Language in Robert Eggers’ The Northman

Director of the film ‘The Northman’ Robert Eggers has openly prided himself on the background research and pinpoint accuracy he commits to in his film. Even as someone not personally invested in all aspects that embody accuracy in his films’ settings, his priority in an ideal filmmaking world would be to uphold all of them to the greatest extent possible. In his debut feature ‘The Witch’ (2015) the characters spoke in largely period-accurate archaic modern English. In his follow-up ‘The Lighthouse’ (2019) William Dafoe’s supporting role is expressed through detailed and tailored 19^th century maritime colloquialisms and dialectal features. In his latest film ‘The Northman’ (2022), set in Iceland during the Viking Age, Eggers says on the topic of language thus:

 “Yeah, it would be my preference for them, for the characters to speak in Old Norse and Old Slavic, and they do in some ritual situations, they do. But I knew that it was a non-starter. Unless I'm Mel Gibson, financing my own movies, that's not going to happen with a budget like this” (Collider).

This article will examine the language used by the film in names, speech, song and writing, both in English and otherwise.

EXTENSIVE SPOILER WARNING

Note - an *asterisk next to a word means that this word is reconstructed. It is too old or obscure to be attested in writing anywhere, but linguists have reconstructed it from its descendants, or ‘reflexes’, in daughter languages.

The material culture of the setting is widely agreed to be represented to a high degree of accuracy, with the perplexing exception of a 17^th century Christian Occult stave plastered on the forehead of an apparent 10^th century pagan at (see below) through the runtime. Oversights in a project so large and ambitious are ultimately inevitable, but whereas the cinema is rife with enthusiasts that must be placated with carefully researched props, classical language is a topic niche enough for standards to often slip. The highly touted games God of War (2018) and Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla (2020) have featured some especially egregiously low effort attempts at ancient language portrayals, to the point of sentences being incomprehensible and puzzling to experts. (Crawford, 2022a)

Credit: The Northman (2022)

             With the bar of expectations set decidedly low by ‘viking’ pop culture, The Northman has small boots to fill. However, the high standard of historical accuracy to which the director, his most devoted viewers and the film’s own marketing hold it to are by no means a foregone conclusion. So, to introduce the linguistic atmosphere of the setting, both in this article and in the viewing experience of the film itself, the broad cast of characters’ names and the meanings they embody merit analysis.

Names

Our story’s protagonist is Amleth, introduced in childhood as the heir to the petty Norwegian kingdom of Hrafnsey (‘Raven Island’). Amleth is attested as ‘Amlethus’ in Gesta Danorum, a 13^th century Latin chronicle of Denmark by Grammarian Saxo Grammaticus. His telling of the Old Norse oral saga of Amloði laid the foundation for Shakespeare’s titular Hamlet. The original Old Norse name Amloði outwardly means ‘fool’ and is still used in Icelandic as a pejorative, notably on the lightest of the Dritvík lifting stones. The name may contain the suffix element ‘óðr’, the definite form of which constitutes the name of the god Óðinn (Old Norse rendition of Odin), and has itself has been open to much research and reconstruction. Typically, it is translated to something akin to ‘mad’ or ‘frenzied’. Within Saxo Grammaticus’ tale this nominative madness is a farce employed by Amleth so as not to rouse suspicion. In the film, something similar is portrayed, although most would describe Alexander Skarsgård’s interpretation as more subservient than overtly stupid or unhinged.

Amleth is joined by his partner Olga, a Slavic woman from Garðaríki (modern day Kyiv) and practitioner of magic. Her given name is common enough to be known contemporarily to almost every viewer, but in the year c.915 when much of the film is set, this name in this form was in its infancy. ‘Olga’ is typically believed to derive from the Old Norse name Helga, making it otherwise fitting for the setting of Garðaríki, a land infused with elements of both cultures. The first woman we have attested with the name was Olga of Kyiv, who was born sometime around when this scene was set and may serve as an inspiration for her character.

