Let the Sunshine In
The film’s confidence comes in part from the acceptance of the things that can’t be known.
Joachim Trier, who still holds his memories of Ebertfest and his placement on Roger's top ten lists near his heart, is a gift to obsessive cinephiles. The Danish director and his Norwegian co-writer Eskil Vogt have crafted some of the finest meditations on loneliness, family and community of the 21st century. "Reprise," "Oslo August 31st," and "Louder Than Bombs" are all time-shuffling marvels, passports into the deepest, darkest depths of suffering and isolation.
His latest, "Thelma," appears at first to be a bit of a departure. Gone are the whirling interiors, metaphorically and literally, replaced with anxious landscapes, where lone figures walk uncertainly towards darkness. There's a crispness and a stillness unlike anything Trier has yet produced, as he explores the pain of his hero, a girl who discovers burgeoning psychic distress buried inside her. I spoke to Trier about his icy sci-fi parable and his unique creative process.
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