A
version of this review appeared in The Age,
August 2, 2012.
These
days, any old Scandinavian crime story can apparently be marketed
as quality product to the international public. This gruesome
anecdote devised by the bestselling Norwegian writer Jo Nesbo in
collaboration with director Magnus Martens is a unusually dreary
example.
After
a massacre at a strip club, the chief suspect, Oscar (Kyrre Hellum),
is brought in for questioning. In a series of flashbacks, Oscar
tells his tale to the eccentric Detective Solor (Henrik Mestad),
whose high forehead, intent gaze and faint resemblance to Conan
O'Brien create a false expectation of pratfalls just round the
corner.
Actually
there is a certain amount of knockabout comedy in the film, mostly
involving corpses and severed body parts. Oscar turns out to
work for a recycling plant that specialises in employing former
crooks, not all of them successfully reformed. When he and his
mates share a big win on the seasonal football pools, there are some
predictably heated discussions about how to split the loot – and
soon it's every man for himself.
When
a film has to fall back on blatant padding to get near to ninety
minutes, you know there's trouble. While the plot might do for
a short film, it never becomes interesting or complex enough for a
feature. Like a lesser Danny Boyle, Martens relies mainly on
advertising shorthand to convey situation and character: the blokes
celebrate their short-lived triumph by showering in beer and leaping
up and down while stripped to the waist.
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