Amleth’s father King Aurvandill has a name well attested in myth as ‘Aurvandill the Valiant’, a man kidnapped by the Jǫtnar (‘giants’ in Norse myth), saved by Þórr (Old Norse rendition of Thor) and whose dismembered frozen toe became a star in the Orion constellation in Norse folk motif (Dumézil, 1970). The word appears across several Germanic languages and has been reconstructed as a Proto Germanic (Spoken c. 500BCE - 1^st century CE) word meaning ‘morning light’ (Beechy, 2010). As a given name in the time and period of the film, it is totally plausible. His name is featured in the original saga of Amloði, attested in both Latin form by Saxo and a 17^th century Icelandic telling. The etymology of the name is uncertain and may denote a ray or beam of light. Simek (2007) notes a potential connection to a possibly attested god ‘Vandill’ of the East Germanic Vandal tribe, though notes that ‘it can hardly be proved – at the present time’. The name appears as ‘Horvendill’ in Saxo Grammaticus’ rendition of the tale.

Aurvandill’s treacherous brother Fjölnir (Old Norse – Fjǫlnir) has an interesting and appropriate choice of name, it being theorised to stem from Old Norse ‘at fela’, ‘to conceal’, making him the ‘concealer’, although there is no consensus on this etymology (Lindow, 2001). The name is one of the >200 alternative names for Óðinn in Eddic and Skaldic poetry, as well as a King in the Old Norse works Gróttasǫngr and the euhemeristic story Ynglinga saga, where he is named by Icelandic chieftain Snorri Sturluson as a son of the god Freyr. Fjölnir is repeatedly shown to be a venerator of Freyr in the film, even naming his farmstead Freydalur (Freyr’s dales) and his horse Freyfaxi (Mane of Freyr) in honour of him. The mythological Fjǫlnir is also named by Ynglinga saga as the progenitor of the Yngling dynasty, who are attested in the Old English epic Beowulf. Unlike Aurvandill, Fjölnir’s name is introduced by the film and not the original myth. Amleth’s uncle is conversely known as ‘Feng’ in Saxo’s telling of the tale.

Fjolnir’s wife and the mother of Amleth is also renamed from the original tale. Saxo’s account of ‘Gerutha’ that would be anglicised as Shakespeare’s ‘Gertrude’ is replaced with Eggers’ ‘Guðrún’. The reasoning for the choice is not entirely obvious, although the name Guðrún stems from the roots for ‘god’ and ‘rune’ (Hanks et al., 2006), contextually likely denoting divine secret or esoteric knowledge as opposed to a runic alphabetical letter. The word ‘rune’ itself has a somewhat obscure origin and may be a loan or cognate (cousin word) of a Celtic word, which survives today as modern Irish ‘rún’ (secret). This meaning given by Hanks et al., (2006) would align with the context of Guðrún in the film, wherein she keeps several dark secrets from Amleth. She hides her background as a slave and lies about being a princess from Brittany, his violent conception, her affair with Fjölnir and her compliance in Aurvandill’s murder. This may serve as the reason for her new chosen name.

Some side characters also have notable names. The Norse slave girl Kormlöð has an obscure name, one still approved by the Icelandic government for use but with no living individuals going by it as of 2024. It was loaned from the Middle Irish name Gormflaith, meaning ‘blue princess’ sometime in the Middle Ages. This was not an unheard-of practise, as the loan of Irish ‘Cormac’ owes to the name of the titular hero of the Saga of Kormákr. Irish slaves taken to Iceland and the Faroe Islands had a significant impact on the language, which can even be heard in the phonology of modern Faroese and loanwords like ‘tarvur’ from Irish tarbh (‘bull’). Kormlöð seems to embody the ethnic mixing of the cultural context, as she appears during the fertility celebration scene wearing a decorative floral crown, a Slavic motif likely borrowed from some of her fellow slaves. This depiction of integration of cultures is something The Northman must be credited for, as it is a more accurate and responsible portrayal of the period than the hyper homogenous, fetishistic image Hollywood productions so often portray.

