Reviewed on May 16th at the 2024 Cannes Film Festival – In Competition. 123 Mins
Cast: Vic Carmen Sonne, Trine Dyrholm, Besir Zeciri, Joachim Fjelstrup, Tessa Hoder, Avo Knox Martin
Genre: Drama
Director: Magnus von Horn
In Irish Cinemas: 10th January 2025
Magnus von Horn’s Palme d’Or contender delves into the profound vulnerability of women in a time when abortion was illegal and choices were grimly limited.
Much like a sinister knot that tightens the more one struggles, The Girl With the Needle, von Horn’s deeply atmospheric drama, builds an almost unbearable tension before delivering a gut-wrenching conclusion. The film is a chilling portrayal of societal and personal constraints in post-World War I, early-1920s Copenhagen, where women facing unwanted pregnancies are left with few, often dangerous, options.
Danish actress Vic Carmen Sonne (noted for Holiday and Godland) delivers a subtle yet profoundly layered performance as Karoline, a young seamstress navigating a world that offers little mercy for women in her predicament. Resilient but deeply vulnerable, Karoline finds herself abandoned by her affluent lover (Joachim Fjelstrup) after he impregnates her but refuses to marry her. Left to fend for herself in a judgmental and unforgiving society, Karoline must make an excruciating choice: attempt a crude, life-threatening abortion using a knitting needle or carry the child to term only to relinquish it to Dagmar (played with chilling menace by Trine Dyrholm), a seemingly sweet candy shop owner who secretly operates an exploitative black-market adoption racket.
Through its taut, almost suffocating narrative, The Girl With the Needle doesn’t just explore Karoline’s plight; it exposes the cruel societal structures that trap women like her, forcing them into impossible decisions. Von Horn’s direction is as sharp and deliberate as his protagonist’s needlework, threading themes of power, vulnerability, and survival into a story that is as relevant today as rooted in its historical context.
This haunting, painfully urgent tale of resilience and sacrifice is made all the more gripping by Sonne’s restrained yet deeply evocative portrayal and von Horn’s meticulous storytelling. The Girl With the Needle reminds us that while history may have changed, the weight of these struggles lingers on.
The film shot digitally in stark black-and-white and framed within a claustrophobic 3:2 aspect ratio by the rising cinematographer Michał Dymek (known for A Real Pain and EO), exudes the haunted stillness of antique photographs. This aesthetic, rich in artistry and atmosphere, will captivate cinephiles. However, the sombre tone and grim subject matter may hinder its commercial prospects.
The film will likely draw local interest in Denmark, where the real-life events that inspired the story are well-known. Yet The Girl With the Needle has the potential for broader resonance thanks to its urgent and universal themes. At its core, the narrative grapples with the limited choices available to women facing unwanted pregnancies—a timeless and profoundly relevant issue. The film’s relevance is heightened in today’s social and political climate, especially given recent developments. While several European nations, including Ireland and France, have fortified reproductive rights, the reversal of Roe v. Wade in the United States has stripped many of bodily autonomy and jeopardised their health, adding renewed urgency to the discussion.
While some filmmakers might have leaned heavily into the story’s true-crime aspects by spotlighting a more sensational figure as the protagonist, director Magnus von Horn opts for a subtler, more human approach. Known for his previous film Sweat, which also centred on a young woman navigating inner turmoil, von Horn anchors this story in the perspective of Karoline, a flawed but profoundly relatable everywoman. Co-written with Line Langebek, the screenplay paints Karoline as a character easily perceived as aloof or emotionally distant. Yet it is Amalie Sonne’s nuanced portrayal that transforms her into a layered and compelling figure.
Sonne imbues Karoline with a delicate balance of vulnerability and strength. Her childlike innocence, sensuality, and open-hearted trust in others make her both endearing and tragically susceptible to exploitation. With her slight frame and eclectic, almost haphazard fashion sense, Karoline evokes the image of a fragile and malleable doll. However, beneath her naïve exterior lies a steely determination and resilience, qualities that ultimately make her a quietly admirable character despite her shortcomings.
Von Horn’s empathetic lens and Sonne’s riveting performance ensure that The Girl With the Needle is more than a grim historical account—it’s a profoundly human story that lingers in the mind, inviting reflection on past and present struggles for autonomy and dignity.
