Vultures (2018)

Vultures is the kind of cold-blooded, small-country crime thriller that feels intimate and inevitable at the same time: one bad idea, executed with confidence, and then watched as it curdles into panic. Börkur Sigthorsson keeps the camera close to the characters’ faces and choices, letting the tension build not from gunfights but from the awful, human logistics of desperation—especially in the volatile push-and-pull between two brothers who can’t quite trust each other. Gísli Örn Garðarsson brings a clenched, persuasive intensity to Erik, while the film’s Icelandic setting adds a stark, wintry realism that makes every decision feel exposed and irreversible. It’s not for viewers looking for slick escapism or easy moral comfort, but if you like thrillers where consequences arrive with a steady, sickening certainty, this one hooks in deep.

Vultures wants to be a gritty, small-scale crime thriller about desperation, family resentment, and the ugly logistics of drug smuggling, and it does commit to that bleak realism. The problem is it can feel more like a slow march of bad decisions than a tense cat-and-mouse story, with limited surprises and characters who aren’t always easy to care about beyond their misery. It’s also tough viewing in places, leaning hard into discomfort around the “mule” situation rather than balancing it with sharper suspense or deeper insight. If you’re in the mood for a cold, downbeat morality tale with solid performances and an oppressive atmosphere, it may work; if you want a punchier thriller or anyone to root for, this likely isn’t your night.