The fact that many of the slave characters are conversely Celtic but with Old Norse given names highlights the historical practice of people being renamed by their owners. More natural syncretism is shown with the character Volodymyr the boatman, who hails from the land of the Rus with a Slavic name but appears to canonically speak Old Norse and has Younger Futhark runes tattooed upon his neck. The inclusion of tattooing may be considered a somewhat dubious choice for Eggers regarding historical accuracy, but is alleviated by the fact that the only possible historical account of Germanic people with tattoos stems from writer Ibn Fadlan’s account of the Kievan Rus themselves (Lune & Stone, 2011). It remains debated whether the account describes people with tattoos or other forms of bodily decoration, and no evidence for the practise exists in Scandinavia itself or its associated islands.

Heimir, the fool employed to entertain the king, becomes the Yorick of the story when Amleth later reminisces over his decapitated head. His name, seemingly a reflex of Old Norse ‘heimr’, had several definitions, including region, home and world. ‘Home’ would thematically appear to be the meaning driving the choice of selection, as Amleth’s poignant memory of the man that entertained him in his youth is emblematic of the family, homestead and childhood that was taken away from him, as well as everything the Seeress in Garðaríki implores him to return to reclaim. Neither she nor Heimir’s successor of sorts, the ‘he-witch’, have given names, but both are notable for their labels. The Seeress is also credited as the ‘Slavic Witch’, making more sense as ‘Seeress’ is typically a label applied to ‘vǫlvas’, Norse female figures of prophecy somewhat analogous to the oracles in Greek myth. The ‘he-witch’ is a ‘seiðrmaðr’, a male practitioner of seiðr, the ‘woman’s magic’ mentioned by Heimir in the initiation scene. While seiðr is not fully understood by scholars today, it carrying feminine associations are agreed as a likelihood.

Anything deemed feminine enacted by men was highly taboo to the point of complete ostracization in Norse society, making the he-witch’s hermit lifestyle and lack of commanded respect understandable. The nature of seiðr as a form of projection of one’s spirit through the mouth (Heide, 2006) is the cause for his gasping noises as he contacts the spirit of Heimir. Remnants of this belief are visible even today in the similar Icelandic words for spirit (anda) and to breathe (að anda), as well as a Norwegian custom of telling children that someone is thinking of them when they yawn, implying that their spirits are interacting. This belief conflating essential spirit with expelled breath is evidently extremely old, with the Proto Germanic ‘anadô’ (Kroonen, 2013) and Latin contemporary cognate ‘anima’ both carrying a shared broad definition of ‘that which animates, gives spirit/life’. The shared inheritance suggest an early Indo European origin from ‘*h₂enh₁’ (to breathe), if not older but beyond the reach of reconstructive linguistics. This word is notable for its apparent onomatopoeic nature, resembling a physical exhalation itself. The relation between the words ‘spirit’ and ‘aspirate/respirate’ through this inheritance serve as an example of this notion in modern speech.

Additionally, the blacksmith character credited as ‘Völundur’ is a clear reference to Vǫlundr the Smith, a.k.a Wayland the Smith, one of the most famous heroes of Germanic folklore and known for his crafting and smithing abilities despite his physical lameness. His earliest reconstructable narrative draws interesting parallels to that of Euripides’ Greek tragedy Medea, which I have explored in another, shorter, previous article.

Note: The following section will make reference to the Germanic and Balto-Slavic branches of the Indo European language family. If you are not familiar with these, see the below chart to observe which modern languages are a part of what group, and the relationship between them.

