Utøya 22. Juli

U - July 22 is an extremely difficult film to judge. Based on the horrific events that occurred on Utøya island in Norway, were one man shot and murdered 69 people, most of them youngsters (in addition to being responsible for a bomb attack in Oslo earlier that day). Norway is quite a safe place to live, so that something as gruesome as that happened here is confusing, shocking and something that I'll never truly be able to understand. It's therefore a difficult film to judge because the events are still close to heart. It's, as I'm writing this, been close to seven years since the attacks, which kinda feels like no time has passed at all. So from the moment the film start, you've already brought in your feeling of sadness to the film.

But I do think this is a good film. I think its made with dignity and respect, and I think its importance come across very well. It's a film that we need in order for us to, if not fully, at least be able to understand a little bit about how it was like for the people who were trapped on Utøya during the shooting. How brutal, unforgiving, isolated and meaningless it all was. The film doesn't shy away from the brutality of it, and I'm glad that it didn't. It had to be brutal in order to convey the feeling of how it was like. It had to be violent in order for us to understand it. The film does a good job of translating the feeling to the viewers.

Shot entirely in one-take on the island itself with unknown actors and lasting exactly as long as the shooting actually did, the film feels as real as it possibly could have. There's not much focus on the perpetrator, yet his presence is felt throughout the entirety of the film. The loud and uncomfortable sound of shots being fired is constant and the shrieking of scared teens is uncomfortably present. The panic, confusion and anxiety is all over the place. There are no moments to rest, and the film is exhaustingly intense and difficult to watch. Once the film ended the cinema was filled with silence. No one made any noise and it was quite simply put a powerful experience.

There are certain moments in it that feels slightly artificial, though it's hard for me to know that for sure, as I wasn't there during the attack. Yet, some parts didn't fully convince me. This might be because some of the acting isn't the strongest. Which is a bit of the risque you run when shooting a film in one-take. Andrea Berntzen is however a star. Her performance is outstanding. The camera follows her throughout the entire film, and she perfectly manages to capture and convey every emotion you would imagine someone going through in a situation like that.

This is not a film for everyone, but for me, as a Norwegian, it's essential viewing due to how close it is. In a world where violence happens every day and we've somehow gotten used to reading about, a film like this is important. If only to make us understand a little bit more. If only to make us feel a lot more.

( Review also posted on Listal and letterboxd)

It was very heavy to watch. You get a look at the reality, what really happend. And you get to follow a caracter and see the panic that happend when all the shooting startet.

I was afraid to see this movie. But it's one of those cases where I felt I HAD to. I was inevitably drawn to it. I thought there was a risk of it being a little exploitative. But I looked at the cast list, and an actor cast as Breivik was nowhere to be found.

And as soon as you watch the movie, it makes perfect sense. Many of the campers didn't have a chance of seeing who the shooter was, and if they did they were most likely doomed. It makes the situation extremely scary, as there is no visible presentation of the threat. Just shots firing from a gun, with one person after the other getting hit...

I'm sorry, I'm getting too emotional. But it's really hard not to. I felt all the fear, all the dirt and sand and the uncertainty over whether someone was going to make it out alive or not. The fact that it's impossible to know the fate of any of the victims beforehand is particularly horrifying. There are no easy hiding places, not a spot where you can feel completely safe and sound.

It feels weird to point out the acting in a way, since never at any point in the movie did I notice I was watching people acting. But I still have to give props to the especially brilliant performance of Andrea Berntzen as Kaja. Even though her mission to find her sister is extremely dangerous, you understand it from her angle why she would do it. You can sense every heartbeat and emotion that she goes through as she finds herself witnessing things that once you've seen it, it's stuck in your mind forever.

I was bawling my eyes red at the end of it. It's unbelievable that such a tragedy struck a country like Norway, at a nice and homely island, the place where you would least expect something like this to ever occur.

Yes, it's "just" a movie. But this is the closest you will possibly come to experiencing a tragedy at an isolated resort. As horrible as watching it play out in great detail was, be as grateful as you can it never happened to you. And to all the brave people who survived, stay strong and live your lives as happily as you can.

I'd already watched Paul Greengrass' film 22 July. Despite Utoya July 22 being about the same atrocity, you could not get 2 different films. Whilst Greengrass gave Brevik a platform and invited viewers to try and comprehend his actions, perhaps in an attempt to learn and move on, Erik Poppe's Utoya instead focuses entirely on the victims - the young Labour Party members camping on the island. In a poignant start to the film, the main lead, Kaja, looks directly into the camera and says "you'll never understand" (it turns out she's talking to her mum on the phone).

