Of all the actors launched into stardom by the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sebastian Stan has proven himself the most daring and versatile. And two years after his extraordinary turns in A Different Man and as a young Donald Trump in The Apprentice (the latter of which earned him an Oscar nomination), he reconfirms his A-list bona fides with Fjord.
As a father whose life is torn apart when he and his wife are accused of a heinous crime that’s complicated by their status as outsiders in their new home country, the 44-year-old actor (sporting a bald head, beard, and glasses that render him practically unrecognizable) is a marvel of pent-up fury, frustration, confusion, and fundamentalist belief.
The epicenter of a moral drama that poses prickly questions it astutely refuses to answer, he delivers a tour-de-force in a film that—premiering on September 10 at the Toronto International Film Festival—stands as one of the year’s undisputed highlights.
The second feature by Romanian auteur Cristian Mungiu to win the Cannes Film Festival’s Palme d’Or (following 2007’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days), Fjord—inspired by real events—is a story about freedom and its limits. Romanian-born Mihai Gheorghiu (Stan) and his Norwegian wife Lisbet (Renate Reinsve) relocate their clan to a small Norwegian town that lies beneath a mountain whose avalanches are of little urgent anxiety to a citizenry that’s learned to live with the threat of sudden annihilation.
Mihai and Lisbet are less prepared for out-of-the-blue calamity, so they’re shocked and horrified when, after ensconcing themselves in this community, they’re informed that their children are being taken from them due to suspicion that they’ve been abused.
This is a profound blow to the couple, whose love for their five kids—including eldest daughter Elia (Vanessa Ceban) and son Emmanuel (Jonathan Ciprian Breazu)—is as intense as their devotion to their Christian faith. Mungiu introduces his characters patiently, with the camera moving alongside and between them as they acclimate to their surroundings.
For Elia and Emmanuel, that involves a budding friendship with rebellious neighbor and classmate Noora (Henrikke Lund-Olsen), whose father Mats (Markus Tønseth) is the headmaster at their school and the boss of Mihai, who’s taken a job that’s considerably beneath his aeronautics-engineer talents. Lisbet, meanwhile, works at a local senior center, even as she befriends Mats’ ex-attorney wife, Mia (Lisa Carlehed), whose father-in-law, Ake (Øyvind Venstad Kjeksrud), is in failing health.
Noora’s feelings for Elia rub her close friend the wrong way and subtly raise Mihai’s eyebrows, and Mungiu laces his early going with hints about the frictions to come, such as a brief instance in which Mihai is casually scolded for playing “Amazing Grace” on a cafeteria piano (it’s apparently proselytizing).
Mats’ occasional comments about the Gheorghius’ strict religion, as well as others’ offhand remarks about the fact that their kids aren’t allowed to dance or use the internet (and think homosexuality is a sin), are additional signs that the area’s progressivism only extends so far. Thus, Mihai and Lisbet’s plight almost immediately comes across as a manifestation of more than just concerns about domestic violence.
The catalysts for this dawning nightmare are bruises spied on Elia’s cheek and shoulder by a gym teacher, as well as the girl’s subsequent statement that her parents are sometimes physical with her and her siblings.
From the get-go, however, getting a coherent beat on what’s precisely taken place is made difficult by language barriers; between differing native tongues and the use of English, Romanian, and Norwegian, it’s unclear if hitting, kicking, or “butt” slapping (i.e. spanking) is a facet of Mihai and Lisbet’s parenting. Moreover, the mother and father’s attempts to exonerate themselves, or even object to their children’s unceremonious placement in foster care, lead to simply additional warnings and threats.
Mungiu’s trademark handheld camerawork creates intimacy and reflects angst and terror in Fjord. Along with his familiar decision not to use a score, his visual use of windows (as virtual portals and barriers) and doorways (to underscore isolation and constriction) deftly amplifies the taut atmosphere.
Fjord is a car crash occurring in what feels like real time, and its power comes not solely from the apparent callousness of the Child Protective Services agents who come for Mihai and Lisbet, but the mounting impression—which crescendos during their civil trial to regain custody of their brood—that they’re being persecuted as much for their spiritual beliefs as for any supposed assaults.
Mungiu roots Fjord in a thicket of judgment and condemnation that critically investigates both the supposed compassion and tolerance that the Norwegians espouse (and claim to be upholding by looking out for the children’s “best interests”) and, just as sharply, the unconventional conservative lifestyle and convictions of the Gheorghius.
Mihai and Lisbet’s guilt (or innocence) is up for debate throughout this riveting drama, and that ambiguity creates snowballing tension once the couple realizes that they face not only losing their offspring to Child Protective Services but, catastrophically, literal jail time in a criminal trial that hinges on Mihai’s (somewhat coerced) confession.
Contempt and contrition, censure and selflessness, help form Fjord’s tangled tapestry of pain, prejudice, and extremism, and Stan and Reinsve are all the more gripping for not fully exposing their characters’ true hearts and minds. There’s a guarded quality to Mihai and Lisbet that speaks to both their asceticism and also to their potential culpability, and Mungiu neither damns nor exonerates them.
Instead, he gets up-close-and-personal with their tormented visages: Mihai’s filled with pent-up rage and frustration that compels him to enlist the aid of right-wing compatriots; Lisbet’s stoic and petrified, even when lawyer Mia agrees to represent them. The leads so deftly balance a stew of tormented emotions that, especially in the courtroom-centric second half, they turn the proceedings into a mysterious and tragic examination of the boundaries of acceptable behavior (and caregiving) in modern liberal society.
Doubt is omnipresent in Fjord, but Stan’s performance is not up for debate: a tightly wound, immaculately composed masterclass in revealing just enough to elicit empathy (and scorn) while staying cagey enough to keep audiences guessing. In such a scary mess, there’s no hope for resolution—merely a series of outcomes that are bound to leave everyone permanently scarred. For Stan, though, Mungiu’s film is a high-water mark in a career increasingly full of triumphs.