Credit: Jakub Marian

Finally, the name which Amleth adopts whilst under the guise of a common thrall is ‘Bjǫrnulfr’, a compound of ‘bear’ and ‘wolf’. This nominal structure was typical of Germanic names going right back to the earliest attestation of any Germanic language with ‘𐌇𐌀𐌓𐌉𐌙𐌀𐌔𐌕𐌉’ written one of the the so-called ‘Negau B’ helmets, dated to around 300BC (Teržan 2012). This inscription in the Etruscan alphabet has been transcribed as Proto-Germanic ‘Hariχasti teiva’ or ‘Harigast the priest’. This name, ‘Harigast’, is a compound meaning ‘army guest’ or possibly ‘warrior guest’. Similar names such as Wagagastiz (‘wave guest’) and Hlewagastiz (‘fame guest’) are common up until the Viking Age, when names such as Hafþór (Half-Thor, male), Ásgeir (Spear of the gods, male) and Hrafnhildur (battle raven, female) appear that continue into modern usage today, especially in Iceland. The name Björnulf is scantly used nowadays, with one known living example being the Norweigan artist Bjørnulf Dyrud.

Upon hearing the name in the film, Fjölnir mentions associations of being ‘strong as a bear’ but ‘untrustworthy as a wolf’. The latter is a reference to the Norse conflation of wolves with outlaws, to which the word ‘vargr’ became a synonym for both. Vargr was originally a word for outlaw that was used as a euphemism for wolf (‘ulfr’), possibly to avoid summoning the animal by speaking its name, a theory reinforced by the euphemistic adoption of a name meaning ‘howler’ in Proto Armenian and Proto Celtic. This name taboo also extends to the word ‘bear’, wherein the much earlier Indo-European word *hrtkos gave way to Germanic ‘Bero’, meaning possibly ‘brown one’, piercer, or ‘beast’ (Ringe, 2017). The former may be problematic due to the dubious existence of a designated word for ‘brown’ in pre-Germanic (Ringe, 2017). Keyes (2010) calls it the oldest known euphemism in any language, although comparative reconstructions of this nature are impossible to precisely date. Similar euphemisms can be seen with the word bear in Proto-Slavic ‘medwed’, meaning ‘honey eater’ and Proto-Baltic ‘tlak’, meaning ‘stomper’. Such examples indicate a widespread cultural taboo against naming the most dangerous animals across ancient Europe. The existence of the Sanskrit version भल्ल (‘bhalla’) indicates it is likely as old Proto Indo European itself, and the Old Irish version ‘math’ (‘the good one’) possibly indicates that not all cultures saw the animal negatively, though it is possible that this is a term of placation. Irish also applied negative connotations and avoidance labels to other less dangerous animals such as foxes, as ‘sionnach’ (possibly ‘the old one’) and ‘madra rua’ (red-haired dog, with red hair also carrying untrustworthy connotations for women).

The original Indo-European word for bear *hrtkos still has reflexes observable in these languages in related terms, such as Lithuanian ‘irstva’ (‘bear’s cave) and English ‘arctic’, albeit the latter through several loans. The phenomenon was not purely an Indo European one either, as the Finnish word for bear, ‘karhu’, derives from Proto Finnic *karhe:da, meaning ‘rough or coarse’ (Itkonen et al., 2000). Whether this phenomenon was loaned from Indo European into Uralic culture or vice versa or was inherited independently by both as a substrate feature is unknown.

Note: *hrtkos may be a problematic reconstruction, as Blevins (2018) notes a lack of reflexes containing the elements of the final t and palatal k, calling the form ‘unanalyzable’(Blevins, 2018).

As another aside, an accredited reconstruction of the former into Proto-Balto-Slavic ‘*medwedis’ would indicate that Keyes (2011) is incorrect, as no reconstruction dates Proto-Balto-Slavic as existing alongside or after Proto Germanic, but rather significantly earlier. Thus,‘*medwedis’ may be a better candidate for the earliest single reconstructed euphemism until further research is conducted.  

