28/03/2025 - The Icelandic filmmaker reveals more about his personal connection to his second feature, the challenges of undertaking such a risky project, and his close bond with the actors

(© Tautvydas Stukas/Audrius Solominas)

Born to a Yakutian mother and an Icelandic father – both film artists who met while studying at Moscow’s VGIK – Ari Alexander Ergis Magnússon has always been “the different one”, which has driven him to explore topics that many avoid. Following his post-Soviet petty-crime drama Mihkel [+see also:
film review
trailer
interview: Pääru Oja
film profile], he has just presented the simultaneously grim and cathartic Epilogues [+see also:
film review
interview: Ari Alexander Ergis Magnússon
film profile] in the Smart7 programme of the Vilnius International Film Festival, and we asked him to share what compels him to delve into loneliness in life's final countdown.

Cineuropa: Why did you dare to make this particular film on such an unsexy topic as death and loneliness?
Ari Alexander Ergis Magnússon: I was triggered by my mother, who is now 86. A few years ago, I asked why we no longer hosted summer parties at her countryside home, and she said, “There’s no one left to invite.” That loneliness deeply moved me. Around the same time, I read Epilogues, the novel by Guðbergur Bergsson, a writer who influenced me. He wrote about how we enter and leave life unconsciously, and about the ungracefulness of death. This inspired a one-minute-long film that I made in 2010 called Urna for the anthology omnibus 60 Seconds of Solitude in Year Zero and, eventually, this feature. Bergsson trusted me to adapt it, and here we are.

Was it difficult to fund the project, considering its unconventional premise?
Well, it took 12 years. The Icelandic Film Fund initially rejected it, and many funders found it too disturbing, perhaps because the main character drinks the ashes of his beloved wife, which sounds creepy. The executive producer, Gisli Hauksson, who is my friend, invested private funds, and we reapplied. With Friðrik Þór Friðriksson as a producer on board, we secured €800,000-900,000 from the Icelandic Film Fund and another €300,000 privately.

Do you think extreme loneliness in old age is natural, or is it exacerbated by modern life?
Death in the present day is taboo. When someone nears the end, people avoid them. My mother, however, doesn’t believe we truly die. She’s from a Yakutian background and grew up in nature. Her father was killed in Ukraine by the Nazis in 1941, along with many Siberian soldiers considered expendable. Her connection to nature and spirituality shaped her view of life and death.

Your actors are also at an advanced age. Was it sensitive to work with them, considering they might relate deeply to the characters' experiences?
I gave the book and the script to Þorsteinn Gunnarsson, and he loved it. When I asked him if he felt connected to it, he told me, “I died ten years ago.” He’d suffered a stroke at a wedding party, was revived and felt like he’d changed. That experience made him feel really close to the film. Friðrik, my producer, initially objected, saying that he was too old and might die during the process. I replied that there was no guarantee for any of us. “He already died once before – he has experience.” Something told me we should take the chance, and we made it.

As for Guðrún Gísladóttir, playing his wife, she was in Tarkovsky’s The Sacrifice. I’ve known her since I was a kid; she was in Urna, and she immediately understood the role.

Is the burning house also a nod to Tarkovsky?
Well, yes. In the book, the house doesn’t burn; the character simply has a stroke in his summer cottage and dies. But I wanted to set it on fire. We filmed at a real summer house near my mother’s home. The farmer who owned it said we could do whatever we wanted. I asked, “Can I burn it down?” and he said, “Yes.”

The film subtly critiques our pragmatic view of death, like the house of the deceased old lady being put up for sale immediately, or the coffin salesman’s promotional pitch. Was that intentional?
Absolutely. The coffin salesman wasn’t in the book – I added that. The dialogue was based on my own experience when I was trying to get a coffin for the film. The salesman kept pushing me to buy two, saying it made more sense for production. That cynical exchange stuck with me, so I put it in the film. Also, perhaps from my Soviet upbringing, I have a great respect for old people, which is not exactly the case in Icelandic culture.

Through this film, did your perspective on death change?
It made me think deeply about it – where we go, where we travel. Call me naive, but I believe our souls go somewhere else. This body is temporary. Writing the script and shaping the film forced me to confront those questions in a more profound way and reflect on the mystery of death. I wanted the character to disappear into the fog at the end because in the fog, anything can happen. By the time he reaches the Faroe Islands, the world is misty – a gateway to something beyond. A secret door to eternity.