NYMPHOMANIAC VOL. 1 and NYMPHOMANIAC VOL. 2 - Review By Greg Klymkiw - ***** for new Lars von Trier

Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) enjoys a sandwich now and again.
WHITE MEAT and DARK RYE is always a special treat for her.

Young Joe (Stacy Martin) prefers her cream
STRAIGHT UP. Coffee not necessary.

Nymphomaniac Vol. 1 and Vol. 2 (2014) Dir. Lars von Trier *****
Starring: Charlotte Gainsbourg, Stellan Skarsgård, Stacy Martin, Shia LaBeouf, Christian Slater, Jamie Bell, Sophie Kennedy Clark, Mia Goth, Uma Thurman, Willem Dafoe, Udo Kier

Review By Greg Klymkiw

The dark is a scary place. For Lars von Trier, it seems to be the only place, but no matter how deeply pitched the black gets, he takes us to places many never want to go, but he does it with the aplomb of a master showman and as such, delivers movies that provoke, annoy, anger and almost always, entertain. Nymphomaniac is nothing, if not an all-out dazzler of a picture. Just don't take your granny to see it.

The picture had me hooked from its opening frames - which, of course, are black with the sound of water splashing. Or is it rain? Or is it someone taking a piss? I have images of an appetizer comprising a golden shower scene - after all, it's Lars von Trier and the movie is called Nymphomaniac. 'Twas, I believe, a reasonable expectation. But no, it's rain spattering onto metal, brick and cement, whilst water forms puddles and/or rushes into drains as the camera now reveals a grungy, dark back alley. In no time, the camera's eye moves towards a literal patch of dark in the wall of an old building. Once we're completely enveloped in the black, von Trier slams us in the face with a series of powerful images and splits our ear drums with the pounding, blistering Rammstein song "Führe Mich" ("Lead Me"). He chooses to cut into the song at the 10-second mark and I have to admit, it jolted me with all the force of any great cinematic shock cut. Have a listen whilst you read on.

As Rammstein slashes our oh-so delicate tympanic membranes to shreds, we're introduced to Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourgh) lying on the wet pavement, bruised, bleeding and clearly a victim of a severe beating. And hell, we'll accept that Von Trier has her positioned like Christ on the Cross because, well, it's a movie by Lars von Trier. We're also introduced to the imposing, hulking Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård) as he walks with the determination of a hit man on his way to dispatch his quarry, but is in fact, on his way to a little Kosher convenience store (in an alleyway, no less, or wherever the fuck we are). With a full grocery sack, he discovers the pulverized waif-like Joe on the wet cement. She doesn't want an ambulance or the police. Seligman suggests she come back to his place for a cup of tea.

TEA!!!

Once snuggled in Seligman's guest bed, with tea ('natch), Joe declares that she's a nymphomaniac and as such, is little more than filth. Seligman, a paternal academic, dotes on her and tut-tuts her self-hatred. Joe opens up to our lanky, Swedish Mr. Chips and tells him her life story, as if to support her inner loathing of everything she is. And it's definitely a case of "is", for it didn't take her a lifetime to discover her nymphomania, but that she discovered her "cunt" and its hold over her at age two. With cunt in hand, as it were, Joe takes Seligman through her childhood, adolescence and adulthood of debauchery.

Oh, and what debauchery, what degradation, what defilement. With a combination of real, digital and prosthetic cocks, cunts and assholes, Von Trier doesn't at all hold back on the sexual activity. You name it, you'll probably see it all here. However, there's nothing clinically dull in the hardcore action as you might find in your regular, good old fashioned, garden-variety XXX-picture. The onscreen sex is not only fun to watch, but Von Trier tears a few pages out of the rule books of great genre directors and makes damn sure that every beat of onscreen "action" is rooted (so to speak) in narrative thrust (as it were).

For example, what so many filmmakers who direct action, suspense or horror films don't understand is that the staging and choreography of their thrill-inducing set-pieces must always be rooted in narrative. It's not enough to turn said set pieces into roller coaster rides, and in most cases these days, set pieces that are poorly directed and edited for ADHD-challenged viewers to boot. In fact, what most contemporary filmmakers don’t seem to get is that set pieces must not stop the movie dead in its tracks nor inversely should non-set-pieces of pure narrative feel like a by-rote chore to get through twixt the action.

Great movies, great filmmakers realize that every element is a means to an end. Take any great set piece of action - let's use Sam Peckinpah's final twenty-minute slaughterhouse in The Wild Bunch as a case in point; not one shot, not one cut, not one excruciating slow-motion blood ballet is wasted, nor is it ever there simply for effect. Every element is working in tandem to enhance the thematic resonance, the complexity of character, the reflection of a time and place and, most importantly, the picture's narrative.

Von Trier handles his sex scenes in exactly the same fashion. There is, unlike pure hardcore porn, nothing on display for sheer masturbation-inducing prurience, BUT it is titillating, entertaining and always rooted in narrative, theme and character.

If anything, it's a lot of fun.

Somehow, the more degrading Joe's need to debase herself gets, we're rooting big-time for her to go as far as she needs to go in order to feel something down below. That's okay, though. This is her choice or, at least, the choice Von Trier chooses to give her. There's no morose, humourless, dullsville jack-hammering a la Steve McQueen in his precious toe-dip into sexual addiction Shame.

Besides, shame is just shame for McQueen, but for Von Trier, shame is part of the thrill for both Joe and the audience. It's kind of like the Guy Maddin credo (especially in the film he directed and co-wrote with George Toles, Careful) wherein the closet equals repression which equals shame, but sometimes it's the closet, the repression and the shame - O! THE GLORIOUS SHAME! - that's, well, pretty electrifying, thrilling, dangerously delightful and, if truth really be told, boner-and-wet-pussy-inducing. This is, I think, the thing that spurs Joe's character on and as an audience, it radiates so gloriously that we're carried along her yellow-brick road of need - to FEEL SOMETHING.

The primary element that keeps Nymphomaniac such a joyous and compelling experience is its structure or rather, its coat-hanger. The manner in which Joe's story is told is rooted in the near omnibus style we've occasionally experienced in films like Julien Duvivier's Tales of Manhattan, but best exemplified in the classic Ealing horror film Dead of Night (and a few subsequent 70s offerings from Amicus inspired by E.C. Comics, most notably Tales From the Crypt). For an omnibus-styled film to work best, the thread that hangs everything together is the reason for several different stories to be told and is, in fact, a wrap-around story that provides a story unto itself as well as the final kicker.

Often this style of film is rooted in some literary source, or inspired by the notion of literature. It's the latter that Von Trier has chosen and, in fact, rather enjoys implementing in many of his films. Here though, it works beautifully for several reasons.

The movie is a sprawling epic of fucking. This is fine by me. It's so sprawling that, Von Trier's original 5½ hour cut can't even be seen theatrically - at least not for now. The film is being released in two halves - each carrying a separate admission tag. Von Trier felt obligated to his investors to provide a product that had as much chance to generate a myriad of revenue streams. What we have are two parts that together do not equal 5½ hours. The first half is 118 minutes and the second 123 minutes. We're talking four hours here and they both include lengthy end-title credit sequences. Each part carries a disclaimer that the film doesn't represent Von Trier's final vision, but that he has indeed delivered his blessing whilst not actively participating in this shorter version.

Don't worry, though, Nymphomaniac is ALL VON TRIER ALL THE TIME!!!

Each half is considered a "volume" and within each volume there are 4 stories - totalling 8 official tales over the course of both volumes, but still including a myriad of delightful sidebar meanderings and, of course, the aforementioned wrap-around story. I never once felt the film I saw was incomplete and was thoroughly satisfied. That said, I did want more. I wanted to stay in the cinema much longer and could have practically set up house there. This, however, is the ultimate satisfaction - when I leave a movie wanting more. (I also know we'll eventually get it.) Besides, I hate going to a great restaurant and leaving the place wanting to spew vomit and shit a la Terry Jones in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life and such is the case with genuinely great pictures like this. I'm not leaving dissatisfied, but wanting more. My first thought after my inaugural taste was how much I wanted to see the movie - in its current state, even - again and again.

