The scaffolding of the film is a sibling rivalry. The older brother, Michael (Ulrich Thomsen), is a dutiful army officer and family man who lives in Copenhagen with his lovely wife, Sarah (Gladiator star Connie Nielsen), and two young daughters (Sarah Juel Warner and Rebecca Logstrup Soltau). Younger brother Jannik (Nikolaj Lie Kaas) is a sullen outlaw type who's just been released from prison after doing time for assaulting a woman. Michael is sensible and controlled; Jannik is reckless and irresponsible. Good brother, bad brother.
No sooner does Jannik get out of jail than Michael is shipped off to fight in Afghanistan, confident in his training and buoyed by the belief that he's doing the right thing. Jannik gets drunk and lurches around the city in his brother's car. Then, catastrophe. Michael's helicopter is shot down, and military authorities conclude that everyone aboard has been killed. Why, in the absence of bodies, these soldiers are not listed as missing in action is a question only Bier and screenwriter Anders Thomas Jensen can answer. But for the purposes of their plot, Michael's parents, his grieving widow, her children and her troubled brother-in-law endure a solemn memorial service and start trying to cope.
Jannik's adjustment is more like a personal reinvention. His stern, stricken father (Bent Mejding) still disapproves of him, but the troubled younger son helps remodel Sarah's kitchen. He entertains his nieces. Offscreen, he apologizes to the still-traumatized woman he attacked. In what they both see as an expression of mutual sorrow, Jannik and Sarah share a kiss. What no one knows, of course, is that Michael is alive in a Taliban prison camp and that he's about to return home a changed man -- an angry, disturbed man much more like the pre-redemptive Jannik than the upright husband and father he once was.
Actually, writer Jensen has come this way before. In last year's Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself (written by Jensen and directed by Lone Scherfig), a young Scotsman obsessed with suicide reverses roles with his disease-doomed brother in a story of familial devotion that's tinged with carnal deceit. In Brothers, the deceit is all imaginary, but the role reversal is even more powerful -- and more telling.
Director Bier is particularly adept at beholding the plight of the unhinged widow. In Nielsen's big, liquid eyes, she finds not only grief, not only fear, but a kind of otherworldly wonder at what is happening to her. One suspects that only a woman could have filmed the scenes of poor Sarah thrashing restlessly in her empty bed with this kind of deep-down understanding. It's as though we are gazing into the woman's soul.
In its second half, Brothers' psychological tension grows very keen, just as it did in a trio of postwar-stress movies American audiences know well -- The Best Years of Our Lives, The Deer Hunter and Coming Home. Michael's transformation from a bourgeois drone into a violent paranoiac threatens to shatter his family and drive him insane. It also raises all kinds of issues about mission, duty and the demands of love in a world where the certainties of absolutism are forever colliding with questions of moral judgment. Beautifully acted and disturbing to its core, Brothers addresses those collisions with grace and intelligence. What a pity it is unlikely ever to be screened at the White House or the Pentagon.