(Norway/Canada, 100 min.)
Dir. Kjersti Steinsbø; Writ. Ingvar Ambjørnsen, Kjersti
Steinsbø
Starring: Siren Jørgensen, Frode Winther, Maria Bock, Anders
Baasmo Christensen, Tron Espen Seim, Helene Bergsholm, Kine Botheim Jentoft
If revenge is a dish best served cold, then one can hardly
find a better match for icy chefs than a Canuck and a Nordic. Revenge, a rare co-production between
Canada and Norway, chills with steely tenacity as it makes an idyllic Norwegian
getaway a haven for past crimes. Siren Jørgensen stars as in a eerily detached
performance as Rebekka, a woman who travels to the fjords of Norway under the
false pretense that she is a travel writing aiming to profile a quaint little
hotel in a picturesque, but sleepy, little town. In the vein of recent
cold-blooded Scandinavian thrillers like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, though, Revenge
is a tale of men who hate women as this thriller builds a complicated rape
culture parable that nips, but leaves cold.
Overall, the Norse vistas in this thriller are impressive as serene landscapes offer postcard perfect views of the fjords. Revenge probably does for Norway what some Canuck endeavors do for northern Canada by letting the scenery star. Moody and atmospheric cinematography keeps the film dark and brooding, too, and there’s a lot to admire and find seductive until the film unravels in its off-kilter finale when Rebekka enacts her deed.
It comes as no surprise that Rebekka arrives under false
pretenses when she presents herself to the hotelier, Morten (Frode Winther) and
his wife, Nina (Maria Bock, a beacon in this dark film). Rebekka’s news that her
magazine wants to feature their getaway seems like a lark from the get-go, as
she arrives in the offseason when nobody’s there. Maybe Norwegian fjord-side
towns need some good PR in the aftermath of The Wave. Then Rebekka unpacks her bags and Revenge
reveals that she’s carrying little else than a Mrs. Bates knife, and
something seems awry with this cold, clipped journalist.
Director Kjersti Steinsbø builds ample tension slowly and
methodically as Rebekka unfurls her plan. She might not be a journalist, but she
has an awfully big scoop on Morten. His secret is about as scandalous as things
can get in a town as small as this one and everyone’s silence, everyone’s
complacency, is downright eerie.
Rebekka’s actions aren’t any better, though, as she
manipulates Morten and Nina and draws the townspeople into her web. Using not
one but two girls as pawns in her plan for getting an eye for an eye, she’s a
hard character with whom one may find sympathy. Revenge evens calls her out on her failure to be a responsible
adult, but the film then muddles her culpability by glorifying her vendetta.
This element undoes the film’s effort to be an all-out feminist revenge flick,
since Rebekka is ultimately just as sick a predator as Morten is—and the endorsement/celebration
of Revenge as a feminist film, like a backslide into qualifying acts of rapacious violence
when it offers a convenient upvote, seems extremely dangerous and reckless. If
the tables turned, Revenge would be
rightly condemned. It’s never okay to enact violence upon someone else and the film's uncritical rendering of Rebekka's deed is wildly problematic.
While Revenge
smartly outlines Morten’s ignorance of his crimes and offers other characters
who refuse to stand by him, it fails to make Rebekka grasp the collateral damage
of her vendetta. She plays the sexual predator and puts two girls in the victim
role, destroying lives while seeking retribution for another girl who was a
tragic victim. The realism of the film makes it a great simmering thriller for
88 or so minutes of its 100-minute running time, but because Revenge tautly bides its time by putting
the viewer in the mindset of the killer, it also asks the viewer to identify
with Rebekka’s repugnant bloodlust and then get off on it. The finale of Revenge is very difficult to endorse as
Rebekka all but licks the ejaculatory smear of blood from her face.
Revenge opens in
Toronto at TIFF Bell Lightbox on Friday, May 27.