READERS of contemporary British and Irish crime fiction - and viewers of all the resulting television adaptations - will feel right at home with Baltasar Kormákur's grim Icelandic thriller.
All the required tropes are in place. The hero, an Arctic Rebus or a frostier Frost, is an old-fashioned, flawed detective with an unhappy family history and an equivocal attitude to the modern world. Though unable to sort out the crises in his personal life - here, the cop's daughter is a pregnant heroin addict - he brings superhuman degrees of dedication to the solving of crimes.
Considering the familiarity of the material, it is all the more remarkable that Kormákur has made something so singular of Arnaldur Indridason's bestselling novel. The agreeably convoluted story begins with an old man being murdered in a grimy basement flat. Inspector Erlendur (Ingvar E Sigurdsson), whose similarity to Da from the Northern Irish sitcom Give My Head Peaceis never remarked upon, gradually uncovers a complex web of deceit triggered by a rape 30 years previously. The final solution is ingenious, if a little too neat.
What sets Jar Cityapart is its unflinching, unforgiving sense of place. Kormákur pays tribute to his native land's natural beauty by including copious shots of cars driving through impressively bleak landscapes. He admits some warmth - figuratively - through the use of mournfully sweet choral music.
But, for the most part, the Iceland of Jar Cityis a land of peeling paint, broken windows, echoing stairwells, unfriendly strangers and awful anoraks. Iceland is also, it seems, the home of some horrible food. The scene in which Erlendur scoffs a cold sheep's head must count as the most revolting meal sequence since the hero of Old Boyate a live octopus.
All this abundance of carefully judged, queasy atmosphere helps turn Jar Cityinto an unsettling, curious experience. Mind you, the film may not go down all that well with the Icelandic Tourist Board.
Incidentally, was that body involved in delaying the film's European release for two years? It sounds like a case for Inspector Erlendur.
