A White, White Day

A White, White Day opens with one long, sinister shot of a car traveling down a slick, almost invisible road as it winds along a foggy Icelandic coastline. We helplessly watch as the car abruptly crashes into the guardrail and tumbles into the looming white void below. It’s a jarring start to a largely still film, but it’s one I won’t soon forget.

Icelandic director Hlynur Pálmason’s film grapples with loss and its complicated aftermath and tacitly explores the hazy line between the grief and anger of those who are left behind.

Ingvar Sigurdsson (Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald) stars as Ingimundur, an off-duty small-town policeman who’s a devoted grandfather, skilled handyman and, most importantly, a recent widower. He spends most of his days going between the police station to eat lunch with his co-workers, caring for his granddaughter and building a house for his family. Even with his days so routinely scheduled, viewers get the immediate sense that Ingimundur is dealing (or not dealing, as he stubbornly demonstrates) with something heavy just below the surface.

Ingimundur is reliable and self-assured, and he’s not afraid to face anyone and anything — except his actual feelings. He’s unwilling (as we see in his uncomfortably tense and tight-lipped encounters with his therapist) and unable to unpack his emotional pain, and it’s this inability to move forward that drives nearly every action he takes. It appears as though he hasn’t allowed himself to acknowledge, much less deal with his wife’s tragic passing, and when his adult daughter brings over a box of her mother’s things, he has no choice but to tackle his fears head-on. It becomes clear that he is plagued by the nagging feeling that his wife was hiding something from him before her death, and as he begins to investigate, his deepest fear is realized: She was having an affair at the time of her death.

Though the focus thereafter shifts to Ingimundur’s seething quest for vengeance, it’s the painful realization of infidelity that serves as the film’s true beating heart. His conflicting feelings of rage, betrayal and deep sadness are communicated almost entirely through his suppressed expressions (superbly conveyed by Sigurdsson) and a few outward, unprovoked blowups. Except for one particularly poignant scene in which he speaks candidly about cheating and questions why he wasn’t “enough” for his wife, Ingimundur lives mostly inside his head. Still, it’s this glimmer of vulnerability that cracks him wide open and compels him to confront his wife’s lover, and, in essence, his pain. Though his methods and execution are rather violent and completely ill-advised, his aim is to get to the real truth of the matter so he can finally move on.

What follows is a series of distressing, wrath-fueled confrontations that dictate the final third of the film in a way that feels both startling and cathartic. Without spoiling anything, Ingimundur experiences a traumatic event at the end that might actually be just the thing to snap him out of his heavy emotional fog. The final shot is as moving as it is beautiful and provides an enveloping sense of release for the characters and viewers alike.

Still, with all of its delicate beauty and subtle storytelling, I did find it somewhat difficult to fully connect with the material at times. The lack of plot and dialogue colors the film as more of a wandering portrait of grief rather than a standard three-act structure film, making it tougher to fully engage with. I found myself getting increasingly anxious or annoyed with the lingering close-ups of strange Nordic kids TV shows and painfully long pauses as the film carried on, but never so much so that I had to completely detach from it. Pálmason’s deliberate focus on the mundanity of ordinary life juxtaposed with jarring flashes of painful memories manage to keep the story from becoming stale and too leisurely, though the camerawork can feel a bit self-indulgent at times. The film’s reliance on a hushed, unhurried pace can feel odd and overly nostalgic in spots — with one too many muted shots of misty landscapes and wistful gazes into nothingness — but the payoff ultimately feels earned.

Perhaps it’s a testament to Sigurdsson’s nuanced portrayal of his character’s simmering internal torture that kept me invested enough to see it all the way through. The grief spiral Ingimundur undergoes isn’t linear or clear-cut, and though that can be frustrating (and sometimes confusing) to see unravel as a viewer, it’s ultimately the most truthful illustration of how grief can manifest in real life.

In this sense, Pálmason’s uncomfortably intimate camerawork is actually effective, as it employs Sigurdsson’s impressively understated expressions and explosive reactions to create a more well-rounded portrait of sorrow. Together, they shine a glaring light on the fractured, ugly and oftentimes nonsensical nature of living after loss.

Tonally speaking, the world that Pálmason and cinematographer Maria von Hausswolff have constructed feels stirring and silent in equal measure, with visuals so gripping that they nearly take your breath away. Coupled with Edmund Finnis’ eerie instrumental score, the stunning Icelandic vistas and startling depictions of violence do much to build tension, as they evocatively mimic Ingimundur’s slowly boiling angst beneath his stoic exterior. These elements work in harmony to lend an ethereal quality to the monotony he lives with and an uneasy, almost frightening atmosphere to the more dramatic elements of the film. One scene perfectly encapsulates this difficult balance, as blood-curdling screams echo off of the pristine frozen landscape with haunting simplicity.

If you can manage to work with the strange, drawn-out aspects of the film and focus on the humanity at its heart, there’s a lot to like about A White, White Day — and perhaps, more importantly, a lot to learn about life.

Now available to rent via grailmoviehouse.com