Following its debut at Sundance Film Festival in January, Hatching released across theatres in the UK last week. The lack of fanfare may mean the debut feature of Finnish director Hanna Bergholm is likely to largely fall under the radar, but intrigued by the trailer, I made sure to catch it. And I am so glad that I did.
There is so much depth to unpick with the film and so the following review will include spoilers.
Hatching introduces the audience to the idyllic life of an unnamed, picture perfect Finnish family. Every element of their lives is pristine and polished, their beautiful home a perfect backdrop for the loving mother (Sophia Heikkila) and father (Jani Volanen) and their two children. Yet something about their carefully choreographed life feels unnervingly too perfect. Emotions feel forced, restrained, every element of their lives framed to reflect their idealistic instagrammable world. Meticulously planning every element, the mother primps the world around her, always presenting her very best for her sickly sweet blog. We never find out much about the family beyond the surface. Their careers, even their names deemed unimportant. All that matters is what is on the surface, the image presented to the world and the mothers online followers.
The poster for Hatching itself highlights this, with the family hidden behind blank masks. Only through little cracks do we see the pain the family endure, the father in particular reduced to a life size model who’s only purpose is to maintain the facade of perfection. When a black crow enters the home, causing havoc amongst the carefully organised furnishings, we learn the lengths the mother will go to to eradicate anything that threatens her vision as she callously cracks the creatures neck in front of the outwardly cool, yet clearly horrified daughter Tinja (Siiri Solalinna).
The dying creatures pained calls summon the young Tinja – who stumbles upon its nest and inside – one solitary egg. Perhaps in an attempt to make amends for the birds death at her mothers hands, Tinja brings the egg home, concealing it within her bed. Noticing the egg growing at an alarming rate, she delicately transfers it to a hole inside her stuffed animal before eventually cradling it, nurturing the egg with her own body heat.
The egg continues to grow, absorbing and seemingly feeding on Tinja’s tears, its development intrinsically linked to the repressed trauma and resentment she harbours.
Despite the saccharine setting, when the hardened shell begins to crack there is an unexpected shiver of apprehension as the audience and protagonist realise we are not quite sure exactly what has been developing inside. The reveal comes quite early in the film, subverting expectations of the traditional pacing. It’s enough to set viewers on edge, something that is compounded by the horror of the slimy creature that bursts its way through the membrane and takes its first breath in the world. It is surprising and simultaneously feels both hilarious and horrifying. As we take in the first look of the deformed bird like creature, it is no coincidence this is through the reflection of a mirror in Tinja’s bedroom. The contrast between the small blonde girl and the dark creature is stark and the initial emphasis on this polarity makes the subsequent development of the film all the more interesting.
Tinja finds herself desperately trying to care for and conceal the creature whilst maintaining appearances for her family. Her time is strictly regimented, with focus placed heavily on gymnastics training for an upcoming competition. Though her desires are unspoken, the camera lingers on the wistful glances Tinja gives her peers as they enjoy their free time and their childhoods. Driven by her mother’s desire to attain perfection, Tinja avoids socialising, instead placing her attention on achievement. As she is forced to repeat her training over and over, her mother seems oblivious to her young daughters pain as callouses on her hands tear open and bleed from the effort.
When the young Reeta moves in next door, Tinja gets a sense of what her life could be. The girls talk through the fence separating their gardens and as close as they may be physically, the barrier remains, reinforcing the parallel between Tinja’s restrictive life and Reeta’s freedom.
Tinja’s growing resentment rises in the creature and the foreshadowing is apparent as it makes its first kill, viciously beheading Reeta’s dog. Whilst we are placed in the view of the creature, it is Tinja’s ragged breathing we hear, indicating there may be more to the bond between girl and bird than we first assumed.
As the feature develops it becomes apparent that the creature that has grown is really a part of Tinja herself, borne of her trauma and repression into a twisted expression of her anger. The bird begins to shed its initial form, growing long blonde hair and eventually shedding its beak. The resulting doppelgänger is a physical representation of everything Tinja has been forced to conceal – the only lingering hints of what it once was illustrated by the scars on its mouth.
Whilst Hatching is a modern take on the traditional creature feature, the underlying narrative elevates the story to a cautionary coming of age tale in the time of social media and pursuit of perfection. There are understated elements that hint at the struggle of teenage development with references to puberty and bulimia/body image.
The contrast between the realistic narrative and bizarre monster in many ways feels like it shouldn’t work, but the strong creature effects and flawless performance of Solalinna make the unbelievable believable. Solalinna manages to delicately convey such emotion with a sense of restraint that makes her eventual performance of the creature all the more harrowing and seems to underline the shock that such a monster lurked within such a small and polite girl all along.
As the feature swells to its dramatic conclusion, the audience hopes for a sense of regret in the mother as she cradles her dying daughter in her arms, ultimately realising what she has done. Yet through her tears, we see the mother appraise Tinja’s doppelgänger with a hopeful smile that seems to suggest what she has thought all along; as long as the outside looks good, it doesn’t matter what is within.
Following in the footsteps of some other cracking female filmmakers (see what I did there?), Bergholm has birthed a beautiful piece that doesn’t hold back on disturbing imagery whilst maintaining an emotive and compelling narrative. I cannot wait to see what she does next.
