Netflix's compelling survival drama Society of the Snow makes winter feel a lot colder

The story of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 has been told on screen before, most notably in Frank Marshall's 1993 film Empathize. But JA Bayona's Netflix film Association of the Snow revisits it with a harrowing level of physical and psychological detail. Its complexity and moral dilemmas make it a far cry from Marshall's feel-good story, and it distances it from Hollywood disaster films in general – including Bayona's own saccharine 2012 tsunami drama The impossible. Spain's official entry for the 96th Academy Awards is an intimate version of the A true story that most people associate with cannibalism.

Based on the book of the same name by Pablo Vierci, Association of the Snow is a brutal, chilly story about the crash of the 571 en route to Santiago, Chile in 1972. Bayona's approach to the arc of the 'triumph of the human spirit' – often a broad, four-quadrant, feel-good cinematic flattening of real events – is both meticulous and rigorous. It turns the concept inside out, presenting the ordeal of the survivors of 571 as a dark scenario to which we have been given secret, intimate access.

The film opens with breathtaking images of the snow-capped Andes, a picturesque setting that hides painful secrets. One of the plane's passengers, the reserved, contemplative Numa Turcatti (Enzo Vogrincic), provides a sad voiceover. He is just one of many young Uruguayan rugby players stranded in the mountains, far from civilization. Bayona and co-screenwriters Bernat Vilaplana, Jaime Marques, and Nicolás Casariego tie the story to Turcatti's perspective for most of the film, though they play with the limitations of this decision in intriguing ways. After all, no single point of view can capture the full extent of what the survivors experienced. Bayona seems well aware of that idea as he records the events: in cases where Turcatti was not present, the events come to life through memories he later shares.

But Turcatti's voiceover ties the film together because of its unique place in this story. He is not the hero, but simply someone who reckons with his uselessness in an increasingly bleak situation. The closest the film gets to a traditional “hero” protagonist is hotshot Roberto Canessa (Matías Recalt), whose early scenes portray him as capable but selfish on the rugby field, and who is warned by the other players about his lack of teamwork. The seeds for a clear character arc are planted early on — another version of the story might have followed Canessa finally learning to put others before herself. But Bayona isn't focused on rescuing neat platitudes from the wreckage.

From the moment turbulence consumes the rugby team's planes, their physical and emotional fear takes center stage. Bayona recreates their plane crash in terrifying detail, cutting between shattered limbs and punctured organs at the moment of impact. It's ugly and voyeuristic, but in service of the film's unwavering commitment to realism.

The visual warmth of the team's first scenes on the ground is quickly replaced by an icy palette that becomes increasingly sharper as the film progresses, not only with less saturated colors to reflect the increasing hopelessness, but also an increase in contrast that amplifies each lesion and injury, emphasizing the contours of the survivors' increasingly bony bodies as their food runs out. The more ragged and gaunt they become, the more compelling the film becomes, and yet the harder it is to watch.

The crash itself will certainly remind some viewers of ABC Lost, making the show's composer, old Disney/Pixar stalwart Michael Giacchino, a perfect fit here as well. He brings the necessary intensity, but instead of reshaping his mysterious and propulsive sounds Lost, he takes a more classical, operatic approach. He creates a soundscape that reverberates off the icy mountain peaks surrounding the survivors, shivering alongside them as night falls and temperatures drop to deadly levels. Every hopeful grace note is accompanied by an ominous rumbling, as if death were lurking around the corner. The wreckage of the plane's fuselage becomes the survivors' escape from nighttime snowstorms, but they can never shake the possibility that it will become their tomb.

In the initial chaos and struggle for survival, it can be difficult to parse who is who among the thirty or so people who survive the first crash. But soon each character plays a specific role in ensuring the group's survival. Some treat the injured, others search suitcases for food, and so on. Each of these roles presents the characters with inevitable dilemmas over supplies and resources, as it becomes increasingly clear that help may never arrive. Bayona and cinematographer Pedro Luque make expert use of short lenses during key character moments, with close-ups that feel uncomfortably close, yet distinctly awkward and strange.

The vast majority of the film's 144-minute running time is spent at this isolated crash site, but the space never feels comfortable or familiar. Just when it seems like the worst is over, a shocking new development turns the entire scenario upside down, making survival seem impossible. The characters' struggle to hold on to hope is a constant storyline, often filtered through a theological lens, especially when the inevitable issue of cannibalism arises.

None of the characters' decisions are easy, and Bayona often films their dilemmas in powerful silence. (That's a challenge for actors, but they deal with it in a unique and commendable way.) Sometimes words aren't enough to express the spiritual pain they feel about what they have to do to survive. While the camera rarely shies away from capturing the ugly scale of their experience (usually moving between an intimate observer and a participant in the frenzied struggle for survival) there is at least one key moment where the camera deliberately turns away from the action at the last possible second. , as if the survivors' decisions are too painful or shameful to watch.

If there is one idea missing from Bayona's portrayal of these events, it comes during the longstanding debate over the ethics of consuming human flesh. The debate is an essential part of the film (and takes up much of the running time), with the idea of ​​religious damnation looming large over the conversation. But despite the clearly Christian language used, Bayona's approach to this riddle feels spiritual in an almost non-religious sense – or at least a sense that is only vaguely pious, rather than pinned down to any specific doctrine. The characters are all Roman Catholic and consider the question from a faith perspective. But although the actual survivors reportedly discussed cannibalism from the standpoint of Holy Communion, this topic is not discussed in Association of the Snow. The film doesn't necessarily suffer from the omission of that argument. But given the pervasiveness of ecclesiastical ideas throughout the screenplay, it occasionally feels like some powerful material has been left on the table when it comes to how deeply inward the characters are forced to look as they navigate impossible choices.

Carelessly, Association of the Snow is incredibly moving from start to finish. As fleeting flashes and memories of the world outside make the snow seem increasingly hellish, the film induces maddening fear through its deftly crafted soundscape. (The Shepard tone has rarely seemed so terrifying.) Bayona captures kindness and depravity in equal measure with his intimate camera, forcing the audience to witness the torment that feels like we were never supposed to see.

Association of the Snow now streaming on Netflix.