When Compassion Becomes a Test of Character

Read Time:5 Minute, 39 Second

MOVIE REVIEW
Mercy (Nåde)
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Genre: Drama, Short
Year Released: 2025
Runtime: 27m
Director(s): Hedda Mjøen
Writer(s): Hedda Mjøen
Cast: Gine Cornelia Pedersen, Eivin Nilsen Salthe, Sarah Francesca Brænne, Ingvild Holthe Bygdnes, Maria Austgulen
Where to Watch: shown at the 2025 Semana Internacional de Cine Valladolid International Film Festival

RAVING REVIEW: MERCY is not an easy film to watch—and that’s the point. Written and directed by Hedda Mjøen, the Oscar-qualified Norwegian short is a piercing moral interrogation wrapped in a deceptively straightforward encounter. At just under thirty minutes, it manages to accomplish what many full-length dramas struggle with: it makes you question not only what you believe, but how far those beliefs stretch when tested by the unimaginable.

The story begins with a chance meeting that reignites a firestorm. Guro, played by Gine Cornelia Pedersen, crosses paths with her estranged best friend, Petter (Eivin Nilsen Salthe), in a supermarket. The moment should be mundane, but it carries unbearable weight—Petter has been accused of rape. What follows is not a courtroom drama or a procedural; there are no flashbacks to the alleged incident, no evidence presented, and no verdict delivered. Mjøen strips away the comfort of context, leaving only the unbearable silence between two people who once knew each other intimately.

That silence becomes the film’s moral battlefield. Guro must decide whether to acknowledge him, to condemn him, or to walk away. Each option carries its own kind of guilt. The film doesn’t manipulate sympathy; it examines it under a microscope. Mjøen refuses to make this about proving innocence or guilt. Instead, she asks a harder question: what does loyalty mean when it collides with moral conviction?

The brilliance of MERCY lies in its restraint. There’s no monologue spelling out the stakes. Instead, Mjøen lets discomfort do the talking. Every pause feels deliberate, every glance loaded with unspoken history. The supermarket setting—a place designed for convenience and normalcy—becomes a purgatory of ethical indecision. It’s the kind of filmmaking that demands patience and introspection, rewarding viewers who engage rather than react.

Pedersen’s performance is haunting in its intensity. Her face carries the film, shifting between confusion, empathy, and self-protection in movements that feel almost documentary in nature. The audience can sense the emotional weight pressing against her, a thousand internal arguments playing out behind her eyes. It’s a workshop in minimalism, the kind of acting that relies on precision rather than exposition.

As Petter, Salthe embodies an ambiguity that’s both infuriating and heartbreaking. He never asks for forgiveness, yet his presence feels like a plea for it. You can’t decide whether to pity him or recoil—and that’s exactly what Mjøen wants. She positions both characters as mirrors for the audience’s biases, forcing reflection on how we navigate accusations in an age where guilt and perception are often indistinguishable.

Mjøen’s direction is unflinching but never exploitative. Her camera lingers where others would cut away, daring the viewer to sit in discomfort. The visuals are cold and clinical—featuring fluorescent lights, sterile aisles, and muted tones—mirroring the emotional paralysis of the situation. The result is a visual language that refuses to let the audience escape. There’s an almost philosophical rigor to how MERCY approaches its theme. Mjøen treats morality not as a binary but as a shifting spectrum of choices, each one carrying both compassion and consequence. She understands that empathy is easy when the stakes are low—and devastating when the stakes are high. The film’s title, then, becomes an open question rather than an answer. Is mercy an act of strength or cowardice? Is forgiveness moral if it erases accountability? These are not questions the film resolves, because in reality, neither do we.

From a thematic standpoint, MERCY fits squarely within the Norwegian tradition of socially conscious storytelling, yet it feels urgent in a global context. It speaks to the modern crisis of moral performance—how we balance compassion and condemnation in public discourse. In an era where accusations alone can destroy reputations, Mjøen’s film cuts through the noise to ask what happens to those caught between love and outrage. It’s not about siding with the accused or the accuser; it’s about the emotional wreckage left for those who must choose where to stand.

By the film’s close, there’s no resolution for Guro, no relief for the viewer. The final moments leave the question hanging: What is the cost of standing by someone society has condemned? The ambiguity is excruciating—and necessary. MERCY achieves something profound: it humanizes discomfort.

In the end, MERCY is less a film than an ethical mirror. It doesn’t guide your reaction; it traps you in it. Whether you leave angry, reflective, or conflicted says more about you than it does about the characters on screen. That’s rare, and it’s what makes Mjøen one of the most fearless voices in modern short filmmaking.MERCY is a striking, deeply unsettling meditation on morality and loyalty. Hedda Mjøen refuses to let audiences escape easy answers, crafting a film that lingers like a question you can’t stop asking yourself. It’s quiet, deliberate, and utterly unforgettable.

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[photo courtesy of TRUE CONTENT PRODUCTION, KRUELA FILM]

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