The werewolf as a horror narrative vehicle can be inherently restricting. Danish director Jonas Alexander Arnby’s debut When Animals Dream, however, uses lycanthropy as a metaphor. Like Canadian cult favorite Ginger Snaps, the film centers around a young girl’s transformation, but rather than hinge around puberty to create a parable about the monstrous-feminine, Arnby’s film is a brooding tale of small-town prejudices and the nature of the female experience within a patriarchal society. It is part supernatural horror, part small-town-secrets-revealed drama and all Scandinavian stoicism.
Marie (Sonia Suhl) is a quiet 19-year-old who lives in a small seaside town and works in the fish processing plant gutting and filleting the daily catch. From her very first day on the job, she smiles flirtatiously at several of her (non-hostile) male co-workers but none more so than Daniel (Jakob Oftebro). Her family life, however, is less than normal. She and her father (Lars Mikkelsen) are dutiful caregivers for her catatonic mother (Sonja Richter). The nature of her mother’s condition is unclear, but the worry of genetics weighs on Marie’s mind when a rash breaks out on her chest. The signs of werewolf transformation, at least the symptoms Marie gets in these early stages, come and go. Her rash never spreads but only inflames and, later, grows wisps of hair. When stimulated (both sexually and emotionally), her spine breaks out momentarily in yellow-red swelling. In all other respects, she is still a perfectly normal, if brooding, girl.
As happens in these kinds of small towns, everyone (except Marie) knows the truth about her mother’s illness. The doctor regularly visits to ensure her dosage of what appears to be morphine is being administered correctly and controlling her symptoms. It turns out that if you shoot a werewolf up with morphine, she more or less ceases to be a werewolf and loses all motor function. Marie has to piece together this information for herself over the course of the film. It’s worth noting, though, that no one refers to Marie or her mother as “monsters.” Indeed, Marie is the only one who uses the word and in the same tone that a troubled teenager might use to shame her own body.
The true theme of the film rears its head when the doctor disappears and Marie’s mother is the natural suspect. The fearful villagers demand, “We have to see her without clothes.” Their rationale is that signs of werewolf transformation and/or blood would be visible, but Arnby’s message is clear: the female body is something to be controlled. The wolf within Marie’s mother is suppressed with medication; Marie anxiously hides all signs of her rash and hair growth. And even when Marie finally embraces her condition and flaunts her bleeding fingernails, her father surreptitiously forces her home, out of sight. Interestingly, Marie and her mother are virtually the only women in town, adding yet another layer of ostracism to the mix.
This society of mostly men, however, is not so firmly united in its suppression. Marie’s father and Daniel are both able to look beyond the wolf and love unconditionally. They support and ultimately encourage Marie to break free. As Marie prepares to run from a veritable lynch mob insistent on shutting down Marie’s werewolf development as they did her mother’s, her father calmly tells her, “You’re beautiful. Don’t take any crap.” And that sentiment is repeated over and over. When Daniel tells Marie she is beautiful, even as she allows her wispy hair to grow on her chest and forehead, it’s understood that he means more than a simple compliment from a boyfriend. It is a comment on society’s emphasis on conformed appearance. The fact that Arnby chooses to minimize Marie’s lupine appearance only enhances the bearing this film’s commentary has on image policing and female agency.
The entire endeavor is low-key, with minimal but pointed dialogue and stark surroundings. Suhl, in particular, is able to exude considerable presence and to express the depths of Marie’s vulnerability expertly, especially for her first film role. Supernatural horror in Rasmus Birch’s script is deftly used to reflect this fishing village’s ignorance of femininity, reducing womanhood to something mysterious and elemental funneled through folklore. Forced to choose between suppression and acceptance, Marie’s ultimate transformation sets When Animals Dream apart in the realm of horror and feminist film.