The Hanging Sun: a frigid Norwegian chase thriller

• Reviewed from the 2022 Venice International Film Festival.

At the height of the Norwegian summer, there are days when the sun never sets. This phenomenon – labelled the ‘midnight sun’ – lends its name to the 2015 Jo Nesbø novel on which Francesco Carrozzini’s drama The Hanging Sun is based. It also resonates in the permanent exposure that highlights the play on darkness and light at the centre of this story about an emotionally tortured man seeking refuge in a land where night never comes.

The man in question is John (Alessandro Borghi), the son of a ruthless crime boss. When guilt begins to cloud his ability to engage in violence, John decides to cut off ties with his blood-soaked family. The family, however, is not on board with his decision, so a chase ensues. John flees to a secluded town nestled in the mighty Norwegian mountains, his rage-filled brother and father not far off his trail.

The stillness of the Norwegian Sea is initially mirrored in the rhythms of the ultra-religious community where John ends up. The townspeople spend their days between the one-stop shop where one can get a brand new tyre while picking up a pint of milk and the modest church run by Pastor Jacob (a painfully one-note Charles Dance).

Jacob’s daughter, Lea (Jessica Brown Findlay), is John’s unlikely landlady. Recently widowed, the young woman finds solace in seeing her son, Caleb (Raphael Vicas), rapidly warm up to the stranger, the former hitman a much more qualified father figure than the abusive drunk she once called a husband.

Carrozzini observes the quiet blossoming of these concurrent relationships through early-morning boat rides placed against breathtaking views of the Nordic shores. The same boats that deliver certain characters to their untimely demise carry a new lease of life through fleeting moments of calm companionship. It is unfortunate, then, that it all feels so emotionally frigid. The film’s contrived nature veers far too close to the murky territory of parody, particularly noticeable whenever the film attempts to build on its lacklustre game of cat and mouse. Characters are given names and woes, yet seem to be shallow vessels, the usually excellent Borghi (here deprived of the comfort of his mother tongue) stunted by the walking jumble of clichés that constitutes John. If they’d been used sparingly, the poignant juxtapositions of polar sunrises and heartfelt musings on guilt might have evoked more than a glimpse of empathy. Alas, vapidly persisting with its own hoary tropes, The Hanging Sun is all too evanescent.