Four stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and occasional profanity
By Derrick Bang
Drama can’t get more elemental than this.
Director/co-scripter Joe Penna’s Arctic is a grim survival saga anchored by a sensational performance by Mads Mikkelsen. It’s minimalist acting stripped to its basics: Almost no dialog emerges during this 97-minute nail-biter, for the obvious reason that Mikkelsen’s character has nobody to talk to.
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| Whenever the harsh weather relents, Overgård (Mads Mikkelsen) leaves the shelter of his downed plane in order to complete the "chores" necessary for his ongoing survival. Unfortunately, his daily ritual is about to change, and quite suddenly. |
And yet we intimately bond with him during cinematographer Tómas Örn Tómasson’s stark opening tableau, and thereafter — our teeth clenched, breath held, heart in mouth — every resolute step of the way.
The bleak question hovering over such films is obvious: Will a courageous struggle be rewarded with rescue? The recent track record is mixed. 2003’s Open Water tortured us before a thoroughly reprehensible outcome; 2013’s All is Lost put Robert Redford — and us — through hell before a more satisfying conclusion. (2015’s The Revenant had many more characters in play.)
It must be noted, though, that the two ocean-bound thrillers involved people who weren’t well equipped to deal with their catastrophic circumstances. That isn’t true of Mikkelsen’s Overgård, introduced well into an extended crisis (weeks? months?) that — so far — he has been managing reasonably well.
He’s a pilot, perhaps part of a search-and-rescue unit, whose plane apparently crashed during some earlier operation. Penna and co-scripter Ryan Morrison don’t bother with flashbacks that might explain such details, as they’re inconsequential. The plane can’t fly with a crippled wing, but the intact fuselage provides adequate shelter … albeit unheated.
The passage of time is maintained, in this snow-blasted landscape, by a watch set to beep at meticulously recorded intervals. Overgård’s daily rituals are marked by ice fishing, at which he’s quite proficient; shoveling snow off a massive SOS, easily visible to any aircraft that might pass overhead; carefully tending to a curiously small pyramid of rocks; and dutifully sending a distress signal via a hand-cranked generator.
In a sense, he’s no different than the sole inhabitant of a desert island. On the plus side, he’ll never want for water; on the other hand, he’s slowly being crippled by frostbite.
The landscape is beautiful in its ice- and snow-blasted emptiness; we can tell, from Overgård’s occasionally admiring gaze, that he hasn’t lost his appreciation for these surroundings. (The film was shot on a volcanic plateau in the highlands of Iceland, reputed to be the harshest survivable environment on Earth. I don’t doubt it.)
At the same time, Mikkelsen’s expression is calculating; we understand that Overgård continually analyzes and weighs his only two options: stay … or try to walk out.
Then, suddenly, the decision is made for him.
A seeming miracle: A rescue helicopter responds to his distress signal. But the weather is treacherous; the copter struggles — and fails — to maintain flight amid a snow squall. The pilot dies in the crash; the injured co-pilot, a young woman (Maria Thelma Smáradóttir), is unconscious but alive. After hauling her back to his plane and making her as comfortable as possible, Overgård salvages the copter’s contents, and emerges with a few nice surprises.
They’d greatly ease his ongoing wait-and-hope existence. But he recognizes that the young woman needs medical intervention soon, or she’ll likely die.
And, so, his concern for a total stranger overcomes the uncertainty that — thus far — has kept him rooted to this one spot. Suddenly, he has purpose.
What follows is depicted with such brutal verisimilitude that you’ll likely find yourself panting in synch with Overgård’s exhaustion. (“[The shoot] was physically excruciating,” Mikkelsen acknowledges, in the press notes. “I lost 15 pounds in about two weeks.”)
Penna and Morrison don’t “kitchen sink” the subsequent perils; they don’t need to. The unforgiving landscape and unpredictable weather are treacherous enough, step by grinding step. We instinctively understand that Overgård maintains a rhythm designed for minimal effort, in order to conserve energy.
Mikkelsen’s bearing, even his manner of walking, depicts his state of mind; he conveys emotion — and concentrated thought — with minor twitches, brief glances or irritated grunts. And, at times, with a frozen, shattered stare. When Tómasson’s camera pulls back to reveal a steep hillside not on Overgård’s precisely detailed map, his gaze is so stricken that our hearts shatter alongside his.
It really isn’t that high, were he on his own. But with a semi-conscious woman on a sled, it may as well be Everest.
Then there’s the matter of other natural hazards. This isn’t Antarctica, where Overgård’s chief concern would be penguins and seals.
Penna and editor Ryan Morrison deftly build tension as we move from the premise-establishing first act, to the resolute second, and then the increasingly desperate third. Mikkelsen’s performance becomes raw and ragged; the abuse Overgård’s body endures is depicted mercilessly by makeup designer Ragna Rossberg. We recoil in anticipatory terror, each time Overgård removes his gloves.
Penna’s filmmaking style is bereft of flash, instead adopting a clinical approach that looks more like documentary than drama; at times this feels so authentic, that we briefly forget the necessary camera and crew, hovering somewhere out of sight. Joseph Trapanese’s score is similarly minimalist, occasionally rising softly above the ambient sounds of wind-swept snow and Overgård’s ragged breathing.
Arctic is a riveting reminder of what an accomplished actor and talented director can do, given the simplest of narratives. But with the low-wattage publicity campaign amid the annual February doldrums, I fear Mikkelsen’s work will be long forgotten by the time voting takes place for this year’s Academy Awards contenders.
That’s a shame, because you’ll rarely experience a performance that’s more all-in.
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