Number 24

There is a specific, bone-chilling silence that only exists in a city under occupation, and John Andreas Andersen captures it with a precision that made me turn down the volume on my clanking radiator just to hear the snow crunch under a bicycle tire. We’ve seen the "Greatest Generation" portrayed through the lens of Hollywood bombast for decades, but Number 24 (originally Nr. 24) feels like a bracing, modern recalibration of the war hero myth. It isn't interested in the polished brass of a uniform; it’s obsessed with the smudge of grease on a sabotaged gear and the hollow eyes of a man who has forgotten his own name.

I stumbled upon this while doom-scrolling through international releases on a rainy Tuesday, clutching a bag of salt-liquorice that was arguably too salty for human consumption. While the rest of the world was looking at the latest franchise reboots, Norway quietly dropped one of the most sobering and technically proficient historical dramas of the decade.

The Accountant of Sabotage

The film centers on Gunnar Sønsteby, Norway’s most decorated war hero, but it avoids the traditional cradle-to-grave structure. Instead, it weaves between a young Sønsteby (played with a startling, jittery intensity by Sjur Vatne Brean) and an elderly Gunnar (Erik Hivju) looking back from the late 20th century. This dual-timeline approach is where the film earns its "contemporary" stripes. It doesn't just show us the explosions; it asks what those explosions do to a man's psyche over fifty years.

Sjur Vatne Brean is a revelation here. He portrays Sønsteby not as a chiseled commando, but as a nondescript, almost invisible clerk. He was a man who looked more likely to file your taxes than blow up a railway, and that was precisely his superpower. Watching him navigate Oslo on a bicycle—his signature mode of transport—while carrying enough explosives to level a city block is a masterclass in sustained tension. There is a sequence involving the destruction of the Labour Office that had me leaning so far forward I nearly fell off my chair. It’s not "action" in the MCU sense; it’s a desperate, fumbling, high-stakes heist where the only prize is not being executed in a basement.

Shadows in the LED Volume

Visually, the film benefits immensely from the current era’s technological toolkit. While Andersen is known for big-budget disaster romps like The North Sea (2021), he exercises remarkable restraint here. The cinematography by Pål Ulvik Rokseth uses the harsh, blue-tinted light of the Norwegian winter to create a mood of perpetual twilight. It feels cold. You can almost feel the dampness of the safe houses through the screen.

The production design manages to avoid that "clean" look that plagues so many modern period pieces. Everything feels lived-in, worn-out, and slightly dirty. There’s a scene involving Philip Helgar as Edvard Tallaksen that highlights the sheer vulnerability of these resistance fighters—they weren't invincible; they were terrified kids in oversized coats. The film uses its budget (a modest three million in US dollars, though it looks like ten) to ground the spectacle in human sweat. It’s a reminder that you don't need a hundred million dollars to make a war feel enormous if you make the stakes feel personal.

The Burden of Being Number 24

What sets Number 24 apart from the glut of WWII content is its refusal to offer easy closure. The interaction between the two Gunnars—the boy who became a ghost and the man who became a monument—is haunting. Erik Hivju (whose son Kristofer you likely know from Game of Thrones) brings a weary dignity to the older Sønsteby. He isn't basking in the glory; he’s carrying the weight of the friends who didn't make it, like Andreas Aubert (Magnus Dugdale) and Erling Solheim (Jakob Maanum Trulsen).

Interestingly, the film had a massive domestic run in Norway but has remained a "hidden gem" internationally. This is likely due to the franchise-heavy theatrical landscape of 2024, where mid-budget dramas often get buried under the weight of "event" cinema. It’s a shame, because Number 24 is exactly the kind of film that justifies the theatrical experience—not for the explosions, but for the communal silence of a captivated audience. It’s a film that understands that the most dangerous thing a person can do is remember.

Number 24 is a somber, impeccably acted tribute that ditches the hero-worship in favor of something much more fragile and honest. It’s a dark, intense look at the cost of resistance that feels incredibly relevant in our current global climate of uncertainty. If you’re tired of CGI armies and want a story about the terrifying power of a single person with a bicycle and a purpose, track this one down. It’s the kind of cinema that lingers in your mind long after the credits roll, making the quiet of your own home feel a little more profound.