This, for me, is what makes a great picture. (And yes, a second helping was utterly transplendent.)

The wraparound story is, finally, a genuine delight. The conversation between Joe and Seligman is completely nutty. Joe admonishes herself, Seligman tries to appease her with hilarious intellectualizations, which she sometimes accepts and, as is her wont, sometimes rejects. However, the conversations always contribute elements that take us into the next story and, importantly, up the ante each time on the degradation-meter. That the conversations themselves involve fly-fishing, Orthodox Iconography, the fucking Fibonacci Sequence and assorted other topics requiring - NAE! DEMANDING! - rumination, is a constant source of pure euphoria.

The story Joe provides us is always mediated through her perspective, but we always sense a playful quality wherein she picks and chooses elements - sometimes, not always - based on her whims as a storyteller, her opportunity to have an avid listener and, of course, the aforementioned flights of fancy and philosophy imparted by the listener.

Von Trier has populated his movie with a huge cast of stars and name actors. I can't think of a single performance that's any less than outstanding, but in addition to the stalwart presence of Von Trier regulars Gainsbourgh and Skarsgård there are several notable renderings which stand out.

Christian Slater is surprisingly wonderful as Joe's loving, loyal father. This is not only a tremendously moving performance, but it provides the movie's only layer of what seems like genuine love and certainly not drenched in sex - at least not between the two characters. There is, for me, though, an element perfectly in keeping with the film's relentless focus on sex and it makes a fair bit of narrative sense. Joe's Dad is not only an all-out tree-aficionado (he's especially fond of the Ash), he's a lover of trees, he hugs them, seeks them out in any way he can, imparts his thoughts to his daughter about said leafy, tall, knobby trunks jutting ever-so erectly into the awaiting cunt of Heaven itself and yes, like Clint Eastwood in Paint Your Wagon, he even talks to the trees. Unlike Terence Malick's ludicrous The Tree of Life, though, Christian Slater's obsession with trees is not so much preciously spiritual, but ultimately borders on being fetishistic.

A tree fetish? Hey, why not? It's a Lars von Trier picture.

"Don't call me Billy Elliot ever again!"

Another performance in Nymphomaniac that I hope to cherish until I'm six feet under is served up by none other than Jamie Bell.

What his character does to Joe is relentlessly, endlessly shocking, brutal, repulsive and, for some, downright reprehensible. His frosty demeanour is at once scary, but it's also kind of sexy and, in fact, it delivers an element of connection between Joe and another male character not paralleled by any other relationship in the movie.

I also have to admit it's a few wheelbarrows full o' fun seeing the title star of the utterly sickening Billy Elliot, all grown up and administering often unbearable physical pain and torture.

"Look, Billy, I just want you to wear a tutu."

There will, no doubt, be a whack of humourless, pole-up-the-butt namby-pamby types who ask, "How dare Lars Von Trier tell us a story about female sexuality from a female perspective? What in the hell would he know about it?"

Grab a brain, people. There isn't a single character in this movie - man, woman or child - who, in some fashion doesn't represent shards of Von Trier himself. He's crazy, nasty and ugly, but he's a great director and so much of what drives his pictures are his own obsessions. In Nymphomaniac he creates a world unto itself, but within that world, the characters seem true to the film and though I know Von Trier is barfing up a whole mess of his own viscous fluids, he does so with style, wit and intelligence.

Who knows? I kept thinking that Joe is Von Trier. After all, he gives her character's name the male spelling and it's hard not to acknowledge that Charlotte Gainsbourg (who I find really sexy) has that thin, almost teenage-boy body to add a touch of androgynous ambiguity to the proceedings. The bottom line is that he puts Joe through the sort of wringer one suspects Lars puts himself through every single moment of his life.

Finally, though, much as I love cinema more than life itself, movies these days often render me numb. Not so with Von Trier. Like a mere handful of other great living directors, he's happy to smash me in the teeth with a baseball bat, but he does it in perfect rhythm and at always the right pitch so that I keep wanting him to just bring it on and on and on.

Lay it on me, Lars.

Hit me with your best shots, motherfucker.

"Nymphomaniac Vol. 1" and "Nymphomaniac Vol. 2" are in theatrical release via Mongrel Media and are currently playing at the TIFF Bell Lightbox in Toronto. I urge all Canadians who care about cinema to hop on a plane, train, bus or in an automobile and hightail it to Hogtown. There is no better venue in the entire Dominion of Canada to see this movie. For further information, visit the TIFF website HERE and now and order up your tickets.

Here's a whack of Lars von Trier movies and a few others you might wish to stock up on. If so, please buy them by clicking on the links below and, in so doing, assist in the maintenance of The Film Corner. In my humble opinion, there isn't a single title here you shouldn't own. So if you don't, get buying, eh.

COUNTDOWN #3 TO NYMPHOMANIAC by LARS von TRIER (opening March 21, 2014 at TIFF Bell Lightbox via Mongrel Media). Today's countdown is a review of Lars von Trier's THE IDIOTS on DVD - Review By Greg Klymiw

The Idiots (1998) dir. Lars von Trier *****
Starring: Anne Louise Hassing, Bodil Jørgensen, Jens Albinus, Troels Lyby

Review By Greg Klymkiw

To spass or not to spass; that, is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of the bourgeoisie, or to take arms against that which is a shallow sea of hypocrisy, and by the spassing, end them. With assistance from the Bard of Avon, I ask you: Hast thou found thine inner idiot? No? Well then, get cracking, fool. In The Idiots, Lars von Trier's only official Dogme film - the movement he founded in 1995 during the 100th anniversary of movies with fellow Danish filmmaker Thomas Vinterberg to create pure, unfettered cinema - we are introduced to a group of young people who stage a perverse form of theatre in the arena of life itself where they enter any number of public places and pretend to be mentally retarded. Drooling, screeching, screwing up their face and engaging in overtly aberrant behaviour, these want-to-be activists engage in a theatre of cruelty. Their nastiness in exploiting those who are mentally ill and/or challenged to expose the nastiness of those they accost is lost on them, until a new member to their group begins to question their motives.

Interview segments of the participants which hint at eventual discord amongst the group punctuate several set pieces wherein our ragtag group spass or, in the colloquial parlance of the politically incorrect - "spazz out", have sex, argue, make up, break up and to spass with abandon.

Few movies have made me laugh as hard as Lars von Trier's The Idiots. There is no question that the wholesale slaughter of sacred cows has always been a hallmark of the brilliant bad boy from Denmark, though I suspect none of his films are as gloriously, unabashedly, delightfully repugnant in rubbing an audience's nose in the putrid fecal matter of their own prejudices and repressions generated by their holier than thou pretence to political correctness. It is a cinematic declaration of war on bourgeois values.

Of course, it cuts much deeper than the surface. Lars von Trier digs his lens like a bayonet into the foul intestines of the bourgeoisie, rips them out and tosses them to the dirt for all to see. That said, those he skewers are also those who believe they are acting in defiance of said bourgeois values, but are as much a part of the problem as they believe they are the solution.

The movie begins brilliantly in an upscale restaurant where a snooty waiter takes an order from Karen (Bodil Jørgensen), a melancholy young woman who scales back her culinary desires due to a lack of funds. Around her are couples and quartets of affluent diners - quaffing expensive wine with their opulent brunch selections and occasionally cleansing their vile bourgeois palates with overpriced mineral water. Karen's eye roams to a corner of the dining establishment where a caregiver tries to control a table of her mentally retarded adult charges.

They spit up their food, whine and grunt, then - much to everyone's dismay, two of them get up and begin wandering around the restaurant. One of the retardates is relatively benign - going up to each table, smiling and saying "Hi!" The other charges about in a fury. Hands are wiped on tablecloths belonging to other diners, baskets of bread rolls are removed from others and the caregiver is quite overwhelmed trying to control her charges. When the snooty waiter insists the caregiver control her group for the sake of the other diners, it simply becomes too overwhelming for her. When the benign retard approaches Karen's table, she is touched by his innocence and purity and accompanies the group as they're forced to leave the restaurant.

