Vic Carmen Sonne in The Girl with the Needle (Mubi)

Presented at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, director Magnus von Horn’s second feature offers a nightmarish vision from a working-class woman’s perspective. Set in impoverished 1920s Copenhagen, the dark drama opens with an abstract sequence in which faces are superimposed to monstrous effect. The interplay of light and shadow produces an inescapable air of mystery. The sinister tone is further amplified by eerie music and the gritty black-and-white cinematography, immersing the audience in a world of darkness.

Living alone in a squalid tenement and threatened with eviction by her landlord, Karoline (Vic Carmen Sonne) struggles to make ends meet while grappling with the likely death of her missing soldier husband. She toils at a low-paying textile factory job, where she falls in love with the aristocratic owner. Their budding relationship offers the promise of a better life—until his domineering mother intervenes. These events unfold before the film’s central storyline begins, inspired by the real-life serial killer Dagmar Overbye, who initially appears as a protective maternal figure to the now-jobless Karoline. Trine Dyrholm’s nuanced portrayal of Dagmar presents her as complex and morally ambiguous, shaped by the hardships she has endured as a woman.

The first act is dynamic and densely packed, leaving little room to breathe. However, the transition into the second act deflates much of the tension that had been so expertly built. The narrative shifts to explore the dynamic between Karoline and Dagmar as Karoline becomes Dagmar’s assistant. Unfortunately, the slower pacing and shifting focus make the film’s intentions unclear, as Dagmar’s actions overshadow the initially compelling story of Karoline’s struggles. The film’s bold, maximalist approach to storytelling results in an overcrowded narrative that struggles to maintain coherence.

The screenplay reads like a collection of adult fairy tales, frequently borrowing from their imagery: a prince-like figure, a disfigured man reminiscent of Quasimodo, and even the titular needle as a quasi-magical object. Yet these tropes are deliberately subverted, reminding viewers that this is a transactional, dog-eat-dog reality, far removed from the optimism of traditional yarns. The harshness of this “real world” undermines any notions of happy endings.

Despite its commendable attempt at subversion, the film lacks the abstractness and fantasy that make fairy tales resonate. This shortcoming leaves it as an awkward hybrid of gritty drama and fable, preventing either element from fully flourishing. Unlike the surrealistic tales of David Lynch or Guillermo del Toro, von Horn’s hybrid approach often feels disjointed. That said, it achieves moments of brilliance. The ending evokes the circus-like atmosphere of Federico Fellini’s La Strada, echoing its poignant exploration of yearning for love amid misery.

The cinematography and lighting are standout elements, creating a vivid and haunting visual palette. The depiction of 1920s Copenhagen’s alleys and rooms is so evocative that it lingers with the viewer. However, the excessively grim content risks alienating the audience, pulling them out of the meticulously crafted world. Combined with the film’s tonal inconsistencies and uneven pacing, these flaws result in a work ultimately overwhelmed by its ambitions.