Lamb, 2021.
Co-written and Directed by Valdimar Jóhannsson.
Starring Noomi Rapace, Hilmir Snær Guðnason, and Björn Hlynur Haraldsson.
SYNOPSIS:
A childless couple, María and Ingvar, discover a mysterious newborn on their farm in Iceland. The unexpected prospect of family life brings them much joy, before ultimately destroying them.
Valdimar Jóhannsson’s directorial debut Lamb is a tricky film to discuss in much detail without flatly giving away its major conceit, which its marketing has rather downplayed and, presumably, Jóhannsson would rather you experience unawares. Indeed, the filmmaker’s impressive if at times frustratingly slight horror film is best watched with little prior knowledge of what’s to come.
With that in mind this review will keep the details broad and non-specific. In Iceland, couple María (Noomi Rapace) and Ingvar (Hilmir Snær Guðnason) reside on their chilly, remote sheep farm, a prior loss now casting a dark pall over their lives. But one day, everything changes when one of their sheep births a most unexpected offspring, which María and Ingvar decide to raise as though their own human child.
“What the hell is going on?” is sure to be a thought in viewers’ heads for much of Lamb, particularly in its majorly vague first act before the veil finally lifts. Even then, the full context of what we’re seeing only comes into focus over the course of its slightly overdone 106-minute runtime, where audiences may feel as fidgety and restless as they are utterly weirded out.
It isn’t much of a spoiler to say that Lamb is a film primarily about grief, the peculiar means through which people seek to fill that void in their lives, and how those methods have as much potential to divide heartbroken lovers as unite them in pain.
Is Lamb a horror film? A magical realist fairy tale? A black comedy? A strangely tender family drama? It’s really all of these, but most defined by its underlayer of deadpan absurdism, yet never tipping its hand enough to let the audience much relax. Narratively speaking it’s more straight-forward than its obtuse presentation and enigmatic marketing might suggest, but compulsively watchable thanks to its unsettling tone and delicately calibrated performances.
If nothing else, the end-of-act-one reveal trains audiences to expect the unexpected for the remainder, keeping them on an uneven keel as other potential spanners in the dramatic works arrive, namely Invgar’s outgoing brother Pétur (Björn Hlynur Haraldsson). He may represent the most soap opera-esque aspect of this story – predictably, he and María have past history – but there are enough subversions in store to ensure it never devolves into outright melodrama.
With its unrushed pace and sparseness of dialogue, Lamb will certainly challenge viewers intrigued by its strange marketing – yes, even those au fait with A24’s cornered market on slow, unconventional horror films. But its intensely moody and atmospheric aesthetic design makes for an intoxicating brew, Eli Arenson’s airy, always-daylight captures of Iceland’s mountainous expanses equally painterly and bleak.
Yet most impressive of all is the mind-boggling integration of animatronics, VFX, and practical animals to realise the film’s complex lamb-centric sequences. When a lamb’s birth is shown in vivid detail, the effects are so staggeringly impressive as to pass for real; as the saying goes, if you can’t tell the difference, then the job has most certainly been done.
Jóhannsson’s pointed, deeply motivated camerawork is also fascinating in lending a consciousness to the various animals that live on the farm; not just lambs but also dogs and cats, whose loaded glances at María and Ingvar’s “child” suggest a basic, biological revulsion at what they’re seeing.
The starkness of the visuals effectively contrast the more outlandish aspects of the story once its hand has been played, while Þórarinn Guðnason’s ominous score is sparingly deployed to chilling effect. But the earthy sound design, of howling winds whipping around the mountains, often does as much of the heavy lifting.
The cast’s understated performances are absolutely vital in selling a concept that could so easily descend into ridicule-worthy farce. Noomi Rapace, a tremendously talented actress who hasn’t nearly been given her due by Hollywood, has been deserving of such a worthy part for years now – ever since she was unceremoniously jettisoned out of the Alien franchise, really – and renders a wonderfully quiet, multi-faceted portrayal of trauma and heartbreak. Rapace may be the scene-stealer, but co-star Hilmir Snær Guðnason is no slouch either, wearing his own internalised anguish across his stoic face at all times.
The patience-trying pacing will be the biggest obstacle for many, and it’s tough to deny that a few generous trims would absolutely make revisiting Lamb a more appealing proposition. It’s not an experience easily forgotten, but also one that’s frustratingly slow at times and, therefore, will be a “one-and-done” for many.
Its glacial pacing may test the patience, but Lamb’s aggressive sparseness also harbours a slow-burning, materially strange power.
Flickering Myth Rating – Film: ★ ★ ★ / Movie: ★ ★ ★
Shaun Munro – Follow me on Twitter for more film rambling.
