Kevin Brianton, Adjunct Senior Research Fellow, La Trobe University

The Second World War continues to provide a rich source of material for filmmakers, and Norway has recently produced some outstanding films about the conflict. About a decade ago, the Norwegian film The King’s Choice (2016), titled Kongens nei (or the “King’s No”) in Norway, depicted the dilemma facing the Norwegian King during the German invasion. It covered three dramatic days in April 1940, when Nazi Germany invaded Norway. King Haakon VII, his son Crown Prince Olav, and the Norwegian government were forced to flee the capital, Oslo, while being hunted by German troops and planes. The German envoy pressured the King to surrender and accept a puppet government led by Vidkun Quisling. The King refused to capitulate and stated he would abdicate if the government surrendered, choosing a government in exile to save his country’s honor. It proved to be the top box-office film in Norway and, a decade later, it has laid the groundwork for a trio of films about the invasion and its aftermath.

The King’s Choice features the sinking of the German heavy cruiser Blücher, and this is covered in far more detail in The Battle of Oslo (2025), titled Blücher in Norway. In The King’s Choice, it is presented as the heroic action of a determined Norwegian military leader. An entirely different picture is revealed in The Battle of Oslo. The film looks closely at the decisions taken by the Fortress Commander Colonel Birger Eriksen, played by Bjørn Sundquist, in opening fire on the German fleet, which delayed the invasion and allowed time for the King and government to flee.

The Blücher spearheaded a fleet steaming up the Oslofjord to try to capture Oslo and to capture King Haakon VII and the Norwegian government. Colonel Eriksen, the 64-year-old commander of the undermanned, aging Oscarsborg Fortress, spotted the warships heading toward Oslo. With no clear orders from high command or the government and vital minutes ticking away, he ordered his garrison to open fire. The fortress’s coastal guns and a hidden torpedo battery struck the flagship Blücher at close range, causing devastating explosions that capsized and sank the vessel.  The sinking caused the other ships in the fleet to retreat and delayed the German advance. These vital hours gave the King, the royal family, and the government, along with the nation’s gold reserve, enough time to safely escape the capital. The fort was then subject to naval and aerial bombardment before Eriksen surrendered.

Directed by Daniel Fahre, the film cleverly weaves two timelines together: the gripping 1940 battle at the fortress and the lesser-known 1946 post-war military trials where Eriksen had to fight for his honour. Initially, Eriksen was decorated for his actions. Despite his heroics in saving the government, he later faced a harsh military commission of inquiry after the war to defend his subsequent surrender of the ruined fortress after enduring 10 hours of heavy Luftwaffe and naval bombardment. The commission is depicted as a political farce determined to shift blame from the government to a commander forced to make impossible decisions. In the film, Eriksen points out he was understaffed with antiquated equipment and resorted to using cooks and anyone available to operate and fire the guns. He was given no direction from the high command or the government at any point. The film delivers a vicious statement on the vagaries of heroism, and it is strongly condemnatory of the Norwegian government – before and after the war.

Another film sheds light on the dark side of heroism. Number 24 (2024) – Nr. 24 in Norwegian, directed by John Andreas Andersen. The film looks at a universally celebrated Norwegian hero of the Second World War. Based on the real-life story of World War II resistance fighter Gunnar Sønsteby, Number 24 celebrates the calculated heroism of the saboteur, who is played by Sjur Vatne Brean. Gunnar Sønsteby had previously made an appearance in Max Manus (2008), which depicted the resistance in more traditional terms. Before the war, Sønsteby is an unremarkable figure who works as an accountant. Yet, challenged by the occupation, Sønsteby reveals himself as clear-headed, cold-hearted, and ruthlessly efficient. His meticulous planning and extraordinary personal self-control make him an ideal conduit for the English to provide money, weapons, and targets to the resistance.