Up to this point, one is compelled to laugh quite uproariously - not AT the mentally challenged people, but WITH them in their innocent flouting of bourgeois convention and the stuck-up diners who are shocked by this behaviour.

Once everyone is bundled into the cab, it becomes clear that none of them are retarded - especially when they laugh about how they were all able to dine in a fancy restaurant without paying. As it is finally established that these people are engaging in a big practical joke, the laughs the film elicits are very different indeed. Now we laugh at the darkness of this group's actions. Not only do they spass in public, but do so in private as well. Spazzing-out delivers a sense of inner peace, but also a perverse sense of accomplishment that their actions are affecting a change in society. It's somehow even more viciously funny when we discover they're all lounging about on the family estate of the one member of the group who is much a member of the club he, and the group seek to condemn.

The Idiots is a film which belongs to a long and noble tradition of cinema that seeks to shock and provoke - to downright anger an audience. That said, the real anger should be directed at those who ARE angered BY THE MOVIE ITSELF and, of course, for all the wrong reasons. I think it's safe to say that this tradition exploded in full splendour with Luis Bunuel's L'Âge d'or, the scathing 1930 indictment of bourgeois values and, for good measure, the Catholic church. Since the release of The Idiots in 1998, the great Ulrich Seidl stomped about similar stylistic territory with Dogdays and I'm even compelled to include Tom Green's universally reviled, but stunning and vastly misunderstood bit of nastiness Freddy Got Fingered.

What Lars von Trier and those others prove beyond a shadow of a doubt is that if you're going to eviscerate something, it can't be done timidly, or in half measures. As always, pure disembowelment of the bourgeoisie MUST be bold. That's probably why I love Lars von Trier - he's always about being bold. And that, frankly, is what makes for great cinema!

"The Idiots" is available on DVD.

COUNTDOWN #2 TO NYMPHOMANIAC by LARS von TRIER (opening March 21, 2014 at TIFF Bell Lightbox via Mongrel Media). Today's countdown is a review of the Criterion Collection's Outstanding 2-Disc DVD of EUROPA (aka ZENTROPA) - Review By Greg Klymkiw

2 Films Floating under a Blanket of Zeitgeist.
2 Films Featuring Hypnotized Characters.
1990: Guy Maddin Hypnotizes His Actors
1991: Lars von Trier Hypnotizes the Audience

Narrator/Hypnotist: 

You will now listen to my voice.

My voice will help you and guide you

still deeper into Europa.

Every time you hear my voice,

with every word and every number,

you will enter into a still deeper layer,

open, relaxed and receptive.

I shall now count from one to ten…

On the mental count of ten,

you will be in Europa.

Europa aka Zentropa (1991)
dir. Lars von Trier *****
Starring: Jean-Marc Barr, Barbara Sukowa, Udo Kier, Eddie Constantine, Ernst-Hugo Järegård, Max von Sydow

Review By Greg Klymkiw

In 1990, Canadian filmmaker Guy Maddin was directing his tragedy of the Great War Archangel which told a tale of lovers afflicted with severe mustard gas apoplexy who forget, at any given moment, who precisely they are in love with.

To ensure his actors were always in a trance, he secured, with my deft finagling (in the spirit of full disclosure I was the film's producer) the services of a renowned hypnotist (who, due to a binding non-disclosure policy cannot be named) to place Maddin's on-camera charges in a state of waking and walking sleep during the entire shoot of the film. Complete and utter submission was the goal.

This, of course, is the goal of all great artists - to subjugate. Submission and repression, when handled aggressively

Mad Orthodox Monk: (Chants ominously in Ukrainian Church Slavonic).
Dr. O'Ebbing: How do we know she is fully hypnotized?
Mad Orthodox Monk: I will ask her a question.
(To Veronkha) What is the most terrible thing that you have done?
Veronkha: I poked my baby brother's eye out and said it was an accident.
Mad Orthodox Monk: I think she's ready.

in all aspects of the filmmaking process create narrative, emotional, dramatic, psychological and stylistic psychoses of the most powerful kind. They roil just below the surface until nothing can stop the eventual explosion of shrapnel-like elements that pierce the mind, body and soul with all the pathological force of deep, unrelenting mental illness - a sickness so twisted and bent out of shape it becomes invisible except on a subconscious level. The very act of watching the film is not unlike staring into the deepest pits of one's soul, to gaze into a mirror that reflects a dream of Hell that will never end. In light of this, Archangel was, as a film, drenched in black and white, occasionally colour tinted, replete with post-dubbed dialogue (also performed under hypnosis), a cornucopia of in-camera special effects including double (and triple) exposures, matte paintings, rear and front screen projection, as well as optical shots.

At the same time, across the pond from the Dominion of Canada, one Lars von Trier was making Europa (renamed Zentropa for its initial North American release) which, like Maddin's film, was set in a strange never-never land of historical revisionism (though in post-WWII Germany as opposed to Maddin's WWI/Russian Revolution cusp period). It too was in black and white (though with dollops of full-blown colour rather than colour tinting) and was, like Maddin's film, bursting at the seams with wild in-camera and optical effects.

Where they differed, and yet existed in the same zeitgeist, was this: Maddin hypnotized his actors whilst von Trier rendered a movie that literally hypnotized the audience. The results were identical. Much like any living subject of hypnotism, audience-members who opened themselves willingly to both cinematic experiences were, in fact, under the power of suggestion.

Upon first seeing Europa back in the 90s, I was initially coaxed into the alternately pleasurable and disturbing states of waking and walking sleep and as such, became so obsessed with Lars von Trier's vision that I fought hard on subsequent viewings to deflect the hypnotic power in order to fully experience his dazzling, sumptuous genius in all its glory. Twenty years after my initial exposure to his great film, I am not only happy to report that it holds up magnificently, but has deepened for me to such dizzying degrees that I am convinced it is one of the most stunning works of cinematic art I have ever seen.

Maddin and von Trier's films must be seen on a big screen and, when possible, projected in glorious 35mm. This is especially important given the special quality in-camera and optical effects have over the much colder digital approach to rendering screen magic today. It is, finally, the warmth of cinema in the format of its birth that allows us to be enveloped in fluffy white blankets of forgetfulness (in Maddinesque parlance) and the sheer joyful terror of being forced into a unique, trance-like state of both yearning and forgetfulness that is, indeed, TRUE magic. Luckily, both Maddin and von Trier are available in the next best thing - their home consumption via visionary companies like the Criterion Collection and Zeitgeist Films.

Europa begins with the hypnotic tones of a voiceover belonging to Max von Sydow (The Exorcist himself and longtime Ingmar Bergman star), whilst we slowly cascade over train tracks engulfed in darkness, save for the soft light beaming gently over the centre of the frame. Lars von Trier plunges us into the black tunnel that is Germany just after World War II. Leopold Kessler (Jean-Marc Barr), an American of German descent has come to his expatriate father's homeland and taken a job as a railway employee under the tutelage of his persnickety, alcoholic Uncle (Ernst-Hugo Järegård). He meets and falls in love with a fetching film-noir-like femme fatale, Katharina Hartmann (Barbara Sukowa) who is the daughter of the German rail magnate Max Hartmann (Jørgen Reenberg). He is taken into the family with open arms. Max, in particular, is drawn to the notion of Germany becoming more international and is impressed with Kessler's desire to bring his North American, yet German-influenced know-how to the reconstruction of the country.

This is in vast contrast to the American armed forces occupying the Fatherland. The American commander mysteriously presiding over all matters of a reconstructive variety is Colonel Harris (played by the brilliant, gravel-voiced American expatriate tough guy actor Eddie Constantine, he of Lemmy Caution fame in numerous French movies like Alphaville). Harris knows all too well that Max used his train company Zentropa to transport Jews to concentration camps, but he also realizes that a vast majority of Germany's populace had been, to varying degrees, complicit in the activities of the Nazi regime. He seeks to protect Max since he believes this guilt-ridden rail baron is ultimately important to the American goal of reconstruction. Harris is also embroiled in a secret fight against a mysterious group of German partisan terrorists called Werewolf and while the young American Kessler trains on the railways and romances Katharina, his services are secured to delve into and expose the forces of evil.

