Like his misogynist personality that overshadowed the critically ignored but socially relevant Antichrist, Lars von Trier – with the help of truncated sound bites taken out of context – submarined the recognition of his follow up, Melancholia. If there’s nothing else we can learn from both von Triar and Oliver Stone, it’s wise to remember that any slightly flattering reference to Nazis or Hitler will brand you a pariah. And, if you happen to already be a pariah, it will virtually blacklist you.
An entirely separate essay could be written on the bastardization of von Trier’s reference to the Nazi Aesthetic, as could one be written on the alacrity with which it shot through the viral-sphere. However, spending so much time on the perverse ethics of journalists – international and homegrown – is futile inasmuch as – of my three-thousand or so words – only a sentence or two decrying their merits and illuminating their subterfuge would be plucked and placed on a ticker devoid of ellipsis.
Melancholia convincingly explores depression and the impact it has on the sufferer and the sufferer’s surroundings. However, the film more astutely explores the stigmatization of depression and the precariousness of our own well-being. As iconoclastic as any of his previous films, Melancholia begins at the end, informing the viewer that the world is going to end. And while the cinematography beatifies a collapsing horse, a mother running with her child across a random green on a golf course, and deceased birds falling mid-flight like snow on a calm winter’s morning, the end is violent and incendiary: Melancholia, a planet that has been hiding for millennia behind the sun, has emerged and will come dangerously close to Earth. Scientists believe that the planet will merely pass by and offer a stunning close-up of the new planet; however, the Internet – and its puppeteers – have spread the rumor that Melancholia will do the dance of death and collide ever so lightly with Earth, simultaneously assuming it and engulfing it in rogue wave of hellfire.
A testament to von Trier is that the audience wants the ending to change, but from the beginning we know the fate of the world. Somehow, there is anxiety and tension despite our forewarning.
And, von Trier links this to his examination of depression. First, he focuses on “proximity,” particularly how the most seemingly minute interaction can send one into a precipitous fall of sadness. When we meet Justine (Kirsten Dunst), she is recently married, still wearing the white wedding dress and on her way to the elaborate reception thrown by her sister, Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg), and her uber-affluent husband, John, (Kiefer Sutherland). The sisterly relationship is strained, to say the least, with Claire often reminding Justine, “you don’t know how much I hate you sometimes.” The hatred stems from resentment: Claire constantly feels she has to take care of her sister, and she wants Justine to be “happy,” a word that is so vague, ambiguous, and out-of-reach that Justine could never aspire to her sister’s wishes. And, this is a fine commentary on our general pursuit of a futile adjective, one that is subjectively defined. Claire is wealthy, but she hardly seems happy. Her husband is pedantic, condescending, and domineering, and she speaks of him with disdain. However, her anger appears when she is physically close to the languid Justine. Similarly, Justine’s mood transitions from elation to near-catatonia when exposed to her mother’s diatribe on marriage. Granted, the vitriol spewed forth occurs during dinner at the reception, which would upset anyone, but it sends Justine into a walking slumber of darkened eyes and lapidary speech.
In a way, it’s as if each character is a billiard ball, moved and sent askew by an unseen cue ball. Perhaps Claire is the initial cue, but her husband seems just as suspect, as does her mother, who appears to be clinically depressed – on account of her philandering ex-husband (John Hurt), who gutsily — and perhaps admirably (?) – brings a twosome to the wedding. Both are named Betty, and he’s constantly searching for a third of the same name throughout the matrimonial proceedings.
The refreshing element here is that von Trier offers no answer, just an illustration of connections – some subtle like a pin prick, other blunt and like a sledgehammer through sheetrock. And in this way, he mirrors the eventual immolation of the Earth. Two planets scraping each other over a relatively small number of feet or hundreds of miles is irrelevant; regardless, its impact is catastrophic and debilitating.
This links nicely to the subtle definition of melancholy as a “disease,” which I suppose could be accurate, but I tend to agree with the way von Triar fashions is as an almost preternatural ability to “know” things. In one sense, this could be his self-confessed depression, but the setup comes off as genuine. When Justine tries to explain her ability to “know” things that are true – such as the end of the world, or the number of white beans in the empty wine bottle: “678” – the movie doesn’t veer into a superhero tale. Rather, it offers an explanation as to why she can’t be “happy” like everyone wishes her to be. She sees the sides of people they keep hidden. She understands the temporality of marketing campaigns, and the insignificance of her promotion to “art director.” On the other hand, knowing the demise of existence might prompt her to embrace the time she – and other depressives – has left.
Melancholia works on a number of levels, in part because of Dunst and Gainesbourg. Characteristically, Gainesbourg is amazing – as she was in Antichrist and Michael Haneke’s Time of the Wolf. Dunst is quite also quite good. Before von Triar’s fabricated gaffe, there was talk that Dunst could snag an award nomination or two. (One could almost see those aspirations dissipate as she sat on a panel with von Triar as he responded to the rather antagonizing French reporter.) However, quite good should not be confused with different than what she’s done previously. She sells depression, but von Triar creates this mood in the opening shots of the film. Her voice is barratone and her syllabus emerge viscously, but there is little range displayed here. It’s certainly different from fodder like Elizabethtown and Bring it On, but I’m not sure what that means. Regardless, I’d like to see this Dunst again.