Like The Battle of Oslo, the film also looks back on his heroism from the perspective of the post-war period. Andersen structures his resistance drama around an elderly Sønsteby, played by Erik Hivju, who recounts his wartime experiences to students. This framing device heightens the tension between past heroics and present trauma as the aging saboteur visibly struggles with what he calls “the fifth drawer in his mind,” where bitter memories are locked away. The narrative shifts between past and present, alternating between exciting sabotage scenes and painful reflections on the morality of resistance violence. Sønsteby’s strict self-control is an essential survival tactic, but even his remarkable resilience is tested when a young student confronts him about wartime executions of Norwegian collaborators. This is the moral centre of the film. It begins with friends skiing before the war, while debating the current issue of book burning. It ends with a letter, now in a museum, from one of the friends condemning the other to the German authorities.

It has many links to Melville’s Army of Shadows (1969), as both films strip resistance movements of Hollywood heroism, revealing the psychological toll of clandestine warfare. Melville filmed the resistance in a gangster-noir vein: shadowy safe houses, trench coats, and agonizing silences. Andersen, by contrast, cuts between Sønsteby’s sabotage missions and his elderly self’s post-traumatic stress disorder. Both films grapple with the problematic issue of executing traitors within the resistance. A student challenges Sønsteby’s assassinations, proposing nonviolent alternatives. His response is “Gandhi didn’t face the Nazis,” but the framing device prompts the audience to question that answer, even though the student’s question seems almost naively simple. Andersen’s Sønsteby is not condemned like Eriksen, but is celebrated as a national hero, yet the film lingers on his trauma, his “fifth drawer” of long-suppressed memories, suggesting that heroism and suffering are inseparable. The film opens with the statement: “I have five drawers in my mind. The three top drawers, I open all the time. The fourth, less often. I closed the bottom drawer 8 May 1945 and haven’t opened it since.”

Number 24 wrestles with dealing with traitors, but Quisling: The Final Days (2024), titled Quislingens siste dager in Norway, deals with high-level treason. Directed by Erik Poppe, it provides a psychological study of Nazi collaborator Vidkun Quisling’s final days and execution. Poppe’s film adopts an uncompromising approach to historical drama, confining itself almost entirely to Quisling’s prison cell during his 1945 trial and execution. The director uses many visual metaphors of confinement, such as bars, shadows, and tight compositions. His claustrophobic character study of Vidkun Quisling examines the psychological collapse of the infamous collaborator, whose surname is now a byword for traitor. Quisling’s psychological intensity comes from psychosis, which we see through his pastor, Peder Olsen, who is played by the understated Anders Danielsen Lei.

The film has one central predecessor in Downfall (2004), famous for its mesmerising central performance of Bruno Ganz as Adolf Hitler as the Third Reich begins to disintegrate. In Downfall and Quisling: The Final Days, directors Oliver Hirschbiegel and Erik Poppe explore the psychology of fascist collaborators in their final moments. Both films employ claustrophobic storytelling to explore how authoritarian figures confront impending defeat, not with remorse, but with escalating denial.

In the German film, the physical structure of Hitler’s world is under assault from Russian artillery as he disintegrates. Downfall depicts Hitler’s last days in the Führerbunker, and throughout the film, Bruno Ganz’s portrayal reveals a tyrant oscillating between rage and delusion. Downfall shows the Nazi regime’s apocalyptic end through multiple perspectives, while Quisling sets apart its subject, making his isolation a metaphor for moral bankruptcy. Similarly, Quisling traps its protagonist in a prison cell. We see Quisling only through the eyes of his reluctant pastor, Peder Olsen. Yet the differences between the films are revealing. In a similar mold to Ganz, Gard B. Eidsvold portrays a serpentine Quisling convinced of his noble actions, despite all evidence to the contrary. He is even escorted to the graves of those the Nazi regime slaughtered and remains unmoved. Eidsvold’s performance reveals a deeply deluded bureaucrat clinging to his self-image as Norway’s misunderstood saviour. The film’s power does not grant Quisling either redemption or even a dramatic breakdown – he meets his fate still mired in denial. “I am innocent,” he shouts to his executioners. Quisling almost personifies Hannah Arendt’s concept of the “banality of evil.” A mediocre and limited man at best, entirely out of his depth.

