In the opening scene of Cutterhead, as protagonist Rie rides a construction site elevator deep into the Danish underground, we glimpse the elevator's control panel and its "up" and "down" buttons that some joker has labeled "Heaven" and "Hell" in felt pen, setting the stage for the claustrophobic horror that's to come.
As a copywriter for the Copenhagen metro, she's there to write the kind of breezy PR texts that might excitedly describe the metro as "the largest construction project in the Danish capital in 400 years", and frame having workers of 24 different nationalities as a "great European coming together" (rather than the result of working conditions and pay that no Danish construction worker would accept). Her interviewees aren't playing along, though. "What's the best part of your job?" she asks every worker she approaches, but most give polite non-answers (clearly trying to avoid trouble), if they even speak English. Only Ivo, who's from Croatia and maintains the cutterhead, doesn't hesitate. "The money," he answers, dispelling any romantic notions of a labor of love.
These workers are all here, working a bad job with bad pay and bad working conditions, because they need the money. But why is Rie here? The question lingers throughout the movie. When one character questions if she's even allowed, Ivo explains "She's from the office". In other words, she's Danish. "I have permission to go anywhere", Rie helpfully adds.
Ivo and his colleague Bharan work the cutterhead because it's more dangerous, and hence pays more. Even then, Rie undoubtedly earns more than either of them. The disaster that soon engulfs these three people should erase these differences, but the sense of disparity persists, and it's in these clashes between worlds that Cutterhead becomes more than a disaster movie with a novel setting, and shows real bite with its social critique.
As a copywriter for the Copenhagen metro, she's there to write the kind of breezy PR texts that might excitedly describe the metro as "the largest construction project in the Danish capital in 400 years", and frame having workers of 24 different nationalities as a "great European coming together" (rather than the result of working conditions and pay that no Danish construction worker would accept). Her interviewees aren't playing along, though. "What's the best part of your job?" she asks every worker she approaches, but most give polite non-answers (clearly trying to avoid trouble), if they even speak English. Only Ivo, who's from Croatia and maintains the cutterhead, doesn't hesitate. "The money," he answers, dispelling any romantic notions of a labor of love.
These workers are all here, working a bad job with bad pay and bad working conditions, because they need the money. But why is Rie here? The question lingers throughout the movie. When one character questions if she's even allowed, Ivo explains "She's from the office". In other words, she's Danish. "I have permission to go anywhere", Rie helpfully adds.
Ivo and his colleague Bharan work the cutterhead because it's more dangerous, and hence pays more. Even then, Rie undoubtedly earns more than either of them. The disaster that soon engulfs these three people should erase these differences, but the sense of disparity persists, and it's in these clashes between worlds that Cutterhead becomes more than a disaster movie with a novel setting, and shows real bite with its social critique.