Europa is both important and original on numerous fronts. In terms of theme and content, it is one of the most indelible screen portraits of post-World War II Germany ever committed to celluloid. Delivering a narrative which, I think, more than ably points a finger at America's complicity in the evils of Nazi Germany, especially in terms of making it clear how many Americans owned munitions factories IN Germany and did business with the Nazis under the radar. The overwhelming sense that we are in a nightmare world where an occupying force bullies the occupied, yet represents the corporate interests of the occupier is precisely what Lars Von Trier exposes. For all the lip service paid to the needs of assisting Germany with reconstruction, he presents a portrait of American military goons exercising the same sort of encroachment upon basic civil liberties as the Gestapo. While he does not veer away from Germany's rightful guilt in supporting one of the most foul regimes in all of recorded history, his film is not afraid to point a finger at America's military regime and its fascistic defence of America interests - in particular, the corporate interests - using reconstruction as a thin veil over basic greed. Unrestricted sovereignty was not ultimately granted to Germany until reunification in 1990 - a point not lost on von Trier. Both the narrative and mise-en-scène etch a chilling portrait of occupation - juxtaposing the German adherence to bureaucracy with the American adherence to back-door dealing and how both are equally flawed, but also at odds with each other within the context of the political situation.

Mixed into this heady brew of conflicting ideals, von Trier never neglects the thematic elements of complicity, betrayal and redemption. The Americans - in particular, the character of Colonel Harris - are complicit only in their exploitation of the situation while on the German side, complicity is a heavy cross that all the other characters must bear. Betrayal runs rampant throughout the narrative, though von Trier wisely explores this theme within the tropes of film noir elements and melodrama. I place an accent on "wisely" here because at the time the film was made, Germany was on the cusp of reunification and the issues he deals with had repercussions on a world wide scale, but by placing them within this stylized framework, he created a work that is not ephemeral in its power, but is, indeed, truly universal. In this sense, Europa feels less a film of its time, but rather, a film for all times. For example, while I feel the best works of American cinema in the 70s more than adequately capture the overwhelming paranoia of the period WITHOUT feeling dated, these are films directly from the periods of history and culture they represent.

Making a film in any contemporary context and looking back upon a period of history with contemporary eyes, requires an emphasis upon recreating the past world with indelible historical accuracy on as many levels as possible. However, when placing works dealing with historical issues and made during different historical periods - especially a film about the beginnings of occupation in Germany made at a time of German reunification - framing its narrative and themes in an almost post-modern aesthetic allows the artist a context to create a work that's truly visionary. This, is what Lars von Trier accomplishes. Reading reviews from the time of Europa's original release, one sees how even the best of the best acknowledge von Trier's visual gifts, but dismiss and/or outright ignore his narrative and political savvy. This, of course, did not keep the film from finding an audience at the time, but what's phenomenal to me is just how ahead of its time the film actually was, and in a sense, still is. Certainly viewing the film in the context of the current situation we face in terms of the economy, terrorism, the corporate imperialism of America, the domination of the New World Order and the horrendously obvious notion that war is ultimately all about money, Europa is without question a film for our times and, no doubt, will be so in the future as well.

The idea in certain circles, a confederacy of dunces to my way of thinking, that there's something wrong with melodrama is both myopic and elitist. There is, to be sure, good melodrama and bad melodrama, but it is a worthy genre and one that can work quite perfectly when presenting important historical and political themes. I suspect that von Trier and Maddin might well be cinema's leaders in understanding the importance of utilizing melodrama within stories dealing with political, historical and/or humanist subjects. Neither are afraid of filling their work with retro melodramatic devices and doing so, not with tongue in cheek, but playing them straight. When this approach sings ever-so sweetly, it is the humour - both natural and satirical - that comes to the fore - sans the empty spoof-like manner which is the domain of the holier-than-thou, the better-than-that and all the other head-nodding-eye-winking purveyors of mediocrity.

Europa is deliciously blessed with both the crazed big emotions of Douglas Sirk and the humanity of Carl Dreyer. Most amazingly, there are several moments of suspense that even owe their existence to the feverish qualities of D.W. Griffith - notably, several sequences involving the arming of a bomb and the subsequent attempt to disarm the bomb. Von Trier throws in everything including the kitchen sink to extend our dread and anticipation. Our desire for relief to said tension hits stratospheric heights. In addition to the visual flourishes reminiscent of another age, the score is sumptuously derived from a variety of original and pre-recorded pieces - most notably and pointedly from Bernard Herrmann's haunting music from Hitchcock's dreamy expressionistic thriller Vertigo. The stylized performances - aided further with the use of hollow dubbing - are a marvel and in particular, Jean-Marc Barr as the addled protagonist delivers what surely must be one of the bravest performances I've ever seen. He runs the gamut of emotion, but often in a controlled and intentionally stiff manner. He allows himself to be the puppet of Lars von Trier and as such, takes the thankless, but often surprising and engaging task of representing our (we, the audience) point of view. He is our way in to this world and for an actor to expose himself and yield so uncompromisingly to a filmmaker's vision is brilliantly, stunningly, delightfully foolhardy and ultimately, what makes his performance and the film itself so great.

This is razzle-dazzle filmmaking at its best. The bonus is plenty of food for thought and the cherry on the sundae is the occasional laughs and tears von Trier elicits from us. Some have charged that von Trier's approach is, in this, and other films, cold. All I can say to this, ladies and gentlemen, is thus: "I give you - once again - the aforementioned confederacy of dunces."

One of the more extraordinary achievements of Europa is the narration. It works two-fold. First, it is a hypnotic device - literal hypnotism and I'd argue that anyone open to the picture on a first viewing will, indeed, succumb. Secondly, it's a wonderful use of the great, though rare literary tradition of a second person point of view. In contemporary American literature this was popularized by Jay McInerney in his brilliant 1984 debut novel Bright Lights Big City. The book announces its bold style and brash approach in these extraordinary opening sentences:

"You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning. But here you are, and you cannot say that the terrain is entirely unfamiliar, although the details are fuzzy."

The idea of a detached voice speaking directly to its central character in order to relay the narrative was, even in the 80s, not a new approach, but it was one that thrust the pelvis of its literary conceit in the faces of readers all over the world and frankly, proved to be an ideal way of telling the story of a young man in the midst of a cocaine-addled phase of his life. As von Trier's central character Kessler is plunged into a similarly opaque world, we constantly hear Max Von Sydow's "you-are-getting-sleepy"-styled hypnotic offscreen orders to both the character and viewer. In 80s New York, it's coke-fuelled headlong dives into nightclubs. In Post-World War II Germany, its the strange, dreamy, addled world of occupation.

Certainly William Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom! is replete with both second person point of view and narrative techniques and is, in a sense, very close to the territory von Trier explores in Europa. Where Faulkner's novel is rooted in myth, one in which its central character is representative of the myth of the deep South and resulting in his ultimate, almost inevitable demise, von Trier's Europa seems similarly rooted in myth - in particular that of the Greek goddess of Europa who is seduced by a horny, old Zeus. That Europa herself, in mythic terms, was from a long, noble lineage is also a fascinating element in von Trier's film. We have Kessler, for example, seduced by his German roots and his American need to "do good" (or, one might even suggest the deeper American need to "meddle") and his attraction to the female heir to the Hartmann's rail empire.

In Faulkner's words:

"You cannot know yet whether what you see is what you are looking at or what you are believing."

