‘Redoubt’: San Sebastián Review: A Fortress of Solitude

Shot in elegant, evocative black and white, the second feature by Swedish director John Skoog (Ridge) unfolds as a calm yet quietly suspenseful observation of a farmer’s dogged, eccentric efforts to prepare for the possibility of a foreign attack. It is the time of the Cold War, but in this Swedish village—were it not for a few musical habits—the setting could easily be mistaken for decades earlier. Everything we see conveys an impression of permanence.

Karl-Görna Persson (played by the always singular French actor Denis Lavant) is a solitary man, with little contact with the other adults in the area. His strongest bond is with the children, who understand his quirks and peculiar habits. As the story is narrated through a child’s voice, we learn how Karl becomes obsessed with the idea of building a stronghold to withstand an attack, after reading a government manual outlining what to do in such situations. What most regard as a set of recommendations, he treats as absolute law.

And so, he begins collecting metal scraps, reinforcing walls, locking himself inside a house that gradually turns into an extravagant fortification—one not only for himself but for his friends in the village. While the children accept him and even help gather materials, the adults move from astonishment to annoyance at his strange behavior. Beyond a few details—community meetings, local dances, the occasional encounter with other misfits—Karl remains secluded, retreating into his silent, self-made fortress against the world.

The film contains very little dialogue, and Karl, in particular, barely utters a word, speaking only in whispers. Skoog devotes most of the narrative to his physical labor: melting metal, stacking walls, piling objects, caught between obsession and enthusiasm for something that seems to exist more in his mind than in reality. At least, that is how it feels in a village whose strategic value in any global conflict seems negligible.

Redoubt is a work of astonishing beauty, marked by an elegiac use of music and monochrome cinematography, as well as wide shots that reveal a rugged yet striking landscape where the villagers themselves live in another kind of confinement—an open-air isolation that separates them from the outside world. While it may visually recall films like The White Ribbon, Skoog proposes almost the opposite of what Michael Haneke did there. Here, children are a constant presence, but instead of being a menace, they become the protagonist’s fragile reassurance, the companions who prevent him, perhaps, from slipping entirely into madness.