The Girl with the Needle

The first thing that hits you about The Girl with the Needle isn’t the story, but the sheer, oppressive weight of the air. Set in the ashen aftermath of World War I, Copenhagen doesn't look like a bustling European capital; it looks like a graveyard that forgot to stop growing. Director Magnus von Horn shoots the entire affair in a high-contrast, silver-nitrate black and white that feels less like a stylistic choice and more like the only way to capture a world where the sun has permanently retreated behind a veil of coal smoke.

I watched this while eating a bowl of cold pasta, and by the forty-minute mark, I’d completely forgotten to keep chewing. There is a specific kind of hypnotic misery here that demands your total, somewhat horrified, attention. It’s the kind of film that makes you want to scrub your skin afterward, not because it’s "gross," but because the moral grime is so thick you can almost feel it settling on your shoulders.

A Fairy Tale Written in Soot

The story follows Karoline, played with a haunting, wide-eyed resilience by Vic Carmen Sonne. She’s a seamstress who loses her job, her home, and her sense of security when her husband is declared missing in the war. When he eventually returns, he’s not the man she married; he’s a hollowed-out shell wearing a proto-cinematic facial prosthetic that wouldn't look out of place in a slasher flick. This isn't a "welcome home" romance; it’s a nightmare of social displacement.

Karoline’s desperation leads her into the orbit of Dagmar, portrayed by the legendary Trine Dyrholm. Dagmar runs a candy shop—a literal gingerbread house in the middle of a slum—where she also operates an "underground adoption agency." She promises to find homes for the unwanted infants of desperate women. If that sounds like the setup for a dark folk tale, that’s because it is. The movie makes Oliver Twist look like a luxury vacation.

Von Horn isn't interested in the sweeping heroics of the "Great War." He’s looking at the rot left in the gutters. In our current era of "elevated horror" and period pieces that often feel too sanitized, The Girl with the Needle stands out by being utterly unflinching. It connects to contemporary conversations about bodily autonomy and the invisibility of the working poor without ever feeling like it’s checking boxes. It’s a film about what happens to people when society decides they are disposable.

The Monster in the Candy Shop

The chemistry—if you can call it that—between Sonne and Dyrholm is the film's blackened heart. Vic Carmen Sonne gives a performance that is almost entirely internal; you watch the light slowly leave her eyes as she realizes the true nature of the "mercy" she’s helping to administer. Then there’s Trine Dyrholm, who plays Dagmar with a terrifying, maternal softness. She doesn't see herself as a villain. She sees herself as a social worker for the damned.

There’s a philosophical void at the center of their relationship. Dagmar argues that she is providing a service—relieving mothers of burdens they cannot carry and spared the children a life of certain suffering. It’s a perversion of utilitarianism that forces the audience to grapple with a sickening question: In a world this cruel, is "disappearing" better than "enduring"?

The film is loosely based on the real-life case of Dagmar Overbye, Denmark’s most notorious serial killer. Knowing that this isn't just a grim fantasy adds a layer of existential dread that's hard to shake. It’s like a Disney movie directed by a ghost with a grudge. The production design by Jagna Dobesz and the score by Frederikke Hoffmeier create a sensory experience that feels archaic and modern all at once, using industrial drones and claustrophobic framing to keep the walls closing in on the viewer.

The Echo of the Needle

While The Girl with the Needle premiered at Cannes in 2024 to significant buzz, its limited box office of under $500,000 suggests it’s destined for the "hidden gem" category on streaming platforms like MUBI or at boutique theaters. It lacks the franchise safety net of the modern box office, but it has something much rarer: a soul that is deeply, uncomfortably alive.

It captures the 2024 zeitgeist in a strange way. In an era where we are constantly litigating who has the right to exist and who is responsible for the vulnerable, this 100-year-old story feels painfully relevant. It’s a "Contemporary Classic" in the sense that it uses the past to hold a jagged mirror up to the present. It doesn't offer easy answers or a cathartic ending. Instead, it asks you to sit in the dark and acknowledge the shadows.

If you have the stomach for it, this is one of the most visually stunning and intellectually demanding films of the year. It’s a reminder that cinema can still be a physical experience—one that pricks the conscience as effectively as the titular needle. Just maybe don't eat any pasta while you watch it.

The Girl with the Needle is a masterpiece of atmospheric dread and moral complexity. It’s a film that stays with you, rattling around in your brain like a loose tooth long after the credits roll. Magnus von Horn has crafted a haunting look at the cost of survival that is as beautiful as it is brutal. It’s easily one of the most significant European films of the decade so far.