In the Shadow of the Raven
In the Shadow of the Raven (1988) isn’t your granddaddy’s Viking flick. No, Hrafn Gunnlaugsson delivers a raw, brutal reimagining of the Tristan and Isolde legend, set in 11th-century Iceland—a world dripping with blood, betrayal, and breathtaking landscapes. Gunnlaugsson, drawing from the cinematic playbooks of Akira Kurosawa and John Ford, crafts a story that feels like a gut punch with a side of Shakespearean drama. This isn’t a popcorn movie. It’s a saga!
I gotta be straight with you—I wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to watch In the Shadow of the Raven. Don’t get me wrong, I dug Gunnlaugsson’s When the Raven Flies (read my review here). It had grit, it had guts. But that transfer from videotape to DVD? Pure torture. Colors washed out like bad laundry, captions lagging so hard they felt drunk—it gave me a damn migraine. So yeah, I wasn’t lining up for a repeat offense.
But holy hell, was I wrong. In the Shadow of the Raven? That transfer? Night and day. Saturated colors that pop like a blood splatter, crisp video so sharp it could cut you, and captions? Perfect. Spot-on. Watching this masterpiece under the glow from the lights decorating my Yule tree, sipping aquavit like a Viking king—now that’s a cinematic experience.
The story kicks off when Trausti, a freshly minted Christian fresh from Norway, rolls back into his pagan homeland. And the twist? Instead of Noah’s fluffy little doves flying out to find dry land after the flood, Gunnlaugsson unleashes ravens. Iceland, baby. Land of fire, ice, and poetic vengeance.
Trausti’s trying to live the peaceful life, but, of course, things go sideways when his clan discovers a beached whale—a jackpot in the Viking world. And that whale. That WHALE. How in Odin’s name did they pull that off? It looked real—too real. Did they stumble across a beached leviathan and think, “Yeah, let’s roll with it”? Or did Gunnlaugsson’s crew orchestrate the whole damn thing? The man’s still alive, so one day, maybe I’ll buy him a drink and ask him about his whale-wrangling wizardry.
Anyway, enter Eirikur, the local tyrant, who wants the whale for himself. Chaos ensues, Trausti’s mom bites the dust, and before you know it, Grim—Trausti’s loyal foreman—turns Eirikur into yesterday’s news. Blood feud? You bet.
Yep, Helgi Skúlason is back, and man, what a presence. He’s no longer the black-hearted Viking villain from When the Raven Flies. Nope, this time he’s Grim, the ambitious peasant. But those eyes, man. Those damn eyes. They don’t just look at you; they haunt you.
Trausti’s stuck between his Christian ideals and the brutal loyalty of his clan, and things spiral fast. His people torch Eirikur’s camp, kill his successor, and drag Trausti into the crosshairs of Isold, Eirikur’s wild, vengeance-fueled daughter. She curses Trausti, convinced he’s the architect of her misery. But here’s the twist: love blooms amidst the carnage. Trausti and Isold hatch a plan to end the feud and unite their families. Bold move, right? Except this is Viking drama—tragedy’s practically in the DNA.
Each dream is a deed of love. Now I have you, and you have me. Could you wish for anything more than secure peace through me?
Isold’s tangled in her own mess, betrothed to the sniveling son of a corrupt bishop and caught in a web of family betrayal. Add in the bishop’s scheming wife, and you’ve got a melting pot of treachery and backstabbing. Trausti and Isold’s love is tested by the savage world they live in, pushing their dreams of peace to the breaking point.
Themes? Oh, they’re big, bold, and bloody. You’ve got your violence and revenge with a never-ending loop of payback that’ll leave you questioning if anyone can escape their legacy. There’s love and Reconciliation: Trausti and Isold’s romance is a fragile flicker of hope in a storm of chaos. Then throw in a dash of clash of beliefs: Christianity’s forgiveness meets the hard-as-iron pagan honor code, and sparks fly.
This is no standalone flick. It’s the middle act in Gunnlaugsson’s Raven Trilogy, nestled between When the Raven Flies (check my review here) and The White Viking. While not a direct sequel, it’s peppered with nods to the first film—same locations, shared artifacts, and the ghost of stories past weaving through the narrative. Oh, and the temple of Odin? Back from When the Raven Flies. It’s like a recurring character, a piece of mythology all its own. I’m itching to see if it shows up in The White Viking too.
Visually, the film’s a stunner. Shot in Iceland, every jagged rock and sweeping vista screams epic. It’s a harsh, unrelenting world that reflects the characters’ turmoil, making you feel the grit and cold with every frame. Those crashing waves, steaming geysers, and volcanic fire? Forget CGI. This is the real deal, and it hits harder than anything a computer can conjure.
Hans-Erik Philip? He’s back on soundtrack duty, and this time, he mostly leaves that industrial new wave vibe in the dust. Thank the gods. The score this time? Perfection. It amplifies the story; it doesn’t fight it. You feel it in your bones.
The performances of Tinna Gunnlaugsdóttir (Isold) and Kristbjörg Kjeld (Sigrid) drew raves for their raw intensity. Tinna has absolute goddess energy. She’s not just playing a part—she is nature itself, raw and untamed. Every word out of her mouth lands with the weight of truth. And that wedding day milk bath? Yeah, I felt that—heart, soul, and, let’s be real, other places. Reine Brynolfsson (Trausti), not so much—some said he lacked bite. The action? Trausti and Hjörleifur (Egill Ólafsson)? Okay, they’re not busting out 21st-century Marvel stunts. But damn if their fights don’t hit hard. It’s gritty, it’s real, it works. The Washington Post compared the corrupt bishop (Sune Mangs) to Jabba the Hutt (yeah, you read that right), while the New York Times praised the Icelandic setting but knocked the occasionally clunky dialogue.
Bottom line: In the Shadow of the Raven is a visceral, unpolished gem. It’s not Ran, but it doesn’t need to be. This is Viking cinema at its most feral, blending myth, love, and vengeance into a saga that lingers like a raven’s shadow—dark, haunting, and unforgettable.
