While art has become increasingly secular as times have progressed and the importance of the church in day-to-day life has diminished, it remains a perpetual theme for many artists, who may not may works that outwardly celebrate the power of faith, but rather look at it in different ways, whether the history of religion or how the belief in any specific deity can impact one’s life. It often leads to fascinating and very compelling conversations without the creative sphere, because even at its most detailed, stories of belief are as much about psychology and culture as they are about the concept of faith itself, which is why it is vitally important to distinguish religious films and films that just so happen to use religion as their primary theme. An exceptional example in recent years comes on behalf of Hlynur Pálmason, whose masterful Godland (Vanskabte Land in Danish and Volaða land in Icelandic, both being used within the film itself, giving us a very clear idea of what this story will cover) returns us to the era of the religious epic, focusing on the experiences of a young, ambitious Danish priest tasked with setting sail to Iceland (which was still heavily under the governance of Denmark at the time) in what was supposed to be a very simple, conventional act of missionary service, he intends to oversee the construction of a small chapel, only to find his journey made more complicated by a few factors, such as hostile locals who are not particularly enamoured with religious invasion, and the destructive forces of nature that can be challenging for those who are not prepared. As one of the most prominent and exciting young names in contemporary Scandinavian cinema (particularly in his native Iceland, which has not received nearly enough attention as a filmmaking nation), Godland is an immense achievement, an intricately-woven, magnificent historical odyssey that feels like a return of those large-scale epics that see heroic individuals venturing off into the unknown and undergoing a voyage of self-discovery in the process, combined with a very unique, complex examination of the psychological state of these people. It is undeniably one of the year’s most extraordinary achievements, a film that examines far more than it promised at the start, leaving us with a detailed and captivating account of the past and its many complexities.

At the most fundamental level, Godland is a film about the past, as seen through the eyes of an impressionable young pastor, who possesses a positive, audacious perspective at the start of the film, but eventually finds himself growing not only more outwardly cynical but also losing a lot of his faith, which he previously held onto with the fervour of any young person who has not had their passion eroded by the harsh realities of life. Pálmason is not setting out to make a film that celebrates religion as an institution – he may not be blatantly cynical about the broken promises that come with faith in a benevolent god, but he is also not interested in a conventional account of someone struggling to hold onto their belief when confronted by major challenges, which seem to be on the precipice of turning him away from his faith entirely. Instead, this film takes the form of a deeply introspective character study, a story driven by culture in various forms. The director offers his interpretation of a snapshot of a particular period in the past – as the prologue to this film states, Godland was inspired by the discovery of a set of early photographs taken through a collodion process (a rudimentary form of photography, otherwise known as wet plate photography), supposedly taken by a Lutheran priest as he explored the unchartered territory of 19th century Iceland, having been sent there as a missionary – we don’t know much else about this priest, whether it be his particular experiences there or ultimately his fate (for which this film takes many liberties), and all we know are the few simple but stunning images that he took in the process of documenting his experiences in this beautiful part of the world, at a time when it was relatively untouched by the wider world. There is an abundance of historical significance embedded in this film, but Pálmason is uninterested in unearthing every cultural detail that bears relevance – Godland was not intended to be some sweeping, definitive examination of the conflict between Denmark and Iceland at this particular moment, but rather a meditation on some of its deeper themes, exploring the relationship between the sacrosanct nature of dogmatic belief, and the psychology that goes into establishing a connection between those who allow their faith to guide their path, and those who are more cynical to such approaches, and how the progress of time can sometimes create a collision between the two polar extremes, which seems to be the primary narrative thread that ties this film together and makes it such an extraordinary and compassionate investigation into the past, and its enormous correlations with the present.