Beat by beat, shot by shot - this is Europa. Images we will never forget rush by - Kessler dashing in silhouette in front of a huge illuminated clock, a scarlet ocean of blood rushing from under a door, a harrowing walk through mysterious cars on the Zentropa train full of caged Holocaust victims, corpses of "werewolf" partisans hanging from knotted ropes round their snapped necks, exquisitely composed Josef von Sterberg-like shots of Barbara Sukowa resembling Marlene Dietrich come-to-life, the desperate flailing of a drowning man as he seeks life and instead finds redemption and finally, the most gorgeous of all - a midnight Christmas mass in a bombed-out cathedral as puffs of snow gently fall upon the devout.

We cannot know yet what we see is what we're looking at, or what we're believing.

Amen.

"Europa" is available on a wonderful 2-Disc DVD that features a restored high-def digital transfer, a commentary featuring director Lars von Trier and producer Peter Aalbæk Jensen (in Danish, with English subtitles), "The Making of Europa” (1991), a documentary detailing the storyboarding to production, "Trier’s Element", a 1991 documentary featuring an interview with von Trier, and footage from the set and Europa’s Cannes premiere and press conference, "Anecdotes from Europa" a 2005 short documentary featuring interviews with film historian Peter Schepelern, actor Jean-Marc Barr, producer Peter Aalbæk Jensen, assistant director Tómas Gislason, co-writer Niels Vørsel, and prop master Peter Grant, 2005 interviews with cinematographer Henning Bendtsen, composer Joachim Holbek, costume designer Manon Rasmussen, film-school teacher Mogens Rukov, editor/director Tómas Gislason, producer Peter Aalbæk Jensen, art director Peter Grant, actor Michael Simpson, production manager Per Arman, actor Ole Ernst, A conversation with Lars von Trier from 2005, in which the director speaks about the “Europa” trilogy, "Europa—The Faecal Location" (2005), a short film by Gislason, a highly improved English subtitle translation, and an essay by critic Howard Hampton.

COUNTDOWN #1 TO NYMPHOMANIAC by LARS von TRIER (opening March 21, 2014 at TIFF Bell Lightbox via Mongrel Media). Today's countdown is a review of the Criterion Collection's Outstanding Blu-Ray of one of the most powerful, shocking, terrifying and profoundly moving films of the new millennium, ANTICHRIST - Review By Greg Klymkiw

Antichrist (2009) Dir. Lars von Trier *****
Starring: Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Antichrist is a movie that burns its reflection of pain into your memory like a branding iron – plunging itself through your cranium and searing your brain matter, creating that sickeningly sweet stench that only burning flesh gives off and remaining in your nostrils for (no doubt) a lifetime. The pain and by extension – the Passion – also stays with you.

A first viewing renders you drained, immobile, and numb and yet, paradoxically there are feelings of profound excitement – that you have witnessed an expression of emotion in ways that only cinema, of all the art forms, is capable of delivering. You are also breathless, and in spite, or maybe even because of the horror you’ve witnessed, you’re almost giddy with the desire to recall every beat, every image and every soul sickening moment of the experience. It’s a movie that demands to be seen more than once – it is a movie to be cherished, savored and devoured as ravenously and gluttonously as possible.

There’s simply no two ways about it – Antichrist is a great movie! It will be loved! It will be hated! It will be debated! And it will never be forgotten – neither by those who see it, nor by the sands of time! It’s a picture designed to live forever and will, no doubt, be Lars von Trier’s masterpiece.

Now, I will be the first to admit that my feelings about von Trier used to be mixed. In his early work, he was clearly a serious filmmaker who demanded the sort of regard one lavishes upon great artists, yet in spite of this, I often felt that the art, though dazzling, seemed rooted in spurious posturing. His motives (in spite of his visual gifts) seemed no more serious than any hack machine-tooling a product for the widest consumption possible. I must admit, though, he grew on me and with each subsequent effort I was constantly and increasingly reminded of the fact that all films and certainly most great films ARE exploitation – they exploit subject matter, human emotion and the audience – the best doing so with great panache.

And in this regard, von Trier is a master. The difference, of course, is that rather than working within genre and/or dramatic convention, his is the work of the high-toned, the intelligentsia (if you will) and his genre is that of the “art house film” and as such, he has developed his voice and craft to a sufficient degree that he has earned the right to be called “master” even though I still detest his pretentious early work like The Element of Crime and Epidemic. (Medea's heart is in the right place, but it too, finally stinks.)

This all changed for me with Europa, one of the most indelible screen portraits of post-World War II Germany ever committed to celluloid. Delivering a narrative which, I think, more than ably pointed a finger at America's complicity in the evils of Nazi Germany and in creating a literal act of hypnosis, von Trier plunged us into a nightmarish world that seemed to open the floodgates for one movie after another that brilliantly and entertainingly ripped down the bulwarks of cinema's borders whilst oddly adhering to them as well.

With Antichrist, von Trier has made a horror film – pure, though not so simple.

Alternately fueled by his clear love and respect for Strindberg’s great play “Miss Julie” and the work of filmmaker Carl Dreyer, von Trier ventures into the sort of daring territory we not only expect from him, but frankly, must demand of our greatest artists. As a horror film, however, it might not immediately be in the territory we expect, but certainly as it proceeds on its unrelenting journey, we know all to well that we are ensconced in the genre – not in a traditional manner, but certainly in its use of expressionistic elements.

At the end of the day, Antichrist creates exactly what we have come to expect from the genre of horror and it oozes a creepy quality that not only keeps us on the edge of our collective seats, but inspires the sort of revulsion that dares to make us feel resolutely unclean for having participated in this powerful, foul descent into human suffering. Goose flesh of the most unpleasant kind overtakes us as we watch the picture and when it ramps up to scenes of PHYSICAL torture and violence (the first two-thirds of the picture deal in psychological aspects of the above mentioned), one’s revulsion takes on dimensions that are almost indescribable.

The movie is broken into four parts, or “chapters” as von Trier labels them, which are bracketed by a prologue and an epilogue. The prologue introduces us to the characters of a man (Willem Dafoe) and a woman (Charlotte Gainsbourg) as they make love – the only sound accompanying their passionate coupling being a haunting aria by Handel. As they reach a pitch of orgasm, we follow their infant child as he wanders about the house and eventually perishes in a horrendous, tragic accident. The four chapters that follow are entitled “Grief”, “Pain” “Despair” and “The Three Beggars” as we experience the couple’s suffering and the man’s attempts to help his wife (he’s a psychiatrist) deal with her pain and in so doing, to assist himself with his own feelings of despair.

Most of this is set against the backdrop of a remote cabin in the wilderness where much of the creepy qualities emanate from the natural world itself. This extended therapy session builds to one of the most sickening extensions of inner pain imaginable – where the internal becomes very external. It’s Strindbergian as all get-out, but von Trier doesn’t merely place a razor in “Miss Julie’s” hand, he takes us into the full-blown horror of the actions, which in Strindberg’s play are only implied.

The epilogue, which follows the orgy of horror, contains some of the most stunning images I have ever seen in a picture – images that are as heart-achingly beautiful as they are grotesque. And while von Trier is definitely in Strindberg territory, he does not separate naturalism from expressionism, but is quite happy to make use of both and, when necessary, blend these elements.

As to the charges of misogyny leveled against the film, I can only hurl out the invective, “Bullshit!” While von Trier does not fully attain a level of spirituality that infuses the work of Carl Dreyer, he is nevertheless playing in a similar sandbox in terms of exploring the subjugation and exploitation of women at the hands of patriarchy and/or organized religion. The relentless analysis forced upon Gainsbourg’s character by Willem Dafoe’s character takes on the creepy hysteria and austerity that Dreyer himself explored in The Passion of Joan of Arc, Day of Wrath and Gertrud.

That said, however, von Trier allows a turning of the tables that Dreyer could never have brought himself to actually do, though in fairness, I have some belief that if Dreyer were making films today, he might well have dared to cross into the same territory von Trier does in Antichrist – territory that is as horrific as it is uniquely and profoundly moving.

I reiterate – Antichrist is a great picture!