There is some debate as to whether either of these films should've been made at all. As harrowing as they are, I think they both have their place in trying to enhance our understanding of the horror of terrorist attacks such as these.

In a very clever piece of technical direction, it looks like the film is shot 'live' in one single take to mirror the horror of the 72 minutes of the young people's terrifying ordeal, whilst Brevik was attacking them.

Did I enjoy the film? No. Am I pleased I watched it? Yes. Would I recommend it? Most certainly. Does it, along with Greengrass' July 22, enhance our understanding? The jury's out. 7 out of ten

Utøya 22. juli is an aesthetically fascinating, pseudo-documentarian examination of the 2011 Utøya massacre, told from the perspective of one of the youths trapped on the island. Decidedly different from Paul Greengrass's recently released Netflix film, 22. Juli (2018), the makers of Utøya 22. juli have little interest in political contextualisation. Comparisons are, of course, inevitable, but what's interesting is that Greengrass isn't overly interested in the massacre itself, focusing instead on the repercussions and subsequent trial, attempting to explicate some of the far-right political motivations. In this sense, Utøya 22. juli and 22 July complement one another in such a way as to provide a reasonably inclusive overview of the motives, the act, and the punishment. Where Utøya 22. juli is especially laudable, however, is in its extraordinary aesthetic design, which elevates it from a fine film to a superb one.

Written by Anna Bache-Wiig and Siv Rajendram Eliassen, from a story treatment by Erik Poppe, who also directs, Utøya 22. juli is based exclusively on the testimony of survivors, but the characters are fictional. The film begins with the detonation of a bomb in Oslo. It then jumps to the Workers' Youth League summer camp on the island of Utøya. As word of the Oslo bombing slowly starts to filter through, we are introduced to Kaja (an extraordinary Andrea Berntzen), a 19-year-old with political aspirations. As the students discuss the bombing, they hear strange noises coming from the forest. Initially believing them to be firecrackers, it is only when terrified campers start rushing from the trees that they realise the noise is gunfire, and it's getting progressively closer.

Both the bombing and the Utøya attack were carried out by Anders Behring Breivik, a right-wing terrorist. Believing that Europe is currently experiencing a Clash of Civilisations, brought about by immigration and the various refugee crises, Breivik saw himself as a knight fighting against Muslim immigration. The Oslo bomb killed eight and injured 209, and the subsequent Utøya attack left 69 dead and 110 injured.

Although dealing with a politically motivated incident Utøya 22. juli is a relatively apolitical film, and has little interest in contextualising the event within a larger socio-political framework. It is instead a homage to the young people. In filtering the event through Kaja, Poppe is able to narrativise it.

Of course, it could be argued that using a fictional protagonist is disrespectful. However, the film was made in consultation with numerous survivors of the massacre, and speaking to The Guardian, Poppe states, "my overall aim by making the film was not to traumatise people, but to help the healing process." In this sense, rather than proving exploitative, the film is instead both necessary and cathartic. Indeed, private screenings were held around Norway to which survivors and families and friends of victims were invited, and Poppe sought their approval before releasing it.

However, the film is not entirely apolitical. The opening and closing legends both cite far-right thinking, and Poppe makes certain we know this is a condemnation of such an ideology. However, he wisely chooses not to ram this condemnation down our throats, nor even to foreground it. Perhaps the most salient political point in the film is that we are forced to see in specifics an incident which we tend to think of as an abstraction; it's one thing to say 69 people died. It's disassociated, depersonalised, a statistic. However, it's something else entirely to see some of those people die. In this sense, the film is an exceptionally effective condemnation of gun violence.

Related to this is an aesthetic point that bleeds into the political; Breivik, is seen only once, from a great distance, silhouetted against the horizon. Instead of showing him, the film is rigidly tied to Kaja's perspective throughout. In the wake of the real event, the 69 dead and the hundreds of injured and traumatised were anonymous, with Breivik occupying all the headlines. The film inverts this so that we focus on the victims, with the perpetrator denied any agency. Recalling how Terrence Malick initially introduces the Japanese soldiers in Der schmale Grat (1998), Breivik is not afforded any kind of pathology, interiority, or psychological verisimilitude. Instead, he is disembodied. In fact, his name is never mentioned once, not even in the opening or closing legends. Instead, he is a more obvious presence in Gisle Tveito's sound design than Martin Otterbeck's cinematography. Primarily, this consists of the constant gunfire heard throughout the film. With no score or soundtrack to punctuate the story beats, the never-ending cracking of gunfire has a cumulatively oppressive and terrifying effect, disorientating both characters and audience.

