A day of irrevocable change in Runar Runarsson’s 'When the Light Breaks'

A lot can happen between one sunset and another. Runar Runarsson’s When the Light Breaks, the opening film of the Un Certain Regard section of the Cannes Film Festival, takes the viewer gently through a seemingly ordinary but catastrophic day in the life of a Reykjavik University art student, Una (Elin Hall). It is the 24 hours that alter the present and the future for her, irrevocably.

One evening, we find Una making plans with her boyfriend Diddi (Baldur Einarsson) about whether to travel to Japan or the Faroe Islands. The next evening is all about trying to cope with his unforeseen death and battling with her complicated emotions for his official partner Klara (Katla Njalsdottir) who he had promised to break up with to finally be with Una. From the promise of not being forced to hide their relationship anymore, it’s back to a veil of secrecy.

The Icelandic film, whose original title Ljosbrot translates as “Refraction”, deals with some familiar, oft-explored themes—the unpredictability of life, the truth and finality of mortality, and the repercussions of sudden death on those that the dead leave behind. What makes it distinctive is the spotlighting of teenagers’ first encounter with loss and grief. As Una says: “I’ve never lost someone before.” Added to that are the complex emotions accompanying bereavement.

They force the pain to remain unexpressed, unshared and unresolved as Una deals with mourning, rather the lack of it. There is the guilt of being in a clandestine relationship, almost like trespassing into another person’s love life by becoming the proverbial other woman. The jealousy for the sympathy that she can get but the denial of her own rightful measure of it. Isn’t the loss the same for both, if not more? “Why is everyone sorry for her [Klara] and not for me?” asks Una.

It’s the flip side that’s heartwarming. The comfort and warmth of familiar friendships with Gunni, Bassi and Siggi, but, most so, the unlikely bonding, camaraderie and solidarity formed with the very person that one may have betrayed in the past. While Una writhes in pain at Diddi-Klara being referred to as a “perfect couple”, Klara unknowingly confesses her insecurity about a beautiful Una joining Diddi’s band and the difficulty of carrying on with a long-distance relationship with him.

Something is heart-tugging about their last conversation as the sun sets and they wonder how strange it will be to wake up the following day. What will they do? “Diddi is the sun we are going to say goodbye to,” they say, as the second sunset becomes all about coming full circle to unspoken confessions, continuity and hope after hitting the depths of anguish and despair. It takes a moment for everything to collapse and a moment for all the contradictions to get reconciled.

Everything about the 82-minute film is succinct but significant. Be it the terse narrative, the minimalistic play with emotions, the incipient sense of calm hiding the underlying turbulence, the intimate yet simultaneously non-intrusive camera of Sophia Olsson and the plaintive, resonant music by Johann Johannsson.

Pivotal, of course, is Hall’s off-the-wall yet extremely likeable presence as Una. There’s a weariness to her in having travelled the world and lived out of suitcases for five years with her parents. Yet an unflinching curiosity for the lives of others. Hall brings out the dualities with ease and spontaneity. She is utterly disarming in her freaky vulnerability, tender in her steeliness and her lowkey performance is profoundly stirring. Like her, there’s a deceptive quietude to the film as well, but one which harbours a wealth of emotions.