Directed by Ísold Uggadóttir and filmed live at Lisbon’s Altice Arena, Cornucopia is not simply a tour document – it’s a defiant act of orchestral storytelling. The film captures Björk’s performance from start to finish without behind-the-scenes interviews, which would have been fascinating but would have likely disturbed the flow. This is not a look backstage but rather an immersion into Björk’s theatrical subconscious. The visuals, which were designed by long-time collaborators Tobias Gremmler, come directly from the projections that were shown during the live performance, lending the film a hallucinatory coherence. Think of this less as documentation and more as a dreamscape: a multisensory, modern lanterna magica with a set list spanning from “Isobel” to “Fossora”.

In Björk’s cosmic universe, fashion functions as a narrative layer. For much of the show she floats in a tulle dress by Noir Kei Ninomiya that resembles an Arctic crustacean layered over a lace bodysuit by Sarah Regensburger. The musical ensemble wore Balmain couture with detours into pieces by Richard Malone and Kiko Kostadinov. The otherworldly masks are by James Merry. “All looks are always chosen by Björk,” says her long-time stylist, Edda Gudmundsdottir. “They have to resonate with her as they present the visual parts of her music.”

But beyond the visuals lies something more urgent. Instead of endless costume changes, Cornucopia is punctuated by a stark spoken-word interlude on climate change, – underscoring Björk’s deep-rooted social consciousness and environmental urgency. This isn’t spectacle for spectacle’s sake but rather a poetic plea.

The weight of it all was not lost on Uggadóttir. “Translating such a large work of art into film was daunting and, at times, quite humbling,” says the filmmaker. “But I was constantly moved and surprised by how exhilarating it was to make something so alive and singular.”

Sonically, Cornucopia is a platform for Björk’s high-concept musicality and avant-garde vision. On stage, she orchestrates a rare convergence of classical rigour and experimental flair – pairing Viibra, a septet of ethereal flautists with the 50-strong Hamrahlíð Choir, an Icelandic institution she once belonged to. Add to that Grammy-nominated percussionist Manu Delago, who conjures rhythm from bowls and a tank of water during “Blissing Me”, and the result is as ambitious as it is transportive. “She wanted the audience to feel held,” says musical director Bergur Þórisson. “The sound had to be spacious, emotional and womb-like.” Translated from a 360-degree format into Dolby Atmos, the result is enveloping; each aluphone chime and flute phrase hangs in the air like fog.

Visually, her collaborators deliver maximalist theatre. “It was about recapturing complexity without flattening it and keeping moments of intimacy too,” says James Merry, who serves as the artist’s co-creative director. “I was thinking about the fans who didn’t see the show in person and my hope was to give them as close an experience to the live audience as possible. To feel surrounded by the visuals and occasionally overwhelmed by them too,” he says. “Hopefully we did it justice.” 

The film quietly centres Björk’s lyrical brilliance. Often eclipsed by her aesthetic largesse, the singer’s songwriting finally takes the spotlight. Lines bloom across the screen in her own handwritten font. Standout missives include: “deadly demonic divorces demolished the idea”, “without love I feel the abyss”, and “hope is a muscle that allows us to connect”. To put it bluntly: Björk’s got bars.

Despite our era’s fragmented attention spans, Cornucopia requires full immersion. It asks the audience to look closer and listen with their whole self. And, in doing so, the film serves as a reminder that some art is too expansive to be trimmed into clips – it demands to be experienced in its entirety. Does Cornucopia belong in a feed? No. But it just might reset your sense of what belongs on a screen.