Much of what has driven Godland to a place of near-universal acclaim comes in the form of the visual approach taken to bring this story to life. Many may argue that it is the actual technical filmmaking that is the main attraction here, and this is certainly a difficult sentiment to argue against since it is an extraordinarily well-made film. The story of a priest setting off to build a chapel could have been effective on a shoestring budget, especially since Pálmason’s screenplay is undeniably strong enough to be riveting even without the gorgeous visuals. However, this is a film that emphasizes the power of nature, and the director goes off in search of the most beautiful, untouched landscapes, which he carefully reconfigures to reflect the past (and it is a massive benefit to this film that Iceland has been active about preserving their natural resources, refusing to allow every inch of their island to be overtaken by commercial properties, acknowledging the importance of nature, both ecologically and culturally), and explore the deeper themes that punctuate this film. Godland is not a film solely about the process of introducing religion into a new environment – if anything, the film actively works against this concept, ultimately using the concept of faith as only an overarching theme, rather than the driving force behind the narrative. The focus is instead on capturing the environment being explored by the protagonist, as well as the people who populate it, which leads to the many powerful interactions, nearly all of which take place in the most gorgeous settings imaginable. The artistry present in this film establishes a particular tone – there’s a vividness to the story that develops as a result of the film’s active engagement with certain themes, and coupled with the gorgeous work by Maria von Hausswolff (whose cinematography is by far the most impressive of the past year – it’s almost bewildering to imagine that everything we see in this film was natural, rather than being manufactured specifically for this production), it becomes almost overwhelming in its grandeur, which is only intensified by the realization that this is all authentic and that some parts of our world still manage to look like they have been untouched by society. This ultimately is all woven into one of the film’s major thematic principles, which is the beauty and brutality of nature, since, despite its incredible and undeniable splendour, this terrain is not easy to navigate, both physically and psychologically, which becomes the foundation for much of the tension present in this film, which serves to create an atmosphere of astonishing tension within these beautiful settings, adding layers onto an already complex film.

While we may be overwhelmed with emotion and wonder after seeing the pure visual mastery that went into the creation of this film, what tends to linger the most are not the glorious landscapes or stunning imagery, but the human element that accompanies it. Without such an anchor, it is highly unlikely that Godland would have been nearly as impressive. The actors tasked with bringing these roles to life are extraordinary, and the director plucks them from various sources, some of them being newcomers to the industry, others seasoned veterans who have spent years honing the craft of acting on stage and screen. The two central roles are occupied by Elliott Crosset Hove (who is more of a novice) and Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson, the latter a legendary figure in Icelandic theatre and cinema, known for his extraordinary commitment to his roles, and his ability to blend into any character, granted the material gives him enough to work with in the process of developing his performance. Both actors are exceptional – this is not a film that relies on hysterics or outward bursts of traditional emotion. Instead, the performances are far more subtle and detailed in their construction, both on behalf of Pálmason, who writes two very strong characters, and the actors themselves, who inhabit these parts and make them feel like such fully-formed, interesting individuals, rather than thin archetypes designed to add a human component to a story more driven by the splendour of the natural world. Both actors are excellent, and bring such depth and humanity to these challenging parts – it’s often difficult for even the most gifted actors to portray this level of subtlelty and intricate detail without feeling like they are being enveloped by the broader themes of the film, but both Hove and Sigurðsson hold their own, and deliver solid, meaningful performances that are beautifully simple and extraordinarily layered, adding a sense of realism to characters that are supposed to represent the figures in the past that set the foundation for future generations, the conflict between the characters being foundational to the story, and an invaluable quality that Pálmason draws on in telling this powerful and poignant story that aims to be a detailed and quietly complex portrayal of the human condition, as shown through an immensely natural and raw perspective.

Considering the themes at the heart of Godland, it feels appropriate that the best way to describe the film is as a religious experience, not in the sense that it makes us feel the penance and piety that normally form the foundation of the church’s dogma, but rather the splendour and pure wonder at peering into the natural world and viewing it in its most untouched, natural form, which is overwhelming even when just shown on film (I cannot imagine the accumulation of pure emotions that would sweep over someone when seeing these landscapes in real life), which is not a trait that should be underestimated at all. The spectre of Carl Theodor Dreyer and Ingmar Bergman looms heavily over this film, at least in terms of the combination of bleak, forthright honesty with an almost ethereal sense of wonder and curiosity that comes not from surrendering to the power of some unseen deity, but rather through questioning the world that surrounds you, coming to terms with the realities that encompass our everyday lives, and focusing on the development of one’s own identity, which can sometimes be lost in a vocation where you are perceived as not being an individual, but rather an earthly vessel of some celestial force, which can cause one to have an existential crisis should they realize the meaninglessness of such endeavours, or start to doubt the veracity of such subjects. Godland is a quiet film in which the boldest and most ambitious statements are not proclaimed loudly, but rather conveyed in the many striking minutes of silence that occur throughout the film, often building to an emotional crescendo, after which our interpretation begins to come into play as we form a deep and meaningful relationship with this film. Godland is a masterful achievement – a gentle but forceful film that is deeply committed to capturing the spirit of a time and place, one that is too distant in the past for any of us to lay claim to having experienced, but yet so much survives from this period for us to understand the way people lived their lives. This is ultimately the purpose of Godland, a beautifully poetic and deeply meaningful manifesto on the very nature of what makes us human.