"Antichrist" is available on an astounding Criterion Collection Bluray and DVD. The picture is a sumptuous high-definition digital master, approved by von Trier and supervised by D.O.P. Anthony Dod Mantle, a FUCKING wonderful commentary track featuring von Trier and Murray Smith, new interviews with von Trier, Dafoe and Gainsbourg, seven mini-docs examining the production of "Antichrist" through interviews with von Trier and others on his creative team, behind-the-scenes footage, "Chaos Reigns at the Cannes Film Festival" - a terrific doc on the film’s world premiere, press interviews with Dafoe and Gainsbourg, Trailers and a brilliant essay by Ian Christie. The picture had its North American premiere at the 2009 Toronto International Film Festival. This is an ABSOLUTE MUST-OWN title.

MELANCHOLIA on Blu Ray and DVD - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Lars von Trier's great movie still holds up and looks great on Blu-ray and DVD, but alas, North American viewers get hosed in the extra features department (unlike our European friends across the pond). Still, the movie is worth owning!

Lars Von Trier's stunning "Melancholia" has just been released to the home entertainment market in Canada via E-One and in the U.S. via Magnolia. The two disc set includes a Blu-Ray and DVD version. To say that the HD transfer of this exquisite picture is utter perfection might well be an understatement. Sadly, the extra features leave a lot to be desired. There are a few decent interviews within a five-part doc, but frankly, I'm not sure why we don't have a Lars von Trier commentary track. It would have been fabulous. I'd love to hear Lars waxing ever-so insanely on the movie. The Artificial Eye Region B release has the commentary, but a one-hour documentary in addition to the comparatively paltry added value on the E-One and Magnolia discs. If you have a multi-region player and have not bought the film yet, you might be better off importing the Artificial Eye version. Perhaps, however, Criterion will eventually do their own version of "Melancholia" as they did with "Anti Christ" in which case we deprived von Trier fans in North America can wait for that. Until something better comes along and if you love the movie as much as I do, the domestic price-point on the E-One and Magnolia discs can't be beat and will fulfil your need to indulge in the picture at home. If you did not see the film on a big screen theatrically - shame on you. Buy it. Better at home, than not at all.

Buy the nicely-transferred, but ho-hum extras North American version of "Melancholia" from Amazon.ca or Amazon.com or buy the fully-loaded Artificial Eye Blu-Ray of "Melancholia" on Region B from Amazon.UK


Melancholia (2011) dir. Lars von Trier
Starring: Kirsten Dunst, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Kiefer Sutherland, Charlotte Rampling, John Hurt, Stellan Skarsgard, Udo Kier

****

By Greg Klymkiw

Every year I gain more life experience and creep closer to death. The thing I love almost as much as my family, my friends and my very mortality – movies – will occasionally yield the work of artists I enjoy growing with as I advance towards bodily putrification and (I hope) spiritual transcendence.

Lars von Trier has been, for me, one of those artists. My relationship with him has been complicated. His early work drove me up a wall, but with each new film, as he's grown, I have, in turn, found myself more and more drawn to his vision.

His new movie, Melancholia, is deeply moving.

It is a tale of two sisters – Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) – privileged beyond belief, yet facing many of the same demons and challenges we all must confront.

Respectively, one is ethereal, the other pragmatic.

Together they face the ultimate destruction.

Last year, von Trier redefined the horror genre in his own image with the stunning Antichrist. With Melancholia, he seeks to do the same with science fiction.

In its own strange, gentle fashion the picture succeeds admirably.

Melancholia is, one one hand, an extension of Thomas Vinterberg’s handheld examination of a bitter family sniping in a country home in the 1998 masterpiece of the dogme movement The Celebration (AKA Festen).

Blend that, then, with a poetic Kubrick-like rumination on the universe (similar but less New-Agey than Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life) and an end of the world saga (think a kinder, gentler, deeper Deep Impact) and you have a picture guaranteed its place in the pantheon of the greats.

From the beginning we’re plunged into a blend of surrealism, expressionism and German Romanticism as Richard Wagner’s soaring Tristan and Isolde Overture wells up on the soundtrack. Here we’re treated to a series of sumptuous, gorgeously composed shots of the universe, nature, the opulence of the sprawling estate the film is set on, weirdly beautiful images of Kirsten Dunst, Charlotte Gainsbourgh and a magnificent steed seemingly moving forward, which, as we keep fixing our gaze, move in reverse. Or are they going forward, too? This montage, layered with beauty and portent, climaxes with a shot of the most gorgeous image of mass destruction I’ve yet to witness in any film.

We are now ready for Melancholia in all its splendour.

The carefully composed images of this evocative preamble lead to his trademark dogme-styled shaky-cam as we follow the events of Justine’s wedding day.

And what a wedding!

Maestro von Trier plunges us into a dinner party that explodes with yummy vitriolic sniping amongst the assembled members of the family.

Justine and her handsome, but rather unimaginative, bland and ineffectual husband Michael (Alexander Skarsgard) arrive two hours late and are chastized by Charlotte.

Justine’s Dad (John Hurt) appears with two chubby ladies both named Betty and drunkenly engages in a childish game of openly filching the silverware and complaining repeatedly to a server about the lack of said silverware. Justine’s Mom (Charlotte Rampling), with nary a shred of humour, hurls out a variety of bile-tainted barbs against her silly ex-husband.

During his toast, Dad quips about Mom’s "domineering" qualities. Mom proceeds to disagree and then, in a most "domineering" fashion, steals the limelight, interrupting Dad’s speech and makes one of her own. It's quite the inspirational wedding speech as she declares, "I hate marriage" and adds her well-wishes to the happy couple with: "Enjoy it while it lasts!"

Udo Kier offers a whole whack of magnificent scene stealing knee-slappers as the pricey, pretentious wedding planner who prissily declares he's "at his wit's end". He later complains that Justine has ruined “his” wedding and announces he will never again look at her. In a hilarious running gag, dearest Udo holds up his hand and averts his eyes every single time Kirsten Dunst passes him.

Ah, family!

Ah, weddings!

Ah, Maestro von Trier!

He delivers the goods what might be one of the most memorable movie weddings - right up there with The Godfather and The Deer Hunter.

The lovely bride mopes about inconsolably. The best man (and her ad agency boss), played by Stellan Skarsgard with suitable slime-oozing, expects her to – at the wedding, no less! – come up with a tag line for their new and important client, Claire natters on to Justine about decorum while her husband John (a great Kiefer Sutherland - oddly sweet AND knobbish) keeps reminding everyone how much the wedding is costing him.

Pathetic hubby Michael proves he clearly doesn't have the stuff to enter this family. When it's time for him to make a speech, he burbles out a few uncomfortable sentiments that boil down to "I love you." Nice enough if you're marrying into a "normal" family, but clearly inadequate for this clan endowed with flamboyant dysfunction and, one hell of a lot of style. Even more pathetic is when Michael privately presents Justine with his wedding gift - a snapshot of an Empire Apple orchard that he just bought for their years of retirement.

I don't know about you, but if I were Kirsten Dunst at the peak of my youth and beauty, the last thing I'd want to be thinking about on my wedding night is sitting in the shade of an apple tree when I'm more wizened and rotting than an apple that's fallen to the ground and has festered in the sun.

Is then, any wonder that just before the cutting of the cake, Justine decides to take a bath.

Her loopy Mother decides to do the same.

Like daughter, like mother.

Furious, John grabs his Mother-in-law’s luggage and tosses the bags out front of the mansion. And just when it looks like all will settle down once husband and wife retreat to the nuptial boudoir, the new bride spurns hubby’s advances and rushes out onto the rolling lawns to look at the heavens and then have sex in a sand trap on the estate’s golf course with her boss’s nephew.

Does any of this sound familiar? It should. All families behave this way, don’t they?

The entire first part of the film is subtitled “Justine”. The second half is subtitled “Claire”. In the latter portion of the film we discover that a mysterious planet, long hidden behind the sun, is making its way in the direction of the Earth. Astronomy buff John insists this will be an interplanetary “fly-by”, but Claire's obsessive internet trolling suggests there’s a very distinct possibility that the humungous, blue, glowing orb will collide with the Earth at a rate of 60,000 miles per second.