As a result, both films illuminate fascism’s twin pathologies of megalomania and bureaucratic cowardice. The films illustrate how corrupting systems can influence individuals – and how those individuals, when cornered, often choose self-delusion over reckoning. Both films reject redemption arcs, instead showing how ideology distorts reality until death. Stylistically, the films share a commitment to psychological realism over spectacle. Downfall’s bunker and Quisling’s prison cell become microcosms of collapsing worlds, with tight framing emphasizing entrapment.

These films offer some of Norwegian cinema’s most nuanced reckonings about the Second World War in years. The Battle of Oslo shows how heroism can be twisted and discarded by government bureaucracies for their own purposes. Quisling forces viewers to sit with a collaborator’s uncomfortable humanity, while Number 24 complicates noble resistance heroism with psychological scars.

As Europe faces new threats to democracy, these Norwegian films provide a crucial perspective on collaboration, resistance, and their enduring personal costs. Norway is still wrestling with the aftermath of the attack by the right wing extremist Anders Breivik that killed 77 people in 2011. Their contrasting approaches address current concerns about moral compromise during times of crisis. All these films ultimately suggest that war’s moral questions are complex, whether examining perpetrators or heroes. These films are examples of powerful historical cinema that engage viewers and challenge them to confront the complexities of the past, rather than providing simple lessons. They form a compelling depiction of Norwegian wartime and post-war morality.

Poppe’s film, which had the Norwegian title of Quislings Siste Dager, adopts an uncompromising approach to historical drama, confining itself almost entirely to Quisling’s prison cell during his 1945 trial and execution. The director uses many visual metaphors of confinement, such as bars, shadows, and tight compositions. His claustrophobic character study of Quisling examines the psychological collapse of infamous collaborator Vidkun Quisling, whose surname is now a byword for traitor. Quisling’s psychological intensity comes from psychosis, which we see through his pastor, Peder Olsen, who is played by the understated Anders Danielsen Lei.

The film has one central predecessor in Downfall (2004), famous for its mesmerising central performance of Bruno Ganz as Adolf Hitler as the Third Reich begins to disintegrate. In both Downfall and Quisling: The Final Days, directors Oliver Hirschbiegel and Erik Poppe explore the psychology of fascist collaborators in their final moments. Both films employ claustrophobic storytelling to explore how authoritarian figures confront impending defeat, not with remorse, but with escalating denial.

In the German film, the physical structure of Hitler’s world is under assault from Russian artillery as he disintegrates. Downfall depicts Hitler’s last days in the Führerbunker, and during the film, Bruno Ganz’s portrayal reveals a tyrant oscillating between rage and delusion. Downfall shows the Nazi regime’s apocalyptic end through multiple perspectives, while Quisling sets apart its subject, making his isolation a metaphor for moral bankruptcy. Similarly, Quisling traps its protagonist in a prison cell. We, basically, only see Quisling through the eyes of his reluctant pastor, Peder Olsen. Yet the differences between the films are revealing. In a similar mould to Ganz, Gard B. Eidsvold produces a serpentine Quisling convinced of his noble actions, despite all evidence to the contrary. He is even escorted to the graves of those whom the Nazi regime slaughtered and remains unmoved. Eidsvold’s performance reveals a deeply deluded bureaucrat clinging to his self-image as Norway’s misunderstood saviour. The film’s power does not grant Quisling either redemption or even a dramatic breakdown – he meets his fate still mired in denial. “I am innocent,” he shouts to his executioners. Quisling almost personifies Hannah Arendt’s concept of the “banality of evil.” A mediocre and limited man at best, entirely out of his depth.