The reasoning behind the film’s choice of this ‘Bjornulfr’ name for Amleth is open to interpretation, but it can be posited that it was selected to convey two references to beings which are referenced by pseudonyms that bely their ‘true’ name and identity, which is to be feared and not provoked. Such is the parallel drawn between the bear, the wolf and Amleth himself as he adopts the guise of the obedient slave, hiding his truly dangerous nature.

Accents and dialogue

One of the more potentially jarring inconsistencies within the film that may strike even a general audience relates to the array of accents the characters use whilst speaking English, as well as the archaic language they employ. Films such as The Northman with historical settings constantly run the risk of alienating the audience with accurate but estranging historical accents. On the contrary, they also risk negating the setting and tone by using language that forms and sounds in a manner too familiar to the viewer. Media such as the miniseries ‘John Adams’ (2008) and Eggers’ own ‘The Witch’ (2015) and ‘The Lighthouse’ (2019) have demonstrated that archaic dialects can be well received by audiences whilst maintaining faithful depictions of historical contexts. In The Northman Eggers employs somewhat stilted, antiquated English to convey the characters’ speech. Any viewer who has read the various Legendary, Contemporary, or other subgenres of Icelandic sagas will be aware of the dialogue in those texts and how it can appear similarly stilted and dry. If Eggers’ vision is to exact a film that evokes the same essence of those sagas, the primary school stage-play hokeyness of lines like ‘I’ve come to be fettered by my queen’s fair locks’ can be forgiven.

What is ostensibly harder to ignore is the striking lack of consistent accents among characters that are supposed kinsmen and compatriots. This relates not to the various minor characters who reflect the international representation of the ensemble, such as Auðunn, played by Seamus O’Hara with a typical Irish accent. Perhaps mimicry of Old Irish phonology for a minor side character would be asinine pedantry, especially when acclaimed similar films of the past such as Hrafninn Flýgur (1984) featured an Irish Protagonist who spoke fluent Icelandic without explanation. Similarly, the film presents the character Halldóra (Old Norse Hallþórr), who is labelled as Pictish. The Pictish language and ethnicity is so poorly understood by contemporary research that no film could be expected to portray a ‘Pictish accent’ to any degree, and actress Kate Dickie’s regular Scottish accent suffices. ‘Hellblade, Senua’s Sacrifice’ (2017) is a game that also starred a Pictish woman as the protagonist, played by German Actress Melina Jürgens performing in an SSB-based English accent with some native German influence creeping in, seemingly by accident. Of the two, The Northman’s would appear far more appropriate the choice of portrayal, as Picts were being Gaelicised by Scotsgaidhlig speakers by the 10^th century and the film’s awareness of this is plausible. Notably, in the sequel to the game, Hellblade 2 (2024), Senua was retconned as an Orcadian.

Rather than these side characters, some of the more potentially bothersome pronunciations occur around the name of Fjölnir and Gudrun’s young sun Gunnar, whom the cast refer to in a manner so Anglicised that at times it more closely resembles the Irish name ‘Conor’. The name is espoused as /ˈɡʌn.ɚ/, a near homophone of rhotic English ‘gunner’, as opposed to the modern and typical Norwegian /ɡʉnːnɑr/ which English speakers in a general audience may approximate as rhyming with the words ‘new car’. While not a perfect analogue to the Old Norse form, it would be far closer and easily asked about on set, given the various Norwegians involved in production, such as Magne Osnes and Eldar Skar. Even the main actor Alexander Skarsgård’s native Swedish /ˈɡɵn.nar/ would be a closer approximant.

Another curious example is that of the Slavic Witch, played by Icelandic artist Björk in her second film role. Her first performance was as a Czech woman in the infamous Lars Von Trier production Dancer in the Dark (1995), giving her the unique accolade of an actor who solely plays the role of Slavs with inexplicable Icelandic accents. Her distorted and whispery voice is difficult to place in the opening of her expository dialogue with Amleth, but as it goes on the telltale voiceless sonorants and initial syllable stress of Icelandic become more pronounced and it becomes difficult to believe that this character who is supposed to embody the magic and esotericism of the Slavic people within the film is Slavic at all. To put it plainly, it simply sounds like Björk.

