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The Northman (2022) and the Paradox of Subversion

Writer: Miles StephensonMiles Stephenson

Speaking with a group of friends recently about Robert Eggers' The Northman, I heard the same critique: "the movie has strong constituent parts but doesn't work as a whole." How could that be possible? How could a movie with strong imagery, anthropologically vivid production design, and a cast which inludes a Beowulf-esque Ethan Hawke and a bewitching Viking-mystic Anya Taylor-Joy feel hollow as a whole? I thought back to my original viewing of it in an IMAX theater in 2022 where I came away from the experience underwhelmed despite my enthusiasm for Norse mythology and Eggers' The Lighthouse (2019).

an anthropological attention paid to rituals and psychedelics
an anthropological attention paid to rituals and psychedelics

Then I saw Eggers' latest film, Nosferatu (2024), a Gothic mood piece with an impressive sense of atmosphere; it got me thinking about The Northman again. After all, my taste in movies has changed a lot since 2022. It has shifted away from more writerly content-directed films like those of Rohmer and Wilder to more form-directed, imagistic ones which prioritize style over "content" like those of Refn and Roeg. Considering all this, it seemed a good time to check back in with The Northman and see if my opinion has changed.


It has not. But I think I figured out why The Northman doesn't hit as hard as it should. Eggers and Skarsgård have worked themselves into a corner in which the successful implementation of their theme requires the total alienation of the audience from their protagonist. Robert Eggers' subversion of the hero myth — by introducing the twist that our hero is the product of rape and that his quest to "save" his mother is a misguided task which reinforces a culturally-mandated never-ending cycle of violence — is an interesting concept but it presents a new problem: it takes the dramatic teeth out of the story and its characters.

Eggers' film is more about the visceral experience of the world than about "story," but if one had to summarize the plot, it might go something like this: a Viking prince witnesses the murder of his father at the hands of a rival. As he’s fleeing his homeland and the attempts on his own life, the boy swears an oath to return one day to avenge his father by killing the rival and rescuing his mother.


Along the journey the boy grows into a Viking berserker, bringing his own path of bloodshed to others. There’s an attempt at a romance subplot and some striking imagery of Norse mythology. When he returns, the script is flipped as the Viking boy — now man — learns that his mother sanctioned the murder of his father and the attempted murder of himself, preferring a marriage to the rival.


Furthermore, the idyllic home life of his youth is revealed to be a lie as the Viking learns he is the product of rape and that his mother was once his father’s slave. The mission that he’s been single-mindedly pursuing for years turns out to be ill-founded; everything he knows about his life is false. The Viking pursues the death of his father’s rival anyway — presumably to secure the safety of his future offspring with the love interest — and dies in battle as he decapitates the rival. His passage to Valhalla is secure and the cycle of violence continues on down the ages. 

An emotional mute
An emotional mute

On paper, it sounds about right for a Viking epic. But emotionally, there's a problem. Aside from the alienation from our hero because of the subversion, stoic writing and a lack of emotive expression from Alexander Skarsgård make us regard his character (by design I'm sure) more as an empty vessel for a barbaric code than a fully realized human who we want to project our desires and fears onto. Paradoxically, this is a successful move by Eggers because it serves his theme about the Greek Tragedy of Amleth arising from "people acting in accordance with their inscribed purpose within a defective social order" (as Marco Roth writes) but in doing so Eggers sacrifices the audience's engagement in the pathos of the subject.


This subversion has a numbing affect on the portrayal of everything from love to violence. Entrails, beheaded corpses, and Icelandic hot spring sex scenes become more Norse interior design than horrors and raptures for our characters to grapple with. They are presented in a mannerist and academic style but lack any disturbing or emotionally resonance.

Scenes of torture and beheadings were surprisingly toothless
Scenes of torture and beheadings were surprisingly toothless

It's hard to blame Skarsgård for this because the character as written somewhat requires this emotionally neutered performance. Yet I can't help but wonder if an actor with a more emotive range could have broadened this character and given the viewer someone to see themselves within, even if this butted up against Eggers' theme of a hero with no agency.


The subtle emotion of Crowe's performance in Gladiator (2000)
The subtle emotion of Crowe's performance in Gladiator (2000)

Think Russell Crowe's stoic but still poignant performance in Gladiator or even Mel Gibson's full-throated drama in Braveheart. This last mention is perhaps an unfair comparison: this Scottish patriot's story is strengthened by sentimentalism while Eggers' retelling of the old myth is antithetical to such melodrama and nostalgia. Still, I'm not sure Skarsgård has the gravitas or presence to imitate such subtle emotions in a hollowed-out hero; often he appears like an ape mumbling and trundling around looking for the emotion in a scene. We, the audience, look for it too, but it never arrives.

The Prequels did it better
The Prequels did it better

As it stands, The Northman is a vivid visual experience. Eggers has the right idea about setting the final battle ridiculously inside an active volcano and paying specific anthropological attention to the rituals, witchcraft, and psychedelics which animated ancient Scandinavia. Willem Dafoe appears in his reprise as Eggers' keeper of secrets, the same role he played in The Lighthouse and Nosferatu, yet this time, he's a Viking shaman who uses psilocybin visions to guide young warriors through their coming-of-age rituals. There are times in the first forty minutes where this almost feels like the epic it deserves to be. It's a formally expressive "Black Panther for white people" (as one tweet has joked) about the endless bloodshed of 10th Century Norse master morality. But when it comes to character and story, it lacks the heart and poignancy which the aesthetic demands, and as Skarsgård 's Amleth dies in the erupting volcano before the credits, I find myself surprisingly unmoved.


Disagree with my take? Think The Northman ruled and that it's the best thing since Skyrim? Let me know: milesvstephenson@gmail.com


 
 
 

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