Insomnia is a film of stillness, dread and psychological erosion – one that leaves you feeling observed, uneasy and permanently on edge

Insomnia (1997), directed by Erik Skjoldbjærg, opens with a jolt: what appears to be a snuff film of a young woman being assaulted, murdered and meticulously washed. The grainy, glitching title cards that follow make it clear that this world is coarse, abrasive, and fundamentally off balance.

Long before Christopher Nolan remade the film with Al Pacino and Robin Williams, Skjoldbjærg’s original carved out its own identity: icy, disorienting and morally murky. It’s a thriller that refuses to comfort, instead inviting the viewer into a psychological fog that never lifts.

The story follows Jonas Engström (Stellan Skarsgård), a Swedish detective sent to a remote Norwegian town to investigate the murder of a teenage girl. Jonas arrives with his partner Erik Vik (Sverre Anker Ousdal), and the pair quickly sense that the community is tight‑lipped, suspicious and quietly rotting beneath its picturesque surface.

When a botched stakeout leads Jonas to accidentally shoot Erik in the mist, he chooses to cover up his involvement. From there, the investigation becomes a hall of mirrors: Jonas lies, manipulates evidence and spirals into paranoia as the midnight sun erodes his sense of time and self.

The killer eventually contacts him, creating a tense, unnerving dynamic between two men who are both guilty … just in different ways.

The film’s colour palette is stark, bleached and almost painfully overexposed. Jonas and Erik’s plane announces their crossing of the Arctic Circle – “the land of the midnight sun” – and the visuals reflect that alien environment.

Blues, greys, whites and washed‑out greens dominate the frame. The palette echoes the natural landscape yet feels subtly unnatural, as if the world itself is too bright, too revealing. The overexposure becomes a psychological weapon: nothing is hidden, yet nothing is clear.

The film thrives on the tension between the endless outdoors and the claustrophobic interiors. The rugged hills roll with thick, ghostly mist; the harbourside is decaying, its wood crumbling and peeling; the police headquarters is austere, functional and inhospitable.

Nature is vast and indifferent, while the man‑made spaces feel cramped and oppressive. Jonas, a city detective in immaculate suits, looks almost absurdly out of place against this raw environment. The perpetual daylight becomes a character in itself: an unblinking eye that refuses to let him rest.

Skarsgård delivers a masterclass in controlled unravelling. His Jonas begins the film polished and authoritative: tailored suits, matching shirts and ties, hair perfectly in place, voice deep and commanding. He rarely raises it, but frustration simmers beneath every line.

As the film progresses, his moral ambiguity becomes central. Jonas is not a warm or sympathetic lead. He lies, manipulates and commits crimes to protect himself. His outsider status is reinforced by his Swedish accent among Norwegian colleagues.

Skarsgård’s physical transformation is striking. Jonas becomes sweaty, dishevelled and increasingly frantic. His panic attack in the street, his collapse onto the bonnet of a car – these moments show a man losing his grip on reality. It’s a character study as much as a thriller, and Skarsgård’s performance is the film’s anchor.

The soundscape is sparse, atmospheric, and dreamlike. The score drifts in hazy, minimal waves, often letting the natural environment – wind, water, distant machinery – fill the silence. This restraint creates a sense of stillness that is both unnerving and hypnotic. Dialogue and reactions have room to breathe, heightening the tension. The film’s analogue textures (projectors, pocket diaries, phonebooks) add to the sense of being in another time, another world.

Insomnia cultivates a constant sense of being watched and of watching others. There’s an eerie undercurrent, as if every character is hiding something, even from themselves. The perpetual daylight blurs the boundaries between day and night, truth and deception, guilt and innocence. The film feels grubby, damp and morally decayed. No one is clean – not the town, not the police and certainly not Jonas.

As Jonas finally leaves the town, he enters a tunnel; a plunge into darkness after days of relentless sun. His face is pallid, his eyes shockingly white, as if he has been hollowed out. The ending is deliberately unsatisfying. Justice is murky, guilt unresolved and the grime of the experience clings to us as viewers. A feeling lingers: why does everything still feel so dirty even after the case is “solved”?

Insomnia (1997) is a beautifully restored, deeply unsettling thriller nearly thirty years on. Its stark visuals, oppressive daylight, and morally compromised protagonist create a world where truth is slippery and sleep feels impossible. It’s a film of stillness, dread and psychological erosion – one that leaves you feeling observed, uneasy and permanently on edge.

Erik Skjoldbjærg’s Insomnia starring Stellan Skarsgård is set for Limited Edition 4K UHD/Blu-ray release on 25 May 2026 through Second Sight Films