Sisu

Sisu, we're told, is untranslateable. What they mean by that though is not that its meaning cannot be conveyed, that it is somehow a semantic cipher, but that it has no literal equivalent. That's true of lots of words. Schadenfreude, for one, and there's plenty of opportunity for that in this solid B-movie of Nazi-killing.

Owing debts to grindhouse, or more specifically its latter impersonations, it's somewhere between a latter oater and other outposts of the relentless revenger. Kill Bill, John Wick, Atomic Blonde, Nobody, Rambo: First Blood, Inglourious Basterds, Mad Max: Fury Road, and so on.

Moments of more peaceful conflict recall the distant observations of bombing from Never Look Away or Nico, 1988, the aftermaths of 1917. We're in 1944 though, Germany retreating from Finland. Across seven chapters we will follow a bloody course.

The Gold, of course, motivation for our miner and his nemeses. The Nazis, those aforementioned. Minefield, a hazard. The Legend, exposition. Scorched Earth, restatement of stakes. Kill 'Em All and Final Chapter, extended denoument. I've left out the numbers because it's by them, but no less entertaining for it.

I was reminded strongly of the work of Carlos Ezquerra, a Spanish artist who helped create Judge Dredd but whose simply-lined laconic heroes were drawn from the likes of Eastwood and more. Cuts in reaction shots reminded me of panels in a comic, time shifting without moving. Some of the splatter and gore owes more to later folk like Garth Ennis or Grant Morrison, the inheritors of the digest sized Commando comics and all. Shot in two languages, screened in one, there's also a sense that as with some comics the pictures are independent of the words. Sound effects are shorthand, nuggets do not clink like coins but it's easier to write one than the other. Those similarities potentially include slightly incorrect reference material.

The Nazis aren't just Nazis, they're SS. Readers of a certain age might recall the pseudonymous Sven Hassel's novels from the Sixties. Written by a Dane, they didn't so much attempt to humanise their war criminal protagonists as enjoy their company like any exploitation film would. Despite facial scars, things are a bit less clear cut here. Abandoning occupied Finland, they're a rag-tag bunch, their equipment so mixed that beyond French (and faux-German) trucks their commander's phallic pose is upon a time-travelling tank. While I could go on about the evolution from the contemporary T-44, the DShK in an AAA mount on the turret dates it to 1970. We'll gloss over the fact that it's Soviet too.

Admittedly, it does look like a fun modelling project. You'd need several sprues of stowage to replicate the vehicle, it's so masked with salvage that you'd think the lightning bolts on the collar stood for Steptoe and Son. Sisu might be a national characteristic, but there's not really any nod to the gaps between the Teutonic hero-myth adopted by the Reich and the mythology of Finland. There's an Ukko (not that one, 2000ad fans) and a magic shield, people swimming fully clothed to make them seem a threat. Even hanging from a tree until rescued by a bird, but even Conan would have had trouble chewing this one. We do get some Russian stuff too. Our hero earns the nickname Koschei The Deathless. That has more to do with killing about half as many Russians as Simo Hayha than drinking 12 buckets of water though.

There are planes, not rust buckets either, and I'll even grant that they're mostly right. Though the transport craft has a star on its tail which means it's not a C-47/DC-3 but an Li-2, and the bomb-racks didn't work like that on the metricated licensed variant. It doesn't really matter though, since I'll forgive many things in the course of homage to Dr Strangelove.

Wirter/director Jalmari Helander is best known for Rare Exports: A Christmas Tale, a feature length adaptation of an earlier short. He also directed Big Game, a heartily enjoyable slice of nonsense where frequent Helander actor Onni Tommila helps rescue American President Samuel L Jackson in a movie where the least daft bits are borrowed from Harrison Ford actioner Air Force One.

Spaghetti Western is wrong for geographical, culinary and chronological reasons, but Salmiakki Showdown comes close. An acquired taste, the chemical notes are less from ammonium salts than aping the grain of film. Black, bleak even, it's still a sweet treat for those with an appetite for it.