It is here the film launches into a tremendously sad waiting game as the sisters keep trying to make (mostly on Claire’s part) the sort of sibling connections of love that have kept and indeed keep eluding them.

By fusing a darkly comic domestic drama with an impending apocalypse, von Trier has created a bold and original work. There’s obviously the possibility that the movie works on a purely metaphorical level since the planet threatening Earth is called Melancholia and as such, this all might actually be one grand statement that the sickness of depression is what threatens to swallow everyone and everything whole.

I prefer, however, to think the metaphor exists within the literal context of life on Earth being snuffed out. I suspect this is ultimately the case as Justine's character feels like a mouthpiece for von Trier himself - especially when she very matter-of-factly declares: “The Earth is evil. Life on Earth is evil.”

As evil as it may be for von Trier, this evil has also yielded his genius and, most importantly, gives us an exquisitely beautiful, haunting and thought-provoking work of art.

Maestro von Trier has also created images that shall never retreat from the memory banks of all who see his film. Who will ever forget, for example, Kirsten Dunst adorned in her wedding dress as she lay (Ophelia-like) in a stream or as she bathes naked upon a rock under the gorgeous blue glow from the rogue planet?

And for every image of heartbreaking beauty, von Trier counters it with something so indelibly appalling (the vicious beating Justine lays upon her horse Abraham) that he creates, once more, an important film exposing the dichotomous nature of life itself.

It’s a great picture! Any petulant nonsense von Trier spewed out at the notorious Cannes film festival press conference about being a Nazi should ultimately be swept under a rug.

There's no need to allow anything to impede your experience of seeing this movie.

ANTICHRIST - Feel the pain

A CINEMATIC 12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS, EASTERN-RITE NATIVITY AND FEAST OF THE EPIPHANY: Join me in this special celebration of cinema as each day I will be publishing a review in honour of this season of good will and focusing on films and filmmakers who have made a contribution to both the human spirit and the art of film.

For the TWELFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, Klymkiw Film Corner gives to you…

Antichrist (2009) Dir. Lars von Trier
Starring: Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg

*****

By Greg Klymkiw

Antichrist is a movie that burns its reflection of pain into your memory like a branding iron – plunging itself through your cranium and searing your brain matter, creating that sickeningly sweet stench that only burning flesh gives off and remaining in your nostrils for (no doubt) a lifetime. The pain and by extension – the Passion – also stays with you.

A first viewing renders you drained, immobile, and numb and yet, paradoxically there are feelings of profound excitement – that you have witnessed an expression of emotion in ways that only cinema, of all the art forms, is capable of delivering. You are also breathless, and in spite, or maybe even because of the horror you’ve witnessed, you’re almost giddy with the desire to recall every beat, every image and every soul sickening moment of the experience. It’s a movie that demands to be seen more than once – it is a movie to be cherished, savored and devoured as ravenously and gluttonously as possible.

There’s simply no two ways about it – Antichrist is a great movie! It will be loved! It will be hated! It will be debated! And it will never be forgotten – neither by those who see it, nor by the sands of time! It’s a picture designed to live forever and will, no doubt, be Lars von Trier’s masterpiece.

Now, I will be the first to admit that my feelings about von Trier used to be mixed. In his early work, he was clearly a serious filmmaker who demanded the sort of regard one lavishes upon great artists, yet in spite of this, I often felt that the art, though dazzling, seemed rooted in spurious posturing. His motives (in spite of his visual gifts) seemed no more serious than any hack machine-tooling a product for the widest consumption possible. I must admit, though, he grew on me and with each subsequent effort I was constantly and increasingly reminded of the fact that all films and certainly most great films ARE exploitation – they exploit subject matter, human emotion and the audience – the best doing so with great panache.

And in this regard, von Trier is a master. The difference, of course, is that rather than working within genre and/or dramatic convention, his is the work of the high-toned, the intelligentsia (if you will) and his genre is that of the “art house film” and as such, he has developed his voice and craft to a sufficient degree that he has earned the right to be called “master” even though I still detest his pretentious early work like The Element of Crime and Epidemic. (Medea's heart is in the right place, but it too, finally stinks.)

This all changed for me with Europa, one of the most indelible screen portraits of post-World War II Germany ever committed to celluloid. Delivering a narrative which, I think, more than ably pointed a finger at America's complicity in the evils of Nazi Germany and in creating a literal act of hypnosis, von Trier plunged us into a nightmarish world that seemed to open the floodgates for one movie after another that brilliantly and entertainingly ripped down the bulwarks of cinema's borders whilst oddly adhering to them as well.

With Antichrist, von Trier has made a horror film – pure, though not so simple.

Alternately fueled by his clear love and respect for Strindberg’s great play “Miss Julie” and the work of filmmaker Carl Dreyer, von Trier ventures into the sort of daring territory we not only expect from him, but frankly, must demand of our greatest artists. As a horror film, however, it might not immediately be in the territory we expect, but certainly as it proceeds on its unrelenting journey, we know all to well that we are ensconced in the genre – not in a traditional manner, but certainly in its use of expressionistic elements.

At the end of the day, Antichrist creates exactly what we have come to expect from the genre of horror and it oozes a creepy quality that not only keeps us on the edge of our collective seats, but inspires the sort of revulsion that dares to make us feel resolutely unclean for having participated in this powerful, foul descent into human suffering. Goose flesh of the most unpleasant kind overtakes us as we watch the picture and when it ramps up to scenes of PHYSICAL torture and violence (the first two-thirds of the picture deal in psychological aspects of the above mentioned), one’s revulsion takes on dimensions that are almost indescribable.

The movie is broken into four parts, or “chapters” as von Trier labels them, which are bracketed by a prologue and an epilogue. The prologue introduces us to the characters of a man (Willem Dafoe) and a woman (Charlotte Gainsbourg) as they make love – the only sound accompanying their passionate coupling being a haunting aria by Handel. As they reach a pitch of orgasm, we follow their infant child as he wanders about the house and eventually perishes in a horrendous, tragic accident. The four chapters that follow are entitled “Grief”, “Pain” “Despair” and “The Three Beggars” as we experience the couple’s suffering and the man’s attempts to help his wife (he’s a psychiatrist) deal with her pain and in so doing, to assist himself with his own feelings of despair.

Most of this is set against the backdrop of a remote cabin in the wilderness where much of the creepy qualities emanate from the natural world itself. This extended therapy session builds to one of the most sickening extensions of inner pain imaginable – where the internal becomes very external. It’s Strindbergian as all get-out, but von Trier doesn’t merely place a razor in “Miss Julie’s” hand, he takes us into the full-blown horror of the actions, which in Strindberg’s play are only implied.

The epilogue, which follows the orgy of horror, contains some of the most stunning images I have ever seen in a picture – images that are as heart-achingly beautiful as they are grotesque. And while von Trier is definitely in Strindberg territory, he does not separate naturalism from expressionism, but is quite happy to make use of both and, when necessary, blend these elements.

As to the charges of misogyny leveled against the film, I can only hurl out the invective, “Bullshit!” While von Trier does not fully attain a level of spirituality that infuses the work of Carl Dreyer, he is nevertheless playing in a similar sandbox in terms of exploring the subjugation and exploitation of women at the hands of patriarchy and/or organized religion. The relentless analysis forced upon Gainsbourg’s character by Willem Dafoe’s character takes on the creepy hysteria and austerity that Dreyer himself explored in The Passion of Joan of Arc, Day of Wrath and Gertrud.

That said, however, von Trier allows a turning of the tables that Dreyer could never have brought himself to actually do, though in fairness, I have some belief that if Dreyer were making films today, he might well have dared to cross into the same territory von Trier does in Antichrist – territory that is as horrific as it is uniquely and profoundly moving.

I reiterate – Antichrist is a great picture!

"Antichrist" is available on an astounding Criterion Collection Bluray and DVD. The picture had its North American premiere at the 2009 Toronto International Film Festival and was theatrically released in Canada by E1 Films.

