Review: "Melancholia" and the Infinite Sadness

"Life is only on Earth. And not for long."

--Justine

Lars von Trier is not an "in-between" director. You will either end up loving his films, or hating them to death. No one has ever finished a Lars von Trier film and said "Hmm, that was okay." You either say "Wow! That was something special!" or "Holy fucking SHIT, what a piece of SHIT film. If I ever meet that guy on the street, I will punch him the throat and then step on BOTH of his feet."

His previous film, "Anti-Christ", is a perfect example of this. If you haven't seen it, I'll sum it up briefly: It's fucking batshit insane. 

Okay, I guess there's more to it than that. But I won't go too much into that film. All you need to know is one of the very first shots of the film involves an extreme close up of a penis penetrating a vagina in a shower, and one of the last scenes of the film involves an extreme close up of a woman performing genital mutilation on herself. Right now you might be saying "Oh my god, I will never see that movie." 

Fair enough. But don't let that scare you away from "Melancholia", von Trier's latest opus to misery. 

After "Anti-Christ", I was expecting this film to be FAR more crazy and extreme. It wasn't. In fact, by von Trier standards, this movie is actually pretty tame. Well, tame for him at least--since it is about the literal end of the world.

And, as you can probably guess from the title, it is also about depression. 

I myself suffer from depression, and I can honestly say this film contains probably the most accurate portrayals of the infliction I've ever seen. 

Depression is hard to pin-down. If you try to explain it to someone who has--miraculously--never really suffered from it, they don't quite grasp it.

"Well, cheer up!" they might say. "Things aren't THAT bad!"

That's not the kind of depression we're talking about here. This isn't the type of depression you get when you lose your car keys, or your favorite sports team loses, or your burn the meatloaf. This is the type of depression that creeps up on you, slowly, like a thief in the night. It comes from no where. And it can be brought on by nothing. 

There doesn't have to be a trigger; no underlying, horrible even to set you off. One minute you are perfectly fine, and then the next minute, you feel as if the very sky itself is pressing down on the top of your head, and the simple act of moving your body is near impossible.

Von Trier understands this--he suffers from depression himself--and that is why he is so successful at capturing the malady. 

The depression in "Melancholia" presents itself in the character of Justine, played by Kirsten Dunst. I've never been a big fan of Ms. Dunst; she always strikes me as if she's, well, "acting." She always seems in on the fact that she is playing a character, and she seems even smug about it. 

None of that happens here. This is, without a doubt, her finest performance to date. Yes, even better than "Bring it On" and "Small Soldiers"...ahem...

The first half of the film involves Justine's wedding day to Michael, played by Alexander Skarsgard, who I am told is on the show "True Blood", or as I like to call it, "Porn for Women."

The wedding is nothing short of extravagant, being held at a huge mansion that belongs to Justine's sister Claire (the always fantastic Charlotte Gainsbourg) and her husband John (Jack Bauer himself, Kiefer Sutherland). 

By all accounts, this should be one of the happiest days of Justine's life. And when we first meet her, it really does seem as if she is having a wonderful time; and she really does seem to love Michael.

All that slowly changes. Justine notices a red light high up in the sky before entering the wedding party, and begins to fall apart. Her mother Gaby (played with delicious spitefulness by Charlotte Rampling) is clearly not happy to be there, and gives a mean, devastating toast.  Her father (the seemingly constantly drunk John Hurt) seems oblivious, and apparently has three girlfriends.  Claire tries desperately to keep the wedding running smoothly (along with the wedding planner, played by Udo Kier in a scene-stelling, brief role). 

But Justine is disintegrating before our eyes. She loses all interest in the wedding, and, before the night is over, she loses all interest in her new husband--who leaves with his parents, seemingly ending the marriage just as it began.

This part of the film is all set up. It's introducing us to the characters (most of whom aren't even in the rest of the movie), and it's showing us just what kind of person Justine is. At a casual glance, one could make the assumption that she is just a total bitch. Maybe on some level that is true, but there is more beneath the surface. There is an underlining, uncontrollable sadness that she tries--unsuccessfully--to stave off. 

The second half of the film focuses more on Gainsbourg's Claire, and this is the real meat of the story.

We learn that a planet named Melancholia (who the hell would name a planet that?) has been discovered, and is heading on a possible collision course with Earth. 

Claire is very worried, but her husband John and her son Leo seem thrilled. John assures Claire that Melancholia will NOT hit Earth; it'll fly by, and all will be well.

Along with the danger of the arrival of Melancholia comes the danger of the arrival of Justine, who comes to live with Claire and John. The first few days she's there, she is near catatonic. Her depression has overwhelmed her so much that she can't even get out of bed, and when Claire tries to give her a bath, she collapses on the floor, sobbing.

The closer Melancholia gets, however, the more lively Justine becomes. 

In one particularly eerie scene, Claire catches Justine laying nude in the woods, bathing in the spooky blue light of Melancholia as it approaches.

Immanent doom is all but certain. Justine is positive that Melancholia WILL hit Earth, and she's perfectly fine with that.

Eventually the story whittles the characters down to Justine, Claire and Claire's son Leo, the three of them representing three different viewpoints of impending doom.

Claire represents the fearful viewpoint; Justine represents acceptance; and the boy Leo represents a sort of blind faith that no matter what, everything is going to be okay. The last shot of the film involves these three characters sitting in a circle--Claire sobbing, Justine calm, and Leo with his eyes closed, smiling and feeling secure.

This is not a movie for everyone. As you can tell from the title alone, this isn't the feel-good movie of the year.