Aesthetically, however, the film is exemplary beyond its sound design. For example, in reality, from the time of the first gun-shot to Breivik's arrest, 72 minutes passed. In the film, from the time we hear the first gunshot to the film cutting to black, exactly 72 minutes pass. Additionally, we hear the exact same number of gunshots as Breivik fired in real-life, 186. However, where it is most audacious is that the 72-minute sequence is made to look like a single-shot, with the edits hidden, à la Birdman oder (Die unverhoffte Macht der Ahnungslosigkeit) (2014). The film was shot in one take on five successive days, acting out the same scenario each day. Poppe and his editor, Einar Egeland, then edited extracts from each day together, hiding the cuts behind camera movement or darkness on screen. Coupled with this, everything is filmed hand-held, eschewing the pseudo-stability given by the use of a Steadicam.

Together, the hand-held nature of the cinematography, the single-shot effect, and the real-time structure work to establish a pseudo-documentarian verisimilitude, as if the camera is literally capturing these events as they are really happening in a cinéma vérité manner. In this sense, the fabula is as unmediated as possible, without any impression of either an omnipresent artifice, or an omniscient authorial voice.

Instead, the film works to inculcate the viewer into the event. This creates a prominent experiential plane, as the audience is made to consider what it must have been like to be involved in this nightmare - we see and share the panic as the characters peer out from behind cover, race to get to safety, or collapse onto the ground. In this way, the film avoids being exciting in any conventional sense; what we are witnessing is instead deeply traumatic, and the experience for a viewer is an ordeal, almost an endurance test. Rarely has the artifice of a single-take been this thematically justified. Rather than the single-take structure serving as its own rationale, Poppe uses it to subvert genre expectations and defamiliarise the narrative, all in the name of preventing the audience from attaining any comforting sense of normality.

A final point on the film's aesthetic design concerns the opening few seconds of the 72-minute sequence, which begins with a superbly conceived bit of visual trickery that, like everything else in the film, is thematically justified. As the camera approaches Kaja from behind, she turns around and looks directly into the lens, saying "You'll never understand." This seems a challenge as much as an assertion, directed at the audience, in a breaking of the fourth wall. However, after a moment, she turns her head and we see she is wearing an earpiece. It then quickly becomes apparent that she's talking to her mother, and her comment was diegetic - when she looked into the camera, she wasn't addressing the audience, it was simply the direction in which she was looking. This simple but effective moment knocks the audience immediately off balance, alerting us to the artifice of the film in an almost Verfremdungseffekt, before then shifting 180 degrees away from that apparent moment of self-reflexivity and immersing us completely into the fabula.

Of course, the film is not perfect, and Poppe does misjudge a couple of elements. For example, the tragedy on display is, in and of itself, overwhelming, and for the most part, he remains detached. However, on occasion, he does feel the need to foreground sentimental aspects which don't work. The most egregious example is when Kaja starts singing whilst hiding with a fellow student. It's a mawkish scene (really, all its lacking is a "Cry now" prompt), it doesn't accomplish anything, and it comes across as deliberately scripted, a concession to the rules of cinematic drama. Another issue is that because Kaja is a composite of several people, her experiences are used by the filmmakers to give the viewer something of an overview. However, for one person to encounter so many characters and have such varying experiences does strain credibility a tad.

However, these are minor criticisms, and overall, this is a superb film, as aesthetically inventive as it is emotionally devastating, as politically aware as it is historically important. It will be sure to prompt debate about whether such an event should be used to provide the source material for a film, especially this soon after the fact. Some will argue it's fundamentally exploitative and disrespectful, others will see it as a dignified memorial, a vital text for Norway, capturing the essence of the most traumatic event the country has experienced since World War II. The last three or four minutes are utterly devastating, and really drive home the senseless loss of life and innate randomness of what happened. However, Poppe's main goal is to show the audience the bravery of these people, to honour them. Evil, the film suggests, is banal. Compassion and valour are much more worthy of our attention.