Robert Eggers’ The Northman is not a film it’s a primal scream carved into celluloid, a berserker rage of mythic proportions that drags you by the hair into its world and leaves you breathless. This is Viking epic as high art, where every frame feels etched by firelight and every line of dialogue carries the weight of ancient prophecy. Alexander Skarsgård’s Amleth isn’t just a character; he’s a force of nature, a man stripped to his rawest instincts, his muscles coiled like serpents waiting to strike.

Eggers, ever the meticulous historian, crafts a world so tactile you can smell the peat smoke and iron blood. The cinematography by Jarin Blaschke is staggering longship raids lit by volcanic fury, ritual dances in moonlit groves, battles so visceral you’ll flinch. But what truly sets The Northman apart is its refusal to romanticize its brutality. This isn’t Game of Thrones with a bigger budget; it’s a fever dream of destiny and doom, where even vengeance feels hollow in the face of fate’s cruel whims.

The supporting cast is electric. Nicole Kidman’s Gudrún delivers a monologue so chilling it recontextualizes the entire film, while Claes Bang’s Fjölnir oozes smug menace. Anya Taylor-Joy, though underused, brings an eerie, otherworldly presence as Olga, a Slavic witch who dances on the edge of the supernatural.

If the film falters, it’s in its relentless intensity. At times, the unyielding grimness threatens to numb rather than exhilarate, and the third act’s descent into mythic surrealism may lose viewers craving narrative clarity. But these are minor quibbles. The Northman is a rarity a big-budget spectacle that refuses to compromise its savage soul.