Imagine stumbling upon a filmmaker whose every creation feels like a secret door into a hidden, unsettling universe—one that's both mesmerizing and deeply unsettling. That's the world of Lucile Hadžihalilović, and her latest gem, The Ice Tower, might just be the one that draws you in forever. But here's where it gets controversial—could this fairy tale retelling be a sly critique of Hollywood's darker side? Let's dive in and uncover why this underrated director's work deserves your attention, especially as we rank it as the No. 3 best movie of 2025 in the US.
First off, if you're not familiar with Hadžihalilović, think of her as one of the most underappreciated directors out there. In over two decades, she's only crafted four feature films, yet each one is a masterclass in consistency. She builds these self-contained worlds—called hermetic worlds in film lingo, meaning they're sealed off from the outside, following their own strict rules—that explore eerie themes of biology and psychology. For beginners, picture a hermetic world like a bubble where everything feels isolated and controlled, far removed from everyday life. Take her 2004 film Innocence, which centers on a mysterious boarding school for young girls, stirring up those deep, unspoken fears of growing up. Or her 2015 movie Evolution, set on an island where boys are cared for in a bizarre hospital-like setup, delving into themes of change and growth. These stories exist in a niche art-house bubble, ignoring mainstream cinema's flashy thrills, and that's what makes them so intriguing.
But here's the part most people miss—The Ice Tower marks a subtle shift. It draws inspiration from Hans Christian Andersen's classic tale The Snow Queen, a story about a magical ice realm ruled by a cold-hearted queen, which often serves as a metaphor for temptation and isolation. In the film, we hear Marion Cotillard's soothing voice reciting the preamble: 'Vast, immense, glittering like ice was the realm of the Snow Queen.' This sets the stage for teenage orphan Jeanne (played by Clara Pacini), who flees her foster home, descends a mountain, and sneaks onto a movie set producing the fairy tale. The Snow Queen is portrayed by the commanding diva Cristina van der Berg—a role inhabited by Cotillard herself, bringing her signature intensity to the screen.
Through Jeanne's perspective, the act of filmmaking transforms into another one of Hadžihalilović's enchanting, ritualistic realms. The behind-the-scenes elements—like costume fittings and set preparations—carry a weighty, almost mystical significance. Jeanne volunteers as an extra and gets initiated into this world. When she poses as 'Bianca' on set, Cristina takes her under her wing as a protégé, and Jeanne, thrilled to step into this 'magic kingdom,' embraces it fully. As the film's scenes swirl into Jeanne's fantasies, Hadžihalilović masterfully blurs the line between what's staged and what's real, between dreams and reality. It's like watching a kaleidoscope where fiction and truth dance together in the twilight.
Yet, this isn't just a whimsical adventure—it's a cautionary tale spotlighting the dangers of obsession and idol worship. As Jeanne follows her daydreams, she grapples with unclear motives: Is she seeking a maternal figure, or is it something more intense, like infatuation? You could call it a 'madonna-whore complex'—a psychological term for conflicting views of women as pure or sinful—gone frosty. Or maybe she yearns to embody the Snow Queen herself. Cristina, who shares a similar lonely background, understands the toll of living in a fantasy: 'You think that is enough for her?' she questions about her character's icy solitude. Set in an ambiguous 1970s-like era, the film serves as a gentle warning against getting lost in too much imagery, especially in our digital age where screens can feel like snow globes trapping us.
And this is the part that might spark heated debates—where's the hidden monster in this fairy tale? The eerie ondes Martenot instrument warbling on the soundtrack hints at unease. Is it the director, portrayed by Hadžihalilović's real-life partner, the provocative filmmaker Gaspar Noé, who we see pursuing another young actress? Or is it Cotillard herself, dominating the screen with her characteristic wounded elegance, creating a suffocating atmosphere? Some might see The Ice Tower as a #MeToo allegory, but with a distinctly French twist—France's skepticism toward the movement could make you question its universality. Could the true villain be the world of filmmaking and art itself, which captures and freezes beauty until passion freezes over? It's a bold interpretation, one that might divide viewers on whether art is empowering or exploitative.
In the end, The Ice Tower leaves us pondering these layers, inviting us to reflect on our own obsessions. Do you think fairy tales like Andersen's still resonate in today's world, or have they become outdated? Is idolizing stars a harmless escape or a risky trap? And most intriguingly, could this film be read as a critique of the industry that produced it? Share your thoughts in the comments—do you agree with this #MeToo angle, or do you see it differently? I'd love to hear your take and spark some discussion!