But "Melancholia"--like the planet that bares its namesake--is hauntingly beautiful. It's one of von Trier's most accessible works--despite it's slow-pace and doom and gloom subject matter. The performances are beyond stellar. As mentioned before, Dunst does her finest work ever here. Charlotte Gainsbourg is always good, so it's no surprise that she's fantastic as Claire; she is essentially the most "feeling" character in the whole film. Kiefer Sutherland is very good too; it's nice to see him play this kind of role for a change, and prove that he is still a pretty good actor, even when he's not roaming the night with his gang of 80's teen vampires.

You will not leave the theater feeling happy, but you will leave the theater feeling SOMETHING. And for people with depression, feeling something--ANYTHING; good OR bad--is sometimes better than nothing at all.

Last Meal

I am driving Willa to work because her parents took the car away, and because it snowed the night before, and because I love her.  Barely 10 a.m. and she wears the alcohol on her breath like a fine perfume.
          
“I had a dream last night,” she says, tracing her index finger along the frost of her passenger window.  Her fingernails are painted with glittery green polish, chipping away.  Her platform see-through heels sit on her lap, along with a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a paperback novel, the cover stripped and the pages turned a coffee-stain color.  “In the dream, I was at a diner.  And I knew I was in a dream, too.  And I knew that since this was a dream, I could eat whatever I wanted.  So I ordered a double cheeseburger with extra bacon and cheese fries.  And the waitress brought it out to me.  And I was just about to sink my teeth into it.  And then the alarm went off and woke me up.  Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
          
“I suppose not,” I mumble.  The windshield wipers cut back and forth, back and forth, brushing the still-falling, flakey snow away. The streets are wet, reflecting everything and warping it hideously.  I feel tired and I ache like I fell down a flight of stairs.  I want to drive this car into a telephone poll to delay the inevitable.
          
Willa lights a cigarette from her damaged pack.  Normally I don’t let people smoke in the car, but what am I going to do?  After all, her fingernails are painted with glittery green polish--I’m powerless.
          
“What would your last meal be?” Willa asks, rolling her window down a crack and letting the freezing air into the car.  The heater is on the fritz again, not that I mind.  I can’t stand it; I usually get overheated and I start to sweat.  A puddle forms beneath my ass--it’s not pretty, let me tell you.
          
“I don’t know,” I tell her and make a left.  The sun hasn’t come out yet, if it will come out at all today.  It doesn’t matter.  I need to sleep.  I need to get beneath the flannel sheets and lay in the cold darkness of my tiny room.  I need to learn to believe in miracles and turn everything to dust with my very thoughts.  I need Willa to ask me to turn the car around.
          
But she won’t.
          
Instead, she says: “C’mon, if you were on death row--”
          
“Why am I on death row?”
          
“You killed someone.”

“Who did I kill?”

“It’s a tragic story--someone killed me, and you were out for revenge.  You thought you found the guy who did it, and you strangled him to death with your bare hands.  It turns out he was innocent, though.”

“You’re right; that is a tragic story.”

“So,” she continues, taking a long hard drag off the cigarette, as if it will impress me, “you’re on death row--what’s your last meal before they take you to the chair and make you ride the lightning?”

“I dunno.  Eggs,” I say, my eyes never leaving the wet road.

“Eggs?” she says, clearly not impressed with my choice.

“I like eggs.  Scrambled eggs.  I dunno--this is stupid.”

“Eggs?  Good lord.  You’re about to die!  You will never eat again!  And you’re going to have eggs?”

“Well, what would you have?”

“Oh god, I would go nuts.  Hog wild.  I would get five burgers, and a big plate of chicken parm, and a huge ice cream sundae.  And spicy wings--”

“I don’t like spicy food,” I say.

“I do.  Spicy wings, and sushi, and an Oreo milkshake.  And an entire bottle of tequila.”

“I don’t think they give you tequila on death row.”

“That seems cruel.”

We cross into Pennsauken and right about now would be a good time to press that secret button that turns this car into a rocket and sends us to the moon--the button that doesn’t exist.  Now would be a good time to lie and say we’re out of gas.  Now would be a good time to slam on the breaks so hard that I cause a massive pile-up, the kind you see on the news shot from the expensive news chopper.

Willa stuffs her cigarettes and her paperback into her small backpack, getting ready to arrive.  She checks her eye make-up in the mirror--black as night and thick as an Oreo milkshake being handed to a death row prisoner.  She applies glittery lip-gloss and puckers up.  She looks like she hasn’t showered in a week.  I badly want to bite the nape of her neck.  I badly want to press her into my flesh.

“You’re a doll for driving me,” she says.

“I don’t like driving you here,” I say quietly.

She gives me a sympathetic smile.  A “don’t be silly” smile.  A “you’ll never have me to yourself” smile.

I pull the car into the parking lot of the strip club.  The letters above the door scream FANTASY SHOWBAR in neon pink. I pull around to the back door, marked EMPLOYEES
ONLY.  There are broken beer bottles piled up on either side of the door, and someone has spray-painted a crude-looking cock beneath “ONLY.”

“Do you need me to pick you up?” I ask, my eyes focused on that spray-painted cock.

“No, I’ll get a ride,” Willa says.  She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the door.  The overhead light goes on, and I look at her.  She’s twenty-two years old this winter, and she looks forty.  And she suddenly looks sad, like her favorite puppy just died.  Like she was all out of cigarettes.  Like she was being denied tequila on death row.

She speaks soft: “You know, you can ask me not to go.  You can ask me not to do this.”

“Would you, if I asked?” I say.

Neither of us says anything for a full minute.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says, and she is gone.  She pounds on the door, her knuckles against that cartoon cock, and a large bouncer opens and the darkness of the club swallows her up.

I drive home listening to Christmas music with the volume low, and I cry softly, the scent of her and her cigarettes tickling my nostrils.  I think about her green fingernails and her black eyes.  I think about what I would have for my last meal.