As a result, they illuminate fascism’s twin pathologies of megalomania and bureaucratic cowardice. The films illustrate how corrupting systems can influence individuals – and how those individuals, when cornered, often choose self-delusion over reckoning. Both films reject redemption arcs, instead showing how ideology distorts reality until death. Stylistically, the films share a commitment to psychological realism over spectacle. Downfall’s bunker and Quisling’s prison cell become microcosms of collapsing worlds, with tight framing emphasizing entrapment.

In sharp contrast, Andersen’s resistance drama Number 24 celebrates the calculated heroism of saboteur Gunnar Sønsteby, who is played by Sjur Vatne Brean. The young Sønsteby is clear-headed, cold-hearted, and ruthlessly efficient. His meticulous planning and extraordinary personal self-control make him an ideal conduit for the English to provide money, weapons, and targets to the resistance.

Andersen structures his resistance drama around an elderly Sønsteby, played by Erik Hivju, who recounts his wartime experiences to students. This framing device creates increasing tension between past heroics and present trauma, as the aging saboteur visibly struggles with what he calls “the fifth drawer in his mind,” where memories are locked away. The dynamic shifts between past and present, alternating between exciting sabotage scenes and painful current reflections on the morality of resistance violence.

Sønsteby’s strict self-control is an essential survival tactic, but even his remarkable resilience is tested when a young student confronts him about wartime executions of Norwegian collaborators. The film begins with friends skiing and debating book burning. It ends by focusing on a letter, which is now in a museum, to the German authorities by one of the friends denouncing the other. The letter leads to the writer’s execution.

It has many links to Melville’s Army of Shadows (1969), as both films strip resistance movements of Hollywood heroism, revealing the psychological toll of clandestine warfare. Melville filmed the resistance in a similar vein to gangster noir: with shadowy safe houses, trench coats, and agonizing silences. Andersen, by contrast, cuts between Sønsteby’s sabotage missions and his elderly self’s post-traumatic stress disorder. Both films explore the problematic issue of executing traitors within the resistance. In both films, executing a traitor is portrayed as a necessary action, even if the person is a friend or someone admired. Number 24 questions this approach when students challenge Sønsteby’s assassinations with alternatives such as non-violent approaches. His response was “Gandhi didn’t face the Nazis,” but the framing device makes the audience question his answer, even though the student’s question seems almost naively simple.

Both films critique national myths: Melville’s Army of Shadows is a chain of betrayals, and its “heroes” are all doomed by the war’s end. Andersen’s Sønsteby is not doomed and is celebrated as a national hero, but the film lingers on his trauma—his “fifth drawer” of memories suggesting heroism and suffering are inseparable. Quisling and Number 24 arrive in an era eager to interrogate historical narratives. Together, they prove that the truest war films aren’t about glory—they’re about what it costs to survive. Melville’s film is a eulogy for the resistance, while Andersen’s is a dialogue between past and present, but both refuse to romanticize war.

Released at the Nordic Film Festival in Australia in 2025 and 2026, these films offer Norwegian cinema’s most nuanced reckoning about the Second World War in years. Quisling forces viewers to sit with a collaborator’s uncomfortable humanity, while Number 24 complicates noble resistance heroism with psychological scars. Where Poppe shows evil as mundane, Andersen reveals heroism as traumatic.

As Europe faces new threats to democracy, these Norwegian films provide a crucial perspective on collaboration, resistance, and their enduring personal costs. Their contrasting approaches address current concerns about moral compromise during times of crisis. Quisling warns how easily ordinary men justify atrocity, while Number 24 questions what violence freedom requires – and who bears its enduring wounds. Both films ultimately suggest that war’s moral questions are complex, whether examining perpetrators or heroes. These films are examples of powerful historical cinema that engage viewers and challenge them to confront the complexities of the past, rather than providing simple lessons. Both these films form a compelling depiction of Norwegian wartime morality – one exploring the banality of evil through a collaborator’s final days, the other interrogating the costs of righteous violence through a freedom fighter’s memories.

Images provided by the Nordic Film Festival