Kraken

The Abyssal Mirror

There is a specific, quiet dread that belongs to the Norwegian fjord—that sensation of being a speck floating above a cold, bottomless dark where the sun’s reach simply gives up. In *Kraken*, director Pål Øie (joined by cinematographer-turned-co-director Sjur Aarthun) taps into this primal vertigo, delivering a film that is less about a tentacled spectacle and more about the crushing weight of ecological hubris. It is a creature feature, yes, but one that wears its genre trappings like a wet wool sweater: heavy, uncomfortable, and smelling faintly of something ancient and rot-ridden.



Øie has spent a career orbiting the disaster genre (most notably with *The Tunnel*), but here he pivots from the mechanical to the mythical. The film introduces us to Johanne (a stoic, fragile Sara Khorami), a marine biologist returning to the rural community of Vangsnes. She is there to audit a fish farm, but the real rot isn't in the salmon; it’s in the silence of the locals and the aggressive ambition of an aquaculture company using sonic technology to "optimize" production.

Visually, *Kraken* is stunningly claustrophobic. Aarthun’s cinematography treats the fjord not as a scenic backdrop, but as a hostile entity. The camera often lingers at the waterline, splitting the frame between the grey, indifferent sky and the murky green void beneath. The visual language here is oppressive; the mountains don't cradle the village, they imprison it. One particularly haunting sequence involves a remotely operated underwater vehicle (ROV) slowly descending into the black. As the depth counter ticks up and the light fades, the film achieves a suffocating tension that no amount of CGI explosions could replicate. We are not waiting for a jump scare; we are waiting for the realization that we are trespassing.



The film’s heart beats in the conflict between industry and folklore. The monster itself—the legendary Kraken—is wisely kept in the periphery for much of the runtime. When it does appear, it is less a movie monster and more a manifestation of nature’s immune response. The script draws a sharp, painful line between the "optimization" of nature for profit and the chaotic, uncontrollable reality of the wild. Johanne’s struggle isn't just to survive the beast, but to survive the realization that her own scientific community’s arrogance rang the dinner bell.

Sara Khorami anchors the film with a performance that avoids the hysterical tropes often assigned to women in horror. Her Johanne is tired, intelligent, and burdened by a past that mirrors the deep scars of the landscape. When the destruction comes, she doesn't turn into an action hero; she remains a scientist trying to categorize a catastrophe that defies data.

*Kraken* is not a perfect film; its third act stumbles slightly as it feels the need to satisfy the blockbuster requirements of "man vs. beast" action, losing some of the atmospheric dread built in the first hour. However, it succeeds where so many modern creature features fail: it respects its monster. It doesn't treat the Kraken as "content" for a franchise, but as a reminder that there are still places on this map marked *Here Be Dragons*, and perhaps they should stay that way. It is a wet, cold, and effective warning that if you shout into the abyss long enough, something will eventually come up to silence you.