Let the Right One In (2008)

Photo by Michael Taylor

ODEON, Huddersfield – As charmless, expensive and bland as any links in that giant chain. Yet most Tuesday evenings last winter found me trekking the 1.7 miles out of town past looming gasworks and derelict mills towards the single sacred multiplex in the HD postal area.

On one of the coldest nights of my life, the ‘Film Fan Tuesday’ feature was Let the Right One In. Caught between impossible black-iced pavement and sodium streetlights, I passed no one, finally reaching the cinema just in time. I walked in and sat down as the snowflakes of the first shot invaded the screen. What followed served to laden with doom thoughts of the walk home; never before had I crossed the threshold from pedestrian to film viewer and found the atmosphere on both sides so alike.

Set in a Swedish suburb so dark and cold that barely anyone populates the evening landscapes, the film centres on 12-year-old Oskar, a victim of ritual schoolyard bullying who becomes close friends with Eli, a child vampire.

Vampire characters usually reside comfortably within the realm of fantasy horror, giving filmmakers the opportunity to explore melodramatic folklore and graphic violence, inflicting thrills and chills on a suspecting audience. Let the Right One In ignores that potential in favour of a more ‘social realism’ style of storytelling. Writer John Ajvide Lindqvist and director Tomas Alfredson are concerned with themes such as cruelty, loyalty and innocence as seen from the perspective of a pre-adolescent boy. At its heart, the film is a tender love story. There just happens to be a vampire involved.

Cinematography is key in creating the sense of intimacy needed. Soft light reduces shadow in many scenes, leaving room for Alfredson’s expressive shallow focus to draw the eye over wide shots to different points of interest over time. Slow camera movement gives us this time, enhancing the realism whilst playing with what we are allowed to see. None of these are obvious choices for a film that leans into the horror genre but they are what give it character and style.

The choreography of hands cannot be underestimated either. A constant visual motif throughout, they are used as a reliable means of discerning Oskar and Eli’s emotions.

As Alfredson explains ‘it’s very hard to lie with the hands’. The first time Eli touches Oskar is to take hold of his hand while insisting he hit back against the bullies. Later they communicate through the wall that separates their bedrooms using morse code to tap out messages.

As a powerful supernatural being, Eli offers Oskar strength and support. In return, Oskar gives Eli the chance to experience the things her condition has stolen from her – childhood and innocent love. They bond over a Rubik’s Cube, a puzzle that confuses Eli until Oskar tells her ‘Just twist it’ – an ironic instruction given the neck that Eli has broken in the previous scene to score her latest meal.

Perhaps the most successful use of the vampiric component of the story is its juxtaposition with the hard reality of bullying. While Eli is clearly tortured by her thirst for blood and the violence it necessitates (sobbing after each kill), Oskar’s tormentors choose to make his life a living freezing hell. Listening to the director/writer’s commentary on the DVD, it is clear whose evils the makers are more prone to forgive.

So considering the sympathetic portrayal of the film’s ‘monster’ and the plot’s revolution around love rather than gore, why was I so hyper-aware on my walk back through the night after leaving the cinema? Well, the weather certainly helped. Alfredson’s evocation of dark Scandinavian nights becomes easy to appreciate during Britain’s coldest winter for 30 years. Too cold for most people to bother going out in, it is easy to believe Eli and her helper Hakan can commit their gruesome deeds unnoticed on the fringes of populated areas. And it’s the fringes you have to navigate when your hilly northern town plonks its only cinema down in a location convenient only for cars to reach. It’s not ideal but, in the context of this particular experience, it’s perfect.