Throughout the film many other Icelandic actors use distinctly modern Icelandic pronunciation. In a podcast hosted soon after the film’s release Norse philologist Eirik Storesund referenced this fact and posited that the non-Icelandic actors were more receptive to learning the older phonology, referring to his own experience as a consultant on similar projects (Brute Norse). However, In the longboat funeral scene Irish actress Faoileann Cunningham uses a distinctly modern Icelandic /rʰ/ in the termination of the word ‘mother’ despite being Irish, suggesting that the dialect coaching consultation work itself gave some questionable direction, as it is highly unlikely that she would use this sound instinctively and rather was directed to do so.

These modern features extend to the rest of the cast, who pronounce ‘Hrafnsey’ and ‘Freyr’ with the modern Icelandic /ei/ as opposed to Old West Norse /œy/ (Bandle, 2005). Swedish actor Gustav Lindh pronounces ‘slave’ with a voiceless labiodental fricative when an Old Norse speaker would be expected to use a voiced fricative, as in English. In other words, Lindh pronounces slave as ‘slafe’ when there is no reason to do so. Fjölnir’s name is pronounced with a modern Icelandic ö as opposed to Old Norse ǫ*, and ‘Valhǫll’ (Valhalla) as mentioned by the Seiðrmaðr receives a strange intermediary of the two sounds, fitting neither Old Norse nor Icelandic, the speaker Ingvar Sigurðsson’s native language.

Note: These two sounds may both be represented with ‘o’ but are produced near the very front and back of the mouth respectively.

To avoid the air of dogpiling on the film, the standard far exceeds that of most media and there is much to commend. ‘Óðinn’ is pronounced with the appropriate voiced dental fricative (as pronounced in English this or these) in the opening narration, in place of the much more common anglicised ‘Odin’, a simple but fundamental detail which serves to draw the viewer out of Hollywood and into the setting. One character remarks Olga’s magic-induced chaos as ‘trollish’, a highly appropriate and well inserted usage of the word ‘troll’ that reflects the research into its highly diverse array of usages in northern Germanic language, beyond just the lumbering ogre modern people typically imagine (cite storesund). This broad usage may be compared to the broad application of the word ‘monstrous’ in English, albeit moreso still. The word ‘dísir’ is similarly used appropriately during the drugging scene where the malevolent hallucinations are attributed to them, they being a seemingly broad category of magically imbued or supernatural women. Amleth tells the boatman that his family will give him ‘nine times its worth’ for his ring, echoing the archetypical Norse trope of the number nine observable in literature, folklore, and archaeology. Fjölnir remarks that Olga’s arms should be ‘kept white’ in accordance with Norse ideals of beauty and social class, where the absence of labour implied prestige. Amleth’s agon on how he cannot kill Fjölnir until fate decides so accurately reflects Norse belief about universal, unchangeable fate. Kormlöð, the girl played by Faoileann Cunningham in the funeral scene previously alluded to, gives a speech before she is sacrificed at Thorir’s funeral that is directly based on Ibn Fadlan’s account of a Norse longship burial and the surrounding ritual. Anya Taylor-Joy does a convincing Slavic accent by the standards of a total non-expert as myself, but another perspective would be needed to judge if the appropriate time period nuances are adhered to, if any.

Spoken Language

It comes as little surprise that the most featured language in the film besides English is Old Norse, assumed to be Old West Norse given the location and time period of first-generation Icelanders hailing from the outskirts of Norway. Commendably, Eggers stated in an interview (Collider) that he would have the entire film performed in contemporary subtitled language if it were possible, although understandably the film would have never received the budget needed to make such a concept possible given its inaccessibility. Nevertheless, The Passion of the Christ’s (2004) use of Aramaic throughout remains an example of a highly successful film with such a direction.

