There’s only a select number of international language films that break out in the United States every year, but the Norwegian thriller Armand has proven to be unexpectedly popular. After being shortlisted for the Academy Awards’ selections for the Best International Feature film category, Armand earned a surprise nomination at the Director’s Guild of America ceremony when Halfdan Ullmann Tøndel earned recognition in the Outstanding Directing for a First-Time Feature Film category. Armand isn’t as politically motivated as The Seed of the Sacred Fig, as aesthetically perfected as Vermiglio, as openly empathetic as All We Imagine As Light, or as deliriously entertaining as Kneecap.
The success of Armand may isn’t entirely related to the film’s entertainment value, as it’s difficult to imagine that even the most seasoned genre buff would enjoy this sordid tale of deception, abuse, and trauma. Armand may have caught the attention of the industry because of what an of bravery it is; this challenging study about the burden of proof within sensitive cases is defiant of social niceties, and is determined to incite controversy due to its focus on elementary education.
At the center of Armand is Renate Reinsve, the talented star who broke out in the romantic drama The Worst Person in the World, and also gave a great performance last year in the dark comedy A Different Man. She’s Elisabeth, a single mother who’s called to attend a meeting at her son’s school by the kind-hearted teacher Sunna (Thea Lambrechts Vaulen) and her domineering principal Jarle (Øystein Røger). It’s an ambush, as Elisabeth isn’t given any details about the meeting, other than it’s about an issue with her six-year-old son, Armand. To her shock, the meeting is shared with the parents Anders (Endre Hellestveit) and Sarah (Ellen Dorrit Petersen), who’ve accused Armand of an assault on their own son, Jon.
Any notion that Armand would be a light comedy about the similarities between adult feuds and children’s squabbles, in the vein of Roman Polanski’s Carnage, is almost immediately silenced; Anders and Sarah are convinced of Armand’s guilt, and blatantly state that the assault was sexual in nature. It’s a situation that puts the viewer in a moral headlock as they determine how they think they should feel, but Tøndel is content to simply detail how Elisabeth reacted. Her breakout into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, as if to question if this is an extended joke, is a freakout worthy of Lily Rose-Depp’s uncontrollable moaning in last month’s Nosferatu.
The laziest of arguments made by both sides of the political aisle is the appeal to “think of the children,” which is an indication that an emotional hook will serve as a replacement for any shard of evidence. This is a sin that cinema is guilty of too, as there are a lot of films that saddle their protagonists with an underwhelming storyline centered on their children; Heat’s a great film, but there’s not a single viewer that doesn’t fast forward through the scenes with Natalie Portman as Al Pacino’s mentally-disturbed teenage daughter.
The most interesting concept in Armand is that while it’s a study in weaponized empathy, there’s no deliberate attempt to pull on the viewers’ heartstrings. Jon and Armand are characters that are referred to, but never seen or imbued with any defining traits. They serve as loose concepts that motivate the central argument, which comes down between two different unchallenged proclamations. Elisabeth is convinced her son is innocent, but Jon’s parents believe their son’s claims are irrefutable. Given that the film is not interested in an exploration of any other information, who the audience sides with says more about them than it does the characters. If Tøndel has any point to make, it’s that the school’s administration doesn’t waver in its support for the parents of the accuser.
It soon becomes clear that while the parents are unwilling to waver in support of their children, the feud is linked to deeper tensions. Elisabeth’s the former sister-in-law of Jon’s parents, as her marriage to Sarah’s brother ended upon his abrupt death a few years prior. Sarah makes a less-than-oblique implication that Elisabeth may have suffered some form of domestic abuse, and that Armand may have replicated the behavior he saw at home. Nonetheless, it’s evident from their tailoring alone that Sarah and Anders are wealthy, and likely could take their accusations to the next level of the court system. Perhaps this is an empathetic attempt to resolve the issue before it becomes public; on the other hand, this could be Sarah’s initiative to humiliate Elisabeth, who she has assumed has some responsibility for her brother’s death.
The comparisons between Armand and Carnage don’t stop at the subject material, as Tøndel’s film has made use of a limited set of locations, which give it the intimate feel of a stage production. However, any notion that the material would’ve been better suited for a live performance can be dismissed when a wild turn in the third act adds a layer of Lynchian dread and Kaufman-esque metafiction.
The frustration felt by viewers that expected a firm answer regarding the guilty party misses the point; to solve a mystery is to deny the audience the opportunity to cast their own moral judgments. The ambiguity of the conclusion has allowed any viewer to feel the same distress that the characters do; what’s more challenging than the expression of one’s belief is the fear of being judged for what those beliefs are.