Lamb / Dýrið

A pack of muscular horses are the only discernible thing in the freezing blizzard and the blinding white when something similar to a heavy breath surfaces from the hiss of the wind. But is that what we’ve really heard—a beastly grunt? Cut to the days of no nights of a nordic summer, the breathtaking views on the deserted nowhere, the day to day life in a remote barn and its little enchanted gestures like serving coffee from a thermos on the bonnet of a truck. The question remains suspended as the mysterious sound continues to echo, looming like a faint and menacing presence.
A folk horror, a dark fairy tale, an arthouse drama. Like its pivotal character, Lamb’s strange nature eludes any obvious definition. As an unimaginably excruciating grief is given an almost allegorical shape, an even more profound existential reflection unfolds in the background. But if on the one hand Lamb is elevated by its ambitious complexity, on the other it gives up digging deep enough, leaving all of its valuable points in a tangle of brilliant but largely unexplored intuitions.