Una grapples with grief while harbouring a secret, unable to fully express her emotions, as she navigates challenging events swirling around her.
In When The Light Breaks, director Rúnar Rúnarsson crafts a meditative exploration of grief, allowing the audience to experience the quiet, often unspoken, emotions that accompany sudden loss. The film's narrative unfolds over a single, seemingly ordinary day, yet the emotional journey it takes us on is anything but simple. Rúnarsson’s decision to set the story within this compressed time frame heightens the intensity of the characters' experiences, as they navigate the complex web of emotions that arise from tragedy.
The film's premise is deceptively straightforward, but its simplicity is its strength. We follow Una (Elín Hall), a young woman grappling with the unexpected death of her lover, as she is forced to confront the reality of her situation. Her grief is compounded by the fact that her relationship with the deceased was a secret, overshadowed by his official partner, Klara (Katla Njálsdóttir). The story delves into how Una processes—or struggles to process—her grief, and how external factors and relationships shape, delay, or even repress her emotional response.
One of the most striking aspects of When The Light Breaks is its pervasive quietness. This is a film that understands the power of silence in conveying the depth of human emotion. There is very little dialogue, and the sparse use of music—a single, repetitive piece that echoes throughout the film—further amplifies the sense of stillness. The silence becomes a character in itself, creating an atmosphere where the audience is left to sit with their own thoughts and emotions, much like the protagonist.
This quietude is reflective of the sensory dulling that often accompanies traumatic events. Rúnarsson uses this to great effect, blocking out sound and narrowing the visual space to mirror the internal experience of his characters. The film's quietness is not merely an absence of noise, but a deliberate choice that allows the viewer to focus on the subtle, often imperceptible shifts in emotion. The sound of breathing, the rustle of fabric, the distant hum of the environment—these become the soundtrack to the characters' internal worlds, drawing the audience deeper into their experience.
At its core, When The Light Breaks is a film about grief—sudden, unexpected, and profoundly disorienting. The narrative explores the different ways people approach loss, and how grief can manifest in various forms. Una's grief is complicated by the secrecy of her relationship, leaving her to mourn in isolation, unable to fully express or share her pain. This isolation is juxtaposed with Klara's more public mourning, creating a tension that the film navigates with sensitivity and nuance.
Rúnarsson does not push the audience to feel a certain way; rather, he allows the film to unfold naturally, using moments of emptiness and tranquility to create space for the audience's own emotions. The film's contemplative nature invites viewers to reflect on their own experiences of loss and the ways in which grief can connect us, even in the most unexpected of circumstances.
The dynamic between Una and Klara is central to the film's emotional landscape. Initially, their relationship is marked by rivalry and jealousy—Una is devastated not only by the loss of her lover but also by the fact that she cannot openly grieve. The denial of her "rightful" grief is a source of deep pain, as she watches Klara receive the sympathy and support that she herself craves. Yet, as the film progresses, this tension gives way to an unexpected bond between the two women. Their shared grief becomes a bridge, allowing them to connect on a level that transcends their previous animosity.
The film's visual aesthetic, captured by cinematographer Sophia Olsson, is a study in contrasts—intimate yet expansive, grounded yet ethereal. Olsson’s compositions are strikingly beautiful, often lingering on details that might otherwise go unnoticed. The camera moves with a gentle, almost dreamlike quality, tracking along familiar paths or panning into new environments with a sense of quiet curiosity. This approach mirrors the film’s exploration of grief, which often feels like a journey through both familiar and uncharted emotional landscapes.
Rúnarsson also plays with the concept of flight and movement, both literal and metaphorical. The idea of travelling—whether it be flying into the heavens or moving through different stages of grief—is a recurring motif throughout the film. This is reflected in the camera work, which often mimics the sensation of flight, giving the viewer a sense of being carried along on the characters’ emotional journeys.
The film’s ethereal choral music, composed by Jóhann Jóhannsson, adds another layer of emotion, heightening the sense of introspection that permeates the film. The music is used sparingly, allowing the silence to dominate, but when it does appear, it amplifies the emotional resonance of the scenes.
When The Light Breaks is a haunting reminder that grief is a universal experience, one that connects us all, regardless of our individual circumstances. The film suggests that everyone has a right to grieve in their own way, and that no one can dictate how another person should process their loss. This idea is reinforced by the evolving relationship between Una and Klara, whose shared sadness eventually washes away the barriers between them, leading to a tentative, yet genuine, understanding.
The film’s structure, divided into sections set in different locations, reflects the stages of the grieving process. Each new environment brings with it a shift in perspective, as the characters learn to navigate their loss in their own ways. Despite the simplicity of the narrative, there is a constant undercurrent of uncertainty and tension, as the characters wait—often in silence—for something to change, for some resolution to their pain.
When The Light Breaks is a film about hope. It is a celebration of life and the importance of finding beauty and meaning even in the midst of sorrow. Rúnarsson’s contemplative approach allows the audience to engage with the film on their own terms, making it a deeply personal experience. The film’s softness, its quiet grace, lingers long after the credits roll, leaving a lasting impression of the delicate balance between life and loss.
When the Light Breaks is one of 105 films screening as part of the Whānau Mārama New Zealand International Film Festival (NZIFF)
The full programme of 2024 films is outlined here.