MELANCHOLIA - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Lars von Trier's haunting work of art

Lars Von Trier's stunning "Melancholia" continues its run via E-One at the Toronto International Film Festival's TIFF Bell Lightbox Monday December 19 @ 8:00PM, Tuesday December 20 @ 02:45PM & 08:00PM, Wednesday December 21 @ 02:45PM & 08:00PM and Thursday December 22 @ 02:45PM & 08:00PM. This is a rewrite/reprint of a review I filed at Daily Film Dose during the 2011 edition of the Toronto International Film Festival

Melancholia (2011) dir. Lars von Trier
Starring: Kirsten Dunst, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Kiefer Sutherland, Charlotte Rampling, John Hurt, Stellan Skarsgard, Udo Kier

****

By Greg Klymkiw

Every year I gain more life experience and creep closer to death. The thing I love almost as much as my family, my friends and my very mortality – movies – will occasionally yield the work of artists I enjoy growing with as I advance towards bodily putrification and (I hope) spiritual transcendence.

Lars von Trier has been, for me, one of those artists. My relationship with him has been complicated. His early work drove me up a wall, but with each new film, as he's grown, I have, in turn, found myself more and more drawn to his vision.

His new movie, Melancholia, is deeply moving.

It is a tale of two sisters – Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) – privileged beyond belief, yet facing many of the same demons and challenges we all must confront.

Respectively, one is ethereal, the other pragmatic.

Together they face the ultimate destruction.

Last year, von Trier redefined the horror genre in his own image with the stunning Antichrist. With Melancholia, he seeks to do the same with science fiction.

In its own strange, gentle fashion the picture succeeds admirably.

Melancholia is, one one hand, an extension of Thomas Vinterberg’s handheld examination of a bitter family sniping in a country home in the 1998 masterpiece of the dogme movement The Celebration (AKA Festen).

Blend that, then, with a poetic Kubrick-like rumination on the universe (similar but less New-Agey than Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life) and an end of the world saga (think a kinder, gentler, deeper Deep Impact) and you have a picture guaranteed its place in the pantheon of the greats.

From the beginning we’re plunged into a blend of surrealism, expressionism and German Romanticism as Richard Wagner’s soaring Tristan and Isolde Overture wells up on the soundtrack. Here we’re treated to a series of sumptuous, gorgeously composed shots of the universe, nature, the opulence of the sprawling estate the film is set on, weirdly beautiful images of Kirsten Dunst, Charlotte Gainsbourgh and a magnificent steed seemingly moving forward, which, as we keep fixing our gaze, move in reverse. Or are they going forward, too? This montage, layered with beauty and portent, climaxes with a shot of the most gorgeous image of mass destruction I’ve yet to witness in any film.

We are now ready for Melancholia in all its splendour.

The carefully composed images of this evocative preamble lead to his trademark dogme-styled shaky-cam as we follow the events of Justine’s wedding day.

And what a wedding!

Maestro von Trier plunges us into a dinner party that explodes with yummy vitriolic sniping amongst the assembled members of the family.

Justine and her handsome, but rather unimaginative, bland and ineffectual husband Michael (Alexander Skarsgard) arrive two hours late and are chastized by Charlotte.

Justine’s Dad (John Hurt) appears with two chubby ladies both named Betty and drunkenly engages in a childish game of openly filching the silverware and complaining repeatedly to a server about the lack of said silverware. Justine’s Mom (Charlotte Rampling), with nary a shred of humour, hurls out a variety of bile-tainted barbs against her silly ex-husband.

During his toast, Dad quips about Mom’s "domineering" qualities. Mom proceeds to disagree and then, in a most "domineering" fashion, steals the limelight, interrupting Dad’s speech and makes one of her own. It's quite the inspirational wedding speech as she declares, "I hate marriage" and adds her well-wishes to the happy couple with: "Enjoy it while it lasts!"

Udo Kier offers a whole whack of magnificent scene stealing knee-slappers as the pricey, pretentious wedding planner who prissily declares he's "at his wit's end". He later complains that Justine has ruined “his” wedding and announces he will never again look at her. In a hilarious running gag, dearest Udo holds up his hand and averts his eyes every single time Kirsten Dunst passes him.

Ah, family!

Ah, weddings!

Ah, Maestro von Trier!

He delivers the goods what might be one of the most memorable movie weddings - right up there with The Godfather and The Deer Hunter.

The lovely bride mopes about inconsolably. The best man (and her ad agency boss), played by Stellan Skarsgard with suitable slime-oozing, expects her to – at the wedding, no less! – come up with a tag line for their new and important client, Claire natters on to Justine about decorum while her husband John (a great Kiefer Sutherland - oddly sweet AND knobbish) keeps reminding everyone how much the wedding is costing him.

Pathetic hubby Michael proves he clearly doesn't have the stuff to enter this family. When it's time for him to make a speech, he burbles out a few uncomfortable sentiments that boil down to "I love you." Nice enough if you're marrying into a "normal" family, but clearly inadequate for this clan endowed with flamboyant dysfunction and, one hell of a lot of style. Even more pathetic is when Michael privately presents Justine with his wedding gift - a snapshot of an Empire Apple orchard that he just bought for their years of retirement.

I don't know about you, but if I were Kirsten Dunst at the peak of my youth and beauty, the last thing I'd want to be thinking about on my wedding night is sitting in the shade of an apple tree when I'm more wizened and rotting than an apple that's fallen to the ground and has festered in the sun.

Is then, any wonder that just before the cutting of the cake, Justine decides to take a bath.

Her loopy Mother decides to do the same.

Like daughter, like mother.

Furious, John grabs his Mother-in-law’s luggage and tosses the bags out front of the mansion. And just when it looks like all will settle down once husband and wife retreat to the nuptial boudoir, the new bride spurns hubby’s advances and rushes out onto the rolling lawns to look at the heavens and then have sex in a sand trap on the estate’s golf course with her boss’s nephew.

Does any of this sound familiar? It should. All families behave this way, don’t they?

The entire first part of the film is subtitled “Justine”. The second half is subtitled “Claire”. In the latter portion of the film we discover that a mysterious planet, long hidden behind the sun, is making its way in the direction of the Earth. Astronomy buff John insists this will be an interplanetary “fly-by”, but Claire's obsessive internet trolling suggests there’s a very distinct possibility that the humungous, blue, glowing orb will collide with the Earth at a rate of 60,000 miles per second.

It is here the film launches into a tremendously sad waiting game as the sisters keep trying to make (mostly on Claire’s part) the sort of sibling connections of love that have kept and indeed keep eluding them.

By fusing a darkly comic domestic drama with an impending apocalypse, von Trier has created a bold and original work. There’s obviously the possibility that the movie works on a purely metaphorical level since the planet threatening Earth is called Melancholia and as such, this all might actually be one grand statement that the sickness of depression is what threatens to swallow everyone and everything whole.

I prefer, however, to think the metaphor exists within the literal context of life on Earth being snuffed out. I suspect this is ultimately the case as Justine's character feels like a mouthpiece for von Trier himself - especially when she very matter-of-factly declares: “The Earth is evil. Life on Earth is evil.”

As evil as it may be for von Trier, this evil has also yielded his genius and, most importantly, gives us an exquisitely beautiful, haunting and thought-provoking work of art.

Maestro von Trier has also created images that shall never retreat from the memory banks of all who see his film. Who will ever forget, for example, Kirsten Dunst adorned in her wedding dress as she lay (Ophelia-like) in a stream or as she bathes naked upon a rock under the gorgeous blue glow from the rogue planet?

And for every image of heartbreaking beauty, von Trier counters it with something so indelibly appalling (the vicious beating Justine lays upon her horse Abraham) that he creates, once more, an important film exposing the dichotomous nature of life itself.

It’s a great picture! Any petulant nonsense von Trier spewed out at the notorious Cannes film festival press conference about being a Nazi should ultimately be swept under a rug.

There's no need to allow anything to impede your experience of seeing this movie.