The cold is often a conduit for ardent symbolism, whether in the frozen recesses of repressed memories or in the merciless invocation of human hubris against nature, which is why the refreshing literalness at the heart of The Dead of Winter may raise the eyebrows of seasoned cinéastes. A faithful, by-the-books killer thriller set adrift on the frozen Minnesotan expanse, Brian Kirk’s third theatrical feature lacks an element of sophistication that would have propelled the engines of more psychologically attuned accounts of human survival. But such an element, though wanting, is replaced by a more immediate series of stakes centered around personal conviction. When Barb (Emma Thompson), an old widow headed to a vast lake for some ice-fishing, witnesses what appears to be a girl taken hostage, she latches not onto some superhuman affinity with the elements borne by age, but rather onto her innermost principles to save the girl.
Equipped with little more than a rugged pick-up (which, of course, fails upon contact with the first snowy slope) and a placid determination, Barb follows the trail to a cabin where, minutes before, she had stopped for directions. The bearded gentleman (Marc Menchaca) who answered — nodded to — her queries has held the teenage girl (Laurel Marsden) captive in his basement, but his gruff demeanor quickly belies a reluctance to proceed with whatever nefarious plan he’s signed up for. It’s his wife (Judy Greer), instead, who appears to call the shots: sporting a purple windbreaker and sucking chronically on some fentanyl candy, she throws her weight around the dim, cluttered cabin, armed with an increasing animal desperation no one, not least an aging and unarmed geriatric, should in theory be able to derail. When Barb, against all odds, infiltrates the hideout in their absence, the rules of the game are established. Never mind the why; two opposing wills are at war, and at least one, it seems, has to yield.
Yet to term The Dead of Winter a mechanical vehicle for all the tropes of chilly lawlessness would be reductive, because its motives, though simple, are assuredly stated. The villains, prompted solely by self-interest, have nary a sadistic streak, which accords the film’s proceedings an even grimmer tone as Barb, on the other side, embarks on a self-sacrificial quest to right one last wrong. Thompson’s countenance, weathered by her character’s years, bears the light pockmarks of grief; having many decades prior fished with her beloved on the same lake, she returns to scatter his ashes and perhaps contemplate a life well lived. There’s no little schmaltz in Kirk’s cross-cutting between the warmly lit past and the bleak present, but like many of its ilk (think Mads Mikkelsen’s tribulations in Arctic or Liam Neeson’s time-sensitive transportation in The Ice Road), The Dead of Winter banks foremost on sheer, seasoned grit. Its wintry environs may mark the constraints of mortality, but they also embrace death’s inevitability. “We don’t know what’s coming. We never really do,” opines Barb through chattering teeth. “But it don’t matter.” Despite its simplicity, the film effectively illustrates how charisma alone may sometimes be enough to make the ice thaw.
Published as part of Locarno Film Festival 2025 — Dispatch 3.
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