The Northman (dir. Robert Eggers, 2022)- Review

"Ï sjënd dë mætbals ïnto späcë," tweeted the 'Swëdish Eløn Müsk' parody account in 2018. "Ï døn’t pjay de täxes." It's hard to explain, but somehow 'Playmobil arthouse' director Robert Eggers' A-list edgelord take on the tale of Hamlet- muddled up with a hefty slug of Norse mythology and noughties sexploitation- has achieved a similar aesthetic effect.

The Northman offers a really interesting take on the idea of world history- or rather ‘world storytelling'- as a repository of modern identity. Princeton professor Martin Puchner’s forthcoming book, Literature for a Changing Planet, examines the relationship between human narratives and the earth’s climate- starting from tales of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, and Homer’s Cyclopes, as examples of how storytelling smoothed the transition from primeval hunter-gatherer societies, to the sedentary, ‘civilised’ man who loves beer, his job, and a good shag. Stay with me, stay with me.

Robert Eggers has carved a name for himself, at the age of only 38, as a sort of fusion Boys Own Adventure and JD Salinger-type ‘visionary director’. The Northman- an uncharacteristically high budget, “macho” blockbuster, billed as ‘this generation’s Gladiator’ with a slew of 300-esque, rippling six pack poster shoots that one can smell from their esconscements astride various bus shelters- corroborates Puchner’s view of world literature as a chaotic, continuous churn of stories intended to justify man’s ridiculous modern condition. With its all star cast, straddling hardcore Scändï ïndïe (Björk), Netflix indie (Anya Taylor-Joy), Scändï söftcöre smüt (Alexander Skarsgård), Höllywööd not-really-indie (Nicole Kidman, Ethan Hawke), and widely loved charismatic wackjob Willem Dafoe, Eggers’ marriage of the infamous Danish prince and the lore of the American alt-right rests, at least, in safe hands.

Personally, I would recommend seeing The Northman alone, unless you have either a friend or an iron will capable of muffling the squawks of indignation, affront, and begrudging concupiscence which it will inevitably provoke. The ‘Playmobil arthouse’ label- arising from Eggers’ name-making period horrors such as The Witch (2015) and The Lighthouse (2019), which also forged his partnerships with then-nascent Anya Taylor-Joy and established gremlin Willem Dafoe- does much to capture the director’s filmmaking tactics. And yet, Eggers’ grab bag of flatulence, bosoms, and Horrible Histories-esque period music stings can’t be faulted for efficiently reanimating an ancient tale of vengeance and lust.

To some degree, Eggers’ stratospheric success- and that of his creative partners, including formerly Twilight-tarnished R-Patz, as well as then-unknown ATJ- has stemmed from turning shame into swagger. Who else could dive into the traditional wellsprings of manly cringe- mummy issues! having emotions! reading books! Jung!!- and alchemise them into cultural capital? Mummy issues are cringe; artfully nude Anya Taylor-Joy recumbent in a forest copse, spewing a Russian accent atrocious enough to make a sixties Bond girl blush, is universal.

In this sense, Mssr. Eggers may follow in the ancient, dusty footsteps of his clay-tablet-scratching forefathers, using a familiar storytelling medium to usher in a new world order. In this case, mixing various vernaculars- Shakespeare, Wagnerian Nazism, Hollywood war propaganda, 70s Euro-softcore- The Northman sets out its own irritating but accurate vision of modern-day masculinity.

One could probably review The Northman without the angle of the Capitol storming, and the infamous spectre of its Viking-helmeted ‘Q-anon shaman’. I will not exercise such restraint. In fact, I would argue that it’s impossible to understand how a 2.5 hour orgy of farts, longboats, and horse decapitation got made- serially busting its initial $65 million dollar budget, to the ultimate tune of around $90 mill- without an understanding of this audience.

The Northman depicts the epic tribulations of Prince Amleth (Skarsgård), a prince who finds greatness thrust upon him in 895 AD when his sweaty, war-mongering father King Aurvandill (Hawke) gets skewered by emo bastard uncle Fjölnir (Claes Bang) before his very eyes. The Hamlet allusions remain mercifully veiled until Amleth’s mother, Queen Gudrún (Nicole Kidman, sporting a Tyson Perry-worthy wig) starts murmuring his name with all the dramatic and linguistic nuance of the Muppets’ Swedish Chef.

The Gladiator analogy proves fruitful here, along with the UK-specific Horrible Histories comparison. Many Western countries, in their current and much-remarked identity crisis, have struggled with the barbarity of a supposedly glorious past. How can a god-fearing Christian nation claim to be ‘developed’ when the uncomfortable, barbarous ghosts of their native past slosh ominously below tube lines and bank developments? Easy: by transforming them into mass, spectacular entertainment. Just as the epics of Ancient Greece and Mesopotamia helped to ease the jarring transition from a macho nomadic life to civilised yet rather pansyish one of “planting their goods from seed”, as Homer puts it, Eggers neatly bridges a disgusting reality and a sense of contemporary purpose- a magical lineage, illustrated in full schlocky CGI glory, backing the ideology not only of the mythical Amleth’s but delusional 4Channers across the Western Hemisphere.