The film wastes no time establishing Karoline’s resilience as she furiously argues with her landlady in the opening scenes. Weeks behind on rent, Karoline is unceremoniously told she has to leave. Her financial struggles are apparent: although she works at a local clothing factory stitching uniforms, it’s hardly enough to cover her expenses. The factory scenes are meticulously crafted, with vintage hand-cranked sewing machines operated by standing workers—a detail that will fascinate enthusiasts of textile history and machinery. Despite her efforts, Karoline receives no support from her husband Peter, who left to fight for the Allies in World War I and hasn’t been heard from in months. Presuming him dead, she finds herself in a cruel limbo—without a death certificate, she can’t claim the widow’s stipend she desperately needs.
Determined to survive, Karoline forces her way into the office of Jorgen (Fjelstrup), the young, privileged factory owner. Though weak-willed, Jorgen is captivated by Karoline’s boldness and reluctantly agrees to give her a raise, just enough to keep her in her squalid garret apartment on the city’s seedy outskirts. These urban settings, filmed in cobblestoned areas of Poland and Sweden’s Gothenburg, provide a grimy, authentic backdrop. The ancient, winding streets, peeling paint, and factory gates evoke the gritty realism of early cinema, reminiscent of the Lumière Brothers’ industrial scenes.
It’s not long before Karoline and Jorgen begin an affair, consummated with raw urgency that feels inevitable and transactional. One memorable scene sees them sharing a hurried, almost desperate embrace in a back alley, their passion unfolding in full view of passersby. The film treats these moments with a matter-of-factness that sidesteps exploitation. Like childbirth or excretion, sex is depicted as a fundamental human act—beautiful, messy, and fraught with potential consequences.
Karoline soon discovers she is pregnant and pins her hopes on marrying Jorgen. But before those dreams can take shape, her presumed-dead husband Peter (Besir Zeciri) unexpectedly returns, disfigured from the war and concealing his mangled face behind a mask. Peter’s reappearance upends Karoline’s fragile plans. Torn between anger at his silence and fear that his presence will sabotage her future with Jorgen, she coldly sends him away. However, her tenuous hopes are dashed when Jorgen’s aristocratic mother (Benedikte Hansen) interferes, forbidding marriage to a woman of Karoline’s class. Left with no easy options, Karoline faces a stark choice: the knitting needle or the social and economic ruin of bearing a child out of wedlock.
The screenplay deftly ensures that every twist feels inevitable and suspenseful. While the narrative builds toward its chilling conclusion, much of the tension arises from the introduction of Dagmar Overbye (Trine Dyrholm), a seemingly benevolent figure who offers Karoline a way out. Accompanied by her angelic-looking seven-year-old daughter Erena (Avo Knox Martin), Dagmar appears at first to be one of those kindly older women who help young women in crisis—like a saviour archetype often seen in such stories. However, viewers unfamiliar with the true history behind the film should be warned: Dagmar is anything but a saviour.
Director Magnus von Horn masterfully teases out Dagmar’s duality, aided by editor Agnieszka Glińska’s carefully measured pacing. The film slowly reveals Dagmar’s darker nature, her matronly exterior giving way to an almost primal ruthlessness. Von Horn’s comparison of her to a fairy-tale witch feels apt—Dagmar’s charm is a mask for her malevolence, her scarred psyche driving her toward acts of quiet horror. Dyrholm’s chilling performance anchors these revelations, her ability to oscillate between warmth and menace creating a constant sense of unease.
The film’s final act unravels like a grim fairy tale, with a shocking and strangely inevitable climax. The narrative balance is heightened by the parallel fate of Peter, whose grotesque transformation into a circus “freak” ironically positions him as the story’s only unambiguous moral centre. This mirroring of Peter and Dagmar—two outcasts shaped by trauma but embodying vastly different responses to their pain—offers a poignant commentary on resilience, cruelty, and the human capacity for compassion and monstrosity.
Ultimately, The Girl With the Needle delivers a haunting portrait of a society that offers women like Karoline no easy paths. It weaves suspense, historical realism, and psychological depth into a harrowing but profoundly human story.
The film flirts with the edge of unbearable realism, immersing viewers in a world that feels almost too harsh to endure. Yet, thankfully, it offers a glimmer of relief in its final moments. The conclusion strikes a delicate balance, with the most wicked characters facing the consequences of their actions while those suffering are granted a chance at redemption. It’s a resolution that, while undeniably leaning toward a fairy-tale ideal, feels both cathartic and deeply necessary in today’s world.
Such an ending is a balm in an era often marked by cynicism and grim narratives. It doesn’t undermine the weight of the story’s harsh truths but instead provides a sense of moral order and hope—a reminder that justice and renewal are possible even in the darkest circumstances. It’s the kind of storytelling that resonates deeper, not because it denies the complexities of reality, but because it allows us to believe in the possibility of brighter outcomes. This measured optimism makes the film’s conclusion feel so satisfying and essential.
Overall: 8.5/10
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