icelandic; his native tongue in his native land.  Ragnar, ever calm, asks Lucas if he is familiar with “Danish Sundays,” a tradition from his youth in which the village would speak Dutch on Sundays.  Ragnar has understood every awful word Lucas has thrown in his direction since the beginning of their journey, and Lucas, ever volatile, lashes out at the man, killing him against the rocky coastline and leaving his body to the sea. 

Pálmason is not done with Lucas’ crucible.  The next morning, Lucas is giving the first mass at the new church, and it is a constantly interrupted sermon.  The congregation is fidgety, a baby is crying, and outside a dog is barking.  Finally, Lucas goes out to meet the dog, Ragnar’s dog, and viewing this dog as a personification of his guilt he flees the community on one of Carl’s horses.  The abandoned congregation sits waiting for Lucas to return until Carl goes out to check waht happened, noticed the missing horse, and takes off to the wilderness where he quickly finds Lucas.  Again, Lucas’ arrogance has gotten the best of him as he rode the horse too hard and too fast so that the beast quickly tired and he was easily tracked.  In Lucas’ final moments, he is once again failed by his own arrogance and pride; this idea that he is above nature has been his downfall yet again. 

Godland is a monumental achievement in cinema as an art form.  The characters may not be especially deep, but as a moral tale, they do not have to be.  Their plight is apparent, and it is the story around them which gives them depth, specifically, Lucas who loses each battle against man, nature, and himself; three of the core six conflicts, and with each loss he becomes closer to the baseless animal which he views the Icelandic people.  In the end, it is not God who has abandoned Lucas, but Lucas who has abandoned his flock. It is a simple and classic story of moral cause and effect, and Pálmason executes a near-perfect narrative because he does not try to overcomplicate these themes.  Rather, he assembles a team of creatives both in front of and behind the camera that come together to fully realize this harsh vision and deliver a truly haunting and justifiably tragic film.