Old Norse is first spoken in the film during the initiation scene approximately 24 minutes into the runtime, wherein the character of the otherwise unnamed ‘Berserker Priest’ addresses the viking troupe in a ritual. Although difficult to parse, the Old Norse monologue is evidently imploring the men to assume the roles of wolves, in line with the recorded ulfheðnar (‘wolf cloak’) (cite) ritual practise often assumed to be largely synonymous with that of berserkir (possibly ‘bare shirts’, or more likely ‘bear shirts’ in line with ulfheðnar). This tradition is supported by the archaeological record, particularly the Torslunda plates seen below, wherein a warrior is depicted in animist wolf garb.

Credit: Scandinavianarchaeology.com

Officially, the film’s sung verse is rendered in translation as thus:

‘Your bear minds burn in the bodies of men.

 Sons of the wolf Fenrir, break free from your flesh.

Wolves will howl in the storm of Odin.

Warriors will fall as the bear claw strikes.

We will fight to Valholl.

Until we return to human shape.

Fearless, we shall drink blood from our enemies' wounds.

Together we will rage in the battlefield of corpses.

Father of War commands us! Transform your skin brothers! Slaughter-wolves! Berserkers! Become your fury!’

The translation appears to be a semantic renditioning rather than verbatim in accuracy to the spoken word, which is difficult to decipher between old Norse or a modern Scandinavian dialect with deliberately archaic colouring. Some sounds rendered by the priest character are distinctly archaic, with initial /w/ for words beginning with ‘v’, a feature which is likely accurate to this time period and would later change to /v/ in western followed by eastern dialects. It would not be ubiquitous however, with some dialects of Icelandic retaining initial /w/ up to at least the 20^th century and Elfdalian preserving it as the only Germanic language to do so today besides English. However, it seems inconsistent in application, both within this scene and the film overall.

Credit: The Northman (2022)

At times during the runtime, the spoken Old Norse does not align with the provided subtitles (Crawford, 2022a) past the point of what would be considered moulding for accessibility.

Line 76 of the Eddic poem Hávamál is read out by the old sage woman Áshildur at the funeral of Þórir. One of the most famous excerpts of Old Norse poetry, it suits the context of a funeral well, tributing the Germanic ideal of a great man’s name outliving flesh, bone and material wealth. The reading is frankly bizarre, with some words omitted entirely from the known text and sounds that do not align with it, despite the specific excerpt being easy to pinpoint.

During the pagan fertility festival scene, an excerpt of the esoterically infamous Bósasaga is sung, likely due to its thematic relevance. Neither one of the better known or highly considered sagas, the saga of Bósi essentially served as an early Icelandic Fifty Shades of Grey. For whatever reason the great scholar Thormodus Torfæus saw fit to dedicating himself to translating the repetitive, drawn-out caper rife with torturous analogies of foals drinking from wells.

Old East Slavic, the ancestral progenitor of modern Russian, Belarusian and Ukrainian among others, is spoken by Taylor Joy’s character in the conclusion of the boat scene. Her incantation to raise the winds is apparently spoken in the language (which may also be classified as a decentralised collection of dialects), with the phonology involved superficially resembling that of Ukrainian, an especially conservative East Slavic language. However, the accuracy to any given period-accurate East Slavic dialect is beyond the scope of this article.

Old Norse is spoken once more in Amleth’s short, repeated monologue before the final climax of the film, addressed to his deceased father and according to the subtitles reading as thus:

“I shall avenge you,

I shall honour my bloodline,

I shall cut the thread of fate"

It is however again not a literal translation, nor is it even particularly semantically accurate. The first line he speaks is literally ‘ek strengi þess heit’ – literally ‘I swear this vow’, then declaring that he shall be a níðingr (an Old Norse perjorative for a socially rejected, untrustworthy or shameful individual) should he fail to do so. This discrepancy between spoken word and text to such an extent arguably belies the intended expression of the character. Additionally, Skarsgård’s pronunciation is distinctively modern, pronouncing ‘heit’ as /haɪt/, similar to English ‘height’, as opposed to the more accurate /heɪt/, similar to English ‘hate’.

