The Kiss Review: When Kindness Becomes a Cage

Some stories feel less like they are told and more like they are constructed, each piece a gear in a machine designed to create a specific emotional state. Bille August’s The Kiss is just such a machine, a meticulously crafted narrative device that explores the crushing weight of good intentions. Set in Denmark on the precipice of the First World War, it immediately immerses us in an era of rigid social hierarchies and a brittle, all-consuming code of honor.

This is the world that has shaped our protagonist, Anton Abilgaard, a young cavalry officer whose life has a singular objective: to cleanse his family’s sullied name through an impeccable military career. He is a man on a mission, and his every action is calibrated for advancement and the restoration of dignity.

His quest for honor leads him to perform a simple act of roadside assistance for a nobleman, Baron Løvenskjold, which in turn earns him a coveted invitation to the family’s grand estate. The setup has all the hallmarks of a classic period romance, a familiar path for a handsome soldier and a nobleman’s daughter. But this is a calculated misdirection.

The film, drawing its potent source material from a Stefan Zweig novel, immediately signals that we are not here for simple courtship. We are here to witness a psychological dissection, to see how one act of decency can spring a complex and inescapable trap.

The Engine of Pity

The film’s central mechanism is engaged during a formal ball, a setting where every gesture is codified and scrutinized. Here, Anton commits a social error with devastating consequences: he asks the Baron’s lovely daughter, Edith, to dance, only to discover in a moment of shared, cascading horror that she is paralyzed and wears leg braces.

His mortified and hasty retreat from the party is the first turn of the screw, a critical failure in the social mechanics of his world. His attempt to smooth things over the next day by sending flowers is the second, more fateful turn. This gesture, meant as a polite closing of an embarrassing chapter, is instead received as the opening of a new one.

He is drawn inexorably into the family’s world, compelled by his own rigid sense of duty to accept invitations to visit the lonely Edith. The narrative’s engine is not love, but the dangerous, volatile space between pity and affection.

The Baron, desperate to see his daughter experience some measure of happiness, and Edith, starved for any genuine connection, interpret Anton’s dutiful compassion as burgeoning love. A relationship is thus constructed not on a foundation of mutual feeling, but on the potent combination of a young woman’s profound longing and a father’s aching hope, creating a situation that tightens around Anton with every visit.

The Human Architecture

The effectiveness of this narrative construction rests entirely on the shoulders of its lead performers, who give it a raw and believable life. Esben Smed’s portrayal of Anton is a masterclass in quiet desperation.

His face becomes a canvas for his internal conflict, the rigid, honorable posture of the soldier constantly at war with the anxious, hunted glances of a man trapped by his own decency. He brilliantly conveys the immense strain of a person caught between his strict personal code and the unwieldy emotional needs of others.

Opposite him, Clara Rosager gives Edith a breathtaking and difficult vitality. Her performance avoids caricature, presenting a young woman who is at once deeply sympathetic, emotionally volatile, and achingly aware of her own fragility. She captures Edith’s deep-seated fear that she is fundamentally unlovable, a fear that manifests in unpredictable ways.

Bille August’s direction acts as the architect for this drama, keeping the camera focused on the subtle shifts in expression and minute gestures that tell the real story. The filmmaking itself—the handsome cavalry uniforms that feel like armor, the opulent yet somber interiors of the castle, the windswept Danish landscapes—builds the world not just as a backdrop, but as a beautiful, gilded cage in which this deeply personal and claustrophobic drama unfolds.

A Tangled Web of Duty and Desire

The initial predicament quickly spirals into a full-blown crisis, with the narrative tightening its grip on Anton and systematically removing every potential honorable exit. The pressure becomes external as his fellow officers, seeing his frequent visits to the wealthy estate, mock him as a fortune hunter.

This accusation is poison to a man whose entire existence is staked on the restoration of his honor through merit, not marriage. This external scorn is mirrored by the increasing internal pressure from Edith’s escalating emotional demands and her father’s silent, hopeful pleading.

Anton is forced into an impossible position, his ambition, his conscience, and a connection he never truly sought all pulling him in different, irreconcilable directions. The film moves toward its sober and tragic endpoint, refusing the audience the comfort of a simple romantic solution.

It denies catharsis and instead presents the devastating fallout of a kindness rooted in pity. It leaves one to contemplate a situation with no good choices and no clean escape, a powerful examination of the painful difference between feeling sorry for someone and truly loving them.

Full Credits

Director: Bille August

Writers: Greg Latter, Bille August, Stefan Zweig

Producers and Executive Producers: Peter Mads Clausen, Thomas Heinesen, Christel C. D. Karlsen, Sigurd Mikal Karoliussen, István Major, Lars Sylvest, Gül Togay, Henrik Zein

Cast: Esben Smed, Clara Rosager, Lars Mikkelsen, Rosalinde Mynster, David Dencik, Kurt Dreyer, Klaus Søndergaard, Henrik Blauner Clausen, Lukas Toya, Mikkel Baden Jensen, Sara‑Marie Maltha, Lane Lind, Lone Rødbroe, Nicolai Dahl Hamilton, Jarl Forsmann, Lars Phister, Jytte Kvinesdal, Peter Michaelsen, Elsebeth Iversen, Mathias Bøgelund, Ivan Bruun, Attila Maróti, Laurent Winkler, Milán Schruff, Turi Peter, Alban Lendorf, Ida Praetorious, Jacob Agerskov Buur, Mads Bjørn, Karina Anov Chapman, Thalita Beltrão Sørensen

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Sebastian Blenkov

Editors: Janus Billeskov Jansen, Anne Østerud

Composer: Henrik Skram