Gríma Valsdóttir in The Swan (Synergetic Distribution)

The Swan is a coming-of-age tale from Iceland that manages to break away from the usual clichés of the genre and offer something quite original in tone and execution.

Sol (Gríma Valsdóttir), a nine-year-old city girl, is sent to her aunt in the countryside to spend the summer working on a farm. Apparently she has done something wrong to warrant this, though her delinquency is only alluded to. Her mom laments, “You used to be such a good girl.” and Sol replies, “I still am.” Sol is a quiet sullen, and she entertains her siblings by telling dark, disturbing fairy tales about wayward girls sucked down by their hair into muddy rivers.

Her new environment is initially foreboding. Her aunt and uncle are taciturn, if not outright cold, and she is expected to work. Her first task is feeding the chickens. She is simply given a bucket and told, “You’ll do fine.” Eventually she graduates to herding the cows and bridling ponies. She, and the viewers, comes to find the Icelandic countryside both gorgeous and harsh.

Cinematographer Martin Neumeyer perfectly captures the strangeness and the fascination of nature. As Sol recites in a voice-over one of her stories, the camera travels along over the grass laden, marshy river banks Sol walks along. When she strides out of the house and lies down in the verdant fields, Neumeyer captures the slate gray skies she’s oppressed under.

Eventually, there are visitors: Jon (Thor Kristjansson), a strapping young farmhand who works for a few months every summer, and the farmer’s young, rebellious daughter, Asta (Þuríður Blær Jóhannsdóttir). With Jon, Sol finds a kindred spirit. He’s an itinerant dreamy young man who works all day and scribbles furiously all night. Jon is placed, inappropriately, in her bedroom, and the two bond over storytelling. An interesting theme at play here is how dependent the younger folk are on storytelling and interpreting. The farmers are too pragmatic for the restless spirits of the younger trio. (Asta tells her parents, “Anything you don’t understand you just look the other way.”)

Meanwhile, it is clear that Jon and Asta were once lovers. Asta returns from a broken marriage, and Jon is there waiting, but Asta’s response is to heap abuse upon him. All of this is under the watchful eye of Sol, who, as a natural-born writer, says nothing but simply observes and starts weaving what she sees into her own story, which she narrates as she wanders the countryside.

Jon seems to be the only person who understands that Sol is a child with depth but not enough understanding about life. Whether it’s because Jon is understanding or sympathetic or because he views Sol as a kindred spirit remains a mystery. But the relationship between the two slowly becomes the emotional center of the story line. When she needs to be soothed, he reads from his novel and they bond over their feeling of separation and isolation. Their relationship has a tenderness that all the other characters lack.

The performances are superlative, particularly Valsdóttir, who conveys quite a bit while clearly holding back an emotional reserve. Her character is constantly being told she’s weird, while she is actually intelligent and introverted. When she bursts with emotion, it is heartbreaking. Kristjansson is the possessor of white hot charisma, and his boyish charm moves easily to a smoldering sensuality. He also gives just a fantastic performance.

Director and co-writer Ása Helga Hjörleifsdóttir manages to shimmy up to the clichés of the coming-of-age genre yet narrowly avoids them by nudging along a deeper path. It’s a journey well worth taking.