When the Light Breaks Review

Death is final. It’s the end of human life; the termination of all bodily functions. But what does death leave behind? Icelandic filmmaker Rúnar Rúnarsson delves into the despondency of grief with When the Light Breaks.

A catastrophic traffic accident takes the life of Diddi (Baldur Einarsson), a twenty-something art student. In the wake of his demise, he leaves behind Una (Elín Hall), a woman he plays punk music with, sleeps with, and plans to leave his girlfriend for. Viewers follow Una for a crisp 80 minutes, as she experiences waves of grief across a single day in the wintry cold of Iceland. From the hospital to the bar to an impromptu memorial, Una’s numbness grows more complex as the day unfolds.

Rúnarsson eschews a standard plot, instead favouring delicacy and speculation. At times, it’s an intricate process. The film demands full attention and remains a gradual exercise, despite its short runtime. Even with its slow burn, this one rewards with quiet yet moving intensity. The director isn’t a stranger to this method. Like Volcano (2011) and Sparrows (2015), WTLB follows a character study-esque , prioritising fervour, response and subtle potency.

Elín Hall is enchanting. Her calm yet commanding performance perfectly captures heartache and anguish. With slight dialogue, it’s all facial expression. Hall’s prowess is perhaps best shown in her confrontation with Klara (Katla Njálsdóttir), Diddi’s girlfriend. The relationship between two grief-stricken women drives the film forward. As tension grows and dwindles between them, Rúnarsson gains control of his audience. This complex relationship grips them and keeps them anxiously close. Bleak, unforgiving and forlorn, Una and Klara’s atypical link represents the emotional toll of the entire film.

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Is this toll too much? Misery is a difficult subject to tackle, and Rúnarsson’s unorthodox approach may not grasp it fully. Backing style over substance, When the Light Breaks doesn’t satisfy audiences with answers of comfort. It’s not trying to. Instead, the film’s task is to dramatise those feelings and portray them with a saddening grace. While it may turn some off, it gratifies those who pursue its purpose. Jóhann Jóhannsson may be the film’s unsung hero.

A compelling, heart-wrenching score bridges narrative gaps with ease. Haunting and memorable, the music behind the film almost becomes a character on its own. Paired perfectly with Sophia Olsson’s dynamic and immediate cinematography, the film is a visual and auditory delight, making up for the misty plot effortlessly. Sore and unyielding throughout, When the Light Breaks is a visceral depiction of grief. Nomadic but powerful, loose but evocative, it’s a stirring experience throughout.