LITTLE SIBERIA. What’s in people but comes from space?

In 2008, Dome Karukoski directed The Home of Dark Butterflies, a poignant portrayal of how human emotions can be complex, painful, and leave a mark on physical events—not only for those who experience them firsthand. In 2025, Karukoski tried again, this time focusing on adult protagonists, constructing a bittersweet world of emotions that no one in their right mind, within the bounds of normalcy, can truly handle. Did it turn out as well as The Home of Dark Butterflies? Unfortunately not, even though the potential was much greater due to the central theme of the meteorite and the intriguing blend of multiple film genres. Does that mean I wouldn’t recommend Little Siberia? Absolutely not—quite the opposite. It only seems weaker when compared to The Home of Dark Butterflies, but without that reference, it remains an unconventional film that can captivate viewers. Finnish and Icelandic cinema stands out in European cinematography—bold, surprising, and humorous, even when dealing with intensely difficult emotions.

The central meteorite motif in Little Siberia is an excellent narrative device. It falls near a small Finnish town where everyone knows each other all too well—not necessarily in a positive way, though they manage to maintain appearances. However, the arrival of something from space, even if it isn’t a living being, triggers irreversible changes. The meteorite is highly valuable, yet ironically, it is placed in an almost unguarded museum. And that’s when the trouble begins. Many people become interested in it, including the local pastor, the film’s protagonist. But he doesn’t want to steal it; he sees it as a gift for the place he takes care of. Not everyone shares his view. Human greed exposes many other conflicts. The pastor had no idea about them—nor about his own potential reactions when the meteorite is actually threatened.

The pace of Little Siberia does not rush toward its climax at breakneck speed; instead, it slowly introduces characters and weaves threads of events until an unconventional and wild ending. It’s worth the wait, though I understand that not everyone will endure the sluggish buildup of action. The film is highly introspective—not as disturbing as The Home of Dark Butterflies, but it touches on raw emotions, often buried under a layer of uncomfortable silence. The very first sex scene between the pastor and his wife, along with their open concern for preserving his sperm using a stuffed toy to ensure nothing goes to waste, already signals the director’s boldness in presenting taboos. But Little Siberia isn’t just about sex—it also explores the constraints of social norms, religion, and the confrontation between human nature and the law.

Karukoski seems to suggest how fragile these relationships truly are—how little it takes for a person to revert to their primal state. Take away their light and their money for food, and civilization crumbles.

Immorality—it resides within people, yet comes from space, because the cosmos operates under fundamental laws, devoid of ideology or culture. The meteorite merely acts as a catalyst, awakening in the local community a desire for radical freedom—but freedom from what, exactly? That’s a question left for the audience. And the answer feels more bitter than uplifting.

Instead of a meteorite, countless other triggers—more real, less symbolic—could serve the same purpose. In the end, both in this cinematic story and in our own lives, is love the most important thing? Perhaps not entirely, as it is more of a temporary chemical illusion. But friendship and responsibility? Those are primal.

Thus, Little Siberia is a moral tale—unhurried, yet strikingly clear in its conclusions.