There is one moment in La Pièta, the feature documentary made by Iceland-bound Spanish directors Rafa Molés and Pepe Andreu (Lobster Soup, 2020), where we get to see the classic image of a large piece of ice breaking off from the glacier and dropping into the ocean. But however dramatic such an image may be, and however effective for a news item, that’s not how these things usually go.
Generally speaking, glaciers disappear one drop at a time. In La Pièta, there’s dripping everywhere. But when Molés and Andreu film the glacier from the sky, it still appears as majestic and unchanging as ever. In reality, it takes a human lifetime to register how much these Icelandic ice sheets are actually thinning. And how fast, geologically speaking. In about three centuries, as one scientist puts it, “Iceland will no longer be an ice land.”
But Molés and Andreu refuse to have a line-up of experts explain the climate crisis to us again, in what they describe as their “requiem for a dying glacier.” Instead, they focus on the beauty of Vatnajökull, for now Iceland’s largest glacier, and on those individuals who do notice these changes personally, because their lives are intimately intertwined with the disappearing ice, such as glacier-phile photographer Ragnar Axelsson, who visits the house of one Flosi Björnsson, deceased, who dedicated much of his life to measuring Vatnajökull’s dimensions. Long before ‘climate change’ became a household word, this glacier neighbour noticed the slow but unmistakable changes in his notes, which are recited in voice-over, accompanied by slow, sonorous music inspired by the sounds of the glacier.
Because although glaciers may appear, at any given moment, as cold, white and immovable mountains, in reality they’re never truly inert. And never truly silent. Just like their Icelandic ancestors, modern-day scientists describe glaciers as “alive” – until they have thinned so much that they become “dead ice”.
By focussing on Björnsson’s understandably repetitive notes (which all come down to “it’s getting less”), the old bits and pieces in his house (which the camera keeps returning to in close-up), some old film material from the area, and shots of the glacier, the progression of the documentary, unfortunately, becomes itself rather glacial.
The directors, who share screenplay credits with Icelander Ólafur Rögnvaldsson and Lithuanian Arūnas Matelis, wanted to let the beauty of the glacier speak for itself, and it does, but it’s a lot to ask of Vatnajökull to visually carry a feature-length film in such a way as to convey the emotional message.
Indeed, every time Molés and Andreu do switch to more direct, reportage-style scenes in which people talk about their personal interest in and connection to the glacier, the documentary immediately comes alive. From the taciturn man receiving Axelsson in Björnsson’s old house to the glacier tour guide who wonders how long she will be able to continue in her job, it’s the human connection that puts the glacier into perspective. Just like the size of the glacier is impossible to judge unless we see those ant-like people crawling over it.
The idea of an earlier generation of glacier observers diligently jotting down measurements in notebooks which are now valuable to scientists is touching, for sure. But these ancestors never come alive to us. And because we never get to know them as individuals, it feels awkward to learn that the Björn family either died young, never married or had children, or in one case killed themselves. It’s private information about people I don’t really get to know, which makes it feel sensationalist.
Similarly, the biblical references to Jonah and Jesus (see the title) are unnecessary additions of gravitas, disconnected from the main subject – the Icelandic ice is testament to real, factual history, and way older than the Levantine myths.
At one point, a scientist tells photographer Axelsson: “We scientists are too busy trying to say exactly the correct things, and we’re not good at presenting our case to the public. So it’s up to you, the artists. You need to be the link between science and the public.” This is, of course, what the documentary is also attempting to do. But while I appreciate the difficulty of balancing visual poetry and social reportage, I would have liked to hear more from the people involved.
There is one Herzogian moment when this same scientist shows us “the last part of Okjökull that exists in this world,” a glacier remnant taken out of his fridge, which reveals his deeply personal and emotional connection to the disappearing ice (while asking us to suspend disbelief, in true Herzog fashion). The scene hits a sweet spot between the personal and geological impacts of this climate drama, which are so difficult, as this documentary demonstrates, to truly bring together.
Spain/Iceland/Lithuania, 2026, 82 minutes
Director Rafa Molés, Pepe Andreu
Production SUICAfilms, AXfilms, Studio Nominum
Producers Ólafur Rögnvaldsson, Arunas Matelis, Alge Mateliene
International sales SUICAfilms
Script Pepe Andreu, Rafa Molés, Ólafur Rögnvaldsson, Arūnas Matelis
Cinematography José Luis González IglesiasEditing Pepe Andre
Sound design Iván Martínez-Rufat, Ester Bíbí Ásgeirsdóttir
