"If Ingmar Bergman had committed suicide, gone to hell, and come back to earth to direct an exploitation/art film for drive-ins, [Antichrist] is the movie he would have made." John Waters
Many writers--myself included--use the term ‘polarizing’ far too much. “You’ll either love it or hate it,” we say, often as a way to excuse ourselves from responsibility when you rent it and, well, hate it.
That being said, it’s hard to think of a better person that fits such a word as Lars Von Trier. Aside, perhaps, from the more universally praised Breaking the Waves (a film that boasts one of the best performances of the decade, in my humble opinion), the majority of his work sharply divides viewers like few other directors working today.
You’ve probably heard a lot of people call Antichrist ridiculous, gratuitous, and misogynist. It’s easy to do so, especially if you look past, ignore, or simply miss what I think is a major clue to Von Trier--or, more appropriately, Antichrist’s--actual story and theme. It may indeed by ridiculous and more than a tad gratuitous, but much to the dismay of many Dogville hating kittens, this is not a film about the evil of women.
Quick Plot: In a stunningly haunting black and white opening to rival every diamond commercial ever, Charlotte Gainsbourg and Willem Dafoe make love while their toddler tumbles out a window.
Thank Satan.
I can’t discuss Antichrist without blatantly going into plot detail, so for those of you who haven’t seen the film yet, accept one keyword for optimum viewing, then exit until viewed (oddly enough, now on Netflix Instant Watch but not DVD). Ready for your early present? Here it is:
Perception
Now scurry away like demonic little foxes and come back in 108 minutes.
As for the rest of you, let’s talk.
Antichrist is a gorgeous and grotesque film, and also something pretty brilliant. Before you start throwing your hands up in the air or wagging rusty scissors at my clitoris, let me point to the most important moment in the story, the unlocking-the-box of Mullholland Drive, Rosebud itself, the talking fox.
Aside from being kind of adorable, it is, plain and simple, the turning point of the film because here is where we discover whose story is being told: He.
Dafoe, The Dude, The Not-Doctor, He of the Large Scrotal Sac, whatever. One of the biggest criticisms of Antichrist has been its misogyny and at the surface, that’s more than warranted. Gainsbourg’s She commits horrendous acts of violence and proves herself to have been a soulless mother who may very well have chosen an orgasm and thesis over the life of her child. Also, she can’t tell her right from her left, so she must be an idiot.
If you can’t tell from my Internet tone of voice, I’m being sarcastic.
For the first half hour or so of Antichrist, we’re seeing genuine grief from She as He tries his own tricks to cure her. We’re near hypnotized by Gainsbourg and almost forget that Dafoe must be harnessing his own form of inner turmoil and guilt. Right when the fox opens his mouth, the film switches its neutral point of view, and everything that follows is filtered through Dafoe’s perspective.
Earlier signs point to his own instability and paranoia--think of the strange little infection He finds growing on his arm when he wakes up with the window open. But once we get to Chapter 3, nothing we see can really be trusted. Take, for example, the polaroid of Nicholas with his boots on the wrong feet. An innocent mistake a lot of parents (and occasionally, 28 year old women like me) probably make, but flashbacks--whose flashbacks?--reveal it to be total Shoegate and the sign of a truly twisted woman...mostly because that’s the image Dafoe now thrusts upon his wife. Back in the hospital, She tearfully accepted responsibility for the tragedy because she knew Nicholas could escape his crib, and now, with chaos free to reign, He rewrites the event to put all the blame on She. She saw Nicholas climb the table, purposely switched his boots, logged He’s privates and rammed a vice in his leg because, as the story now goes, women are inherently evil.
Antichrist is not a misogynist movie, nor is it about misogyny. It's a story of the deepest despair a man and woman can possibly reach, and the horrors their own grief may then create out of desperation and avoidance. About a man who deals with his despair by assigning all the blame, both of this tragedy and the whole world, on the only other person left that can accept it. He is just as responsible for the death of their son, but his therapy involves dropping all of it on She, painting her as an almost medieval witch pent on the destruction of all the men in her life.
What actually happens in that third chapter? Having only watched the film once, I can’t really say just yet. I don’t know that I believe clitori are cut or crows broken. Violence occurs, but all we know of it is filtered through the eyes of a man in great emotional pain and in no way is his perspective to be trusted as fact.
It’s His story, surreal, biased, judgmental and cowardly. Perhaps this is Lars Von Trier’s first film in recent years told from a male point of view. Not a bad start.
High Points
Dafoe and Gainsbourg go above and beyond the call of duty to give absolutely incredible and raw and brilliant performances
There’s an awful lot of shaky cam and extreme closeups, and they all work quite well to shake your own vantage point viewing a nightmare
Low Points
The very fact that Sandra Bullock will end Sunday night with an Oscar while Charlotte Gainsbourg will be home sipping wine
Did we need to see a certain closeup of a rarely seen (on non-porn) body part being mutilated? Probably not, but that’s Von Trier for ya and it’s as brave as it is disgusting
Lessons Learned
Putting your baby monitor on mute is about as logical as taking the caffeine out of coffee
The most important tool a grieving father can own is a wrench
Oak trees have an awful lot of acorns to shed just when you want to sleep
Rent/Bury/Buy
As long as you have a rough idea of what you’re in for, any film fan should at least see Antichrist with an open mind and possibly empty stomach. There’s a good chance you’ll despise the viewing experience, but just as sure a gamble that you’ll rate Antichrist a masterpiece. The performances are more than excellent, the imagery uniquely gorgeous, and the experience the kind that doesn’t come along every year. There’s also injured genitals and baby death, so it’s probably not the flick you tune in with the family between courses on Thanksgiving or pop in while babysitting a neighborhood child.
Unless you really hate your family or the neighborhood children.
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