Writing and Text

Esteemed scholars such as Haukur Þorgeirsson and Jóhanna Katrín Fridriksdóttir were consulted on behalf of the film for various aspects including language and runic writing. Runes make a handful of appearances throughout the film, mostly in title cards which break up segments of the film. These typically state the names of locations such as ‘Gardðaríki’ (meaning ‘realm of towns’, modern day Kyiv), the Old Norse name for the kingdom of the Rus tribe, also the namesake of Russia today. Their name, stemming from the Finnic ‘Ruotsi’, was an exonym for Swedes related to naval rowing, ‘Ruotsi’ even remains the Finnish exonym for Sweden today. The names are written in period accurate Younger Futhark runes with typical orthography. The card for ‘ĺsland’ (Iceland) does not omit the nasal consonant ‘n’ as some inscriptions from the period have shown to, but this is not an inaccuracy and both forms are attested.

In a possible nod to the tale Kormakr’s saga, Amleth descends into an old burial mound during the film’s midpoint. How an old Vendel Period (540-790 CE) burial exists in Iceland, which was settled in the 870s with the story taking place in the 890s, is questionable. However, the film does a solid job of representing the archaeological record dating to this period well, with its name etched on the blade of a typical Vendel Period sword in Elder Futhark runes. The name, ‘Draugr’ refers to a malicious being in Norse myth which features in the scene itself. Like the sword, the alphabet and spelling it is used for are accurate to that period and all congruent with each other. The issue remains that none of these three things ever existed in Iceland. Dr Heinrik Williams, who was consulted as a runologist for this part of the film, admitted in an interview with Dr Jackson Crawford that he was never told where or when the film was actually set, and so went with a late 7^th century form of the name (Crawford 2022b).

Credit: The Northman (2022)

At the very conclusion of the film, one of the runic title cards appears for the last time, in order to show the film title itself. There is simply one problem. The very name of the film, displayed in enormous text, albeit not that which is readable to many audience members, is spelled wrong.

The series of runes, intended to spell out ‘Amlóðasaga’ as the endonymous Old Norse title, is missing the penultimate vowel. It instead reads ‘Amlóðasga’. This is a frankly baffling oversight for a film on the production of which eight figures was disbursed, let alone from a normally meticulous director.

Credit: The Northman (2022)

The mistake cannot be chalked up to an unusual spelling choice, as besides such a thing being entirely unattested in the runic corpus, subsequent associated releases such as the official soundtrack (see below) included an amended title with the error fixed and a tenth letter added.

Credit: Sacred Bones Records & Back Lot Music

Coda

‘Good but not good enough’ would be a needlessly unpleasable and pedantic summary of the Northman’s efforts to evoke the period which it portrays, certainly regarding the language spoken and written throughout its runtime. It goes without saying that representing foreign and extinct cultures, voices, accents and languages becomes more and more difficult the more foreign and extinct they become. What the mainstream film industry requires primarily in pertinence to historical people and cultures is not more precise detail and minutia, but a change in attitude and ethos. Regardless of what slips through the cracks, which to an extent will always be an inevitability, Eggers’ philosophy of being willing to be challenging and uncomfortable, for both those behind the camera and before the screen, is what makes The Northman a breath of fresh air amongst a sea of turgid modern pseudo-Norse pop culture. Studio constraints that apply to all without Mel Gibson money may prevent those aims from being fully realised but should the likes of the Northman find more cult success in the future, then its ethos of effort and risk may lead to more interesting and challenging depictions of the past in future projects. Aspects such as actors adhering more strictly to dialect coaching may be more stringently considered, and there remains no excuse for misspelled title cards. However, what The Northman is trying to be outweighs what it is, and those efforts should not go unnoticed by those with an interest in its subject matter.

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