“Do you know what they call it?” A woman’s voice, delicate and faint, rings out from the darkness. Then, a man murmurs a noise, husky and low, that indicates he doesn’t know.
“Stockholm syndrome,” the woman replies, as the face of Bianca Lind (Noomi Rapace) fades into view. Red-tinted, 70s-era glasses hang on the bridge of her nose as a pensive smile hangs on her lips.
Off-screen, the man asks, “What do you gotta do to get that? Get kidnapped? Held hostage or something?”
“Yeah,” Bianca answers.
And so begins Robert Budreau’s hostage drama, “Stockholm.” Loosely based on the true-life Norrmalmstorg robbery of 1973, this darkly comedic crime caper wastes no time in cutting straight to the bone. By the 15-minute mark, the charismatic criminal Lars Nystrom (Ethan Hawke) has already set his plan into motion. Clothed in a black leather jacket, sunglasses, and cowboy hat, the machine-gun-toting bank robber shouts out his list of demands—a million U.S. dollars, a getaway car, and the freedom of his co-conspirator, Gunnar Sorensson (Mark Strong), who enters the picture before the run-time ticks past a half hour.
Almost certain to draw comparisons to age-old classics (“Dog Day Afternoon” is the most obvious), the face value of “Stockholm” is unnaturally high. Stacked with a talented cast, a semi-bizarre premise, and Bob Dylan tunes, the film screams with the prospect to be a sure-fire slam dunk. Yet, despite its airtight pacing, “Stockholm” never captures your attention. Budreau’s hostage drama exemplifies confident craftsmanship but falters in attaching any sentiment to its mastery of the medium. Constantly juggling between minimalistic claustrophobia and tension-fueled dark comedy, the film fails to select a tone that suits either properly.
Furthermore, “Stockholm” falls prey to a trap that has claimed countless movies in its lifetime: the flashback framing device. In essence, the film operates as a masterclass in how not to organize a narrative. By encompassing a plot this reliant on unpredictability, informing the audience that the lead actress escapes the situation unscathed within the opening 40 seconds drains any sort of anxiety from the situations as they unfold. As a viewer, you are pushed into a passive role, not invited to be an active participant; you are no longer trapped on the edge of your seat alongside Rapace and Hawke, but float above as a disconnected observer who is already ten steps ahead of the story.
Conversely, foregoing its understated approach to the genre, “Stockholm” boasts an impressive assortment of inventive characterization. Although Budreau’s direction shoves style aside in favor of cut-and-dry filmmaking, the writing sprinkles bits of insight into the personality of the players involved—ranging from the criminals to the captives—that allow the crime flick to climb just above utter forgettability. A wife tearfully relaying a fish recipe to her frightened husband is not typically expected within the confines of a film of this caliber. However, it is in moments like this that “Stockholm” flirts with the notion of subversion, although such ideas often end in ungraceful rejection.
Nevertheless, for die-hard fans of Ethan Hawke, “Stockholm” deserves your time. The actor’s frantic, but layered, performance shines brightest among his cast members. Moreover, the chemistry between Hawke and Rapace toys with the idea of psychological manipulation but neglects to openly discuss the blatantly disturbing undertones to their relationship. Similarly, the power struggle between Hawke and Christopher Heyerdahl (who plays Chief Mattson, the ambitious negotiator) radiates dim shades of ingenuity. Notably, this motif that is used to promote themes of corruption and obsession, which muddy the moral waters enough to call attention to the lack of differences between Nystrom and Mattson. Admirably, “Stockholm” forgoes the route of employing traditional protagonists, but only to a simplistic degree.
Above all else, “Stockholm” is frustrating. Its artistic merits range from passable to moderately praiseworthy, although the film is most comparable to a child prodigy who’s wasted his potential. His marks of excellence are blatant, and if he applied himself a bit more, the prodigy could make something for himself—something extraordinary. But he doesn’t, and instead, squanders his gifts on meaningless trifles. Granted, the film is not meaningless, or even trifling, but, “Stockholm” never rises above mediocre, and that is what hurts the most. [C]