There are films that seem to emerge from dreams, and then there are films that feel like dreams that have always existed — half-remembered, passed through generations. November, by Estonian director Rainer Sarnet, belongs to the latter. Based on Andrus Kivirähk’s novel Rehepapp, the movie drags us into a rural world where pagan beliefs, Christian guilt, witchcraft, and love coexist in the same frozen landscape. It is at once grotesque and poetic, absurd and deeply spiritual.
| Movie Details | |
|---|---|
| Country | Estonia |
| Year | 2017 |
| Genre | Fantasy, Folk Horror, Drama |
| Runtime | 115 min |
| Director | Rainer Sarnet |
| Main Actors | Rea Lest, Jörgen Liik, Arvo Kukumägi |
Shot in striking black and white, the film’s visual power is undeniable. Cinematographer Mart Taniel turns the Estonian countryside into something mythic — a place where mist, mud, and moonlight are as expressive as the characters themselves. The camera captures not just a setting, but an emotional temperature: cold, raw, full of longing.
At its core, November is a story about desire — for warmth, for belonging, for survival. The peasants steal from the manor and from each other, inventing strange mechanical spirits called kratts to do their bidding. Yet their schemes feel less about greed and more about the desperate need to outwit death in a world that gives them so little. Among this chaos, two souls — Liina and Hans — attempt to navigate love amid hunger and superstition.
What makes November singular is its refusal to conform. It doesn’t moralize, doesn’t explain its mythology, doesn’t even seek to comfort the viewer. Instead, it moves according to its own rhythm — slow, elliptical, and profoundly atmospheric. The film borrows from Estonian folklore but also from German expressionism and early silent cinema, with moments that recall Dreyer or Tarkovsky. Its humor is morbid, its tenderness sudden, its beauty contaminated by decay.
The performances, especially Rea Lest as Liina, are rooted in stillness and restraint. Her longing and isolation seem carved into her face, as if she too was part of the frozen earth. Around her, villagers mutter incantations, bargain with the devil, and wrestle with their mortality. The absurd rituals — from shapeshifting wolves to speaking skeletons — end up feeling strangely human, reflections of our own smallness against forces we can’t control.
November is not an easy film. It resists summary, and its darkness is not merely visual but existential. Yet for those willing to enter its rhythm, it offers one of the most original and haunting cinematic experiences of recent years — a portrait of a community living between hunger and faith, dirt and transcendence.
Sarnet’s film asks what it means to be alive in a world governed by death — and what fragments of love, magic, or madness we cling to when winter refuses to end.
