Antichrist 1/4
IFC Films, Unrated
Buzz in advance about a movie may not necessarily be a good thing. While positive word of mouth can end by disappointing audience expectations, bad boy Lars von Trier’s self-flagellating Antichrist evokes quite a different expectation: The film must dispel any preconceived notions—brought on by nearly universal critic scorn—that the filmmaker himself could be the antichrist.
Von Trier, the Danish advocate of the Dogme 95 modern minimalist school of moviemaking, goes to nearly opposite extremes with Antichrist, a flamboyant excursion through graphic sexual sadism, mutilation and explicit artsy horror.
The director has offered a disclaimer of sorts regarding Antichrist: that he conceived of the film as a very personal form of therapy “without much enthusiasm” and comprising “scenes added for no reason, and images composed free of logic or dramatic thinking.” This, while von Trier was in the throes of a deep depression.
The story unfolds in the Pacific Northwest, where matrimonial sex junkies designated as He (Willem Dafoe) and She (Charlotte Gainsbourg) make mad love all around the house and up against various appliances. Meanwhile, their unattended toddler somehow escapes from his crib by opening a latch, and after a brief glimpse of parental sex through an open bedroom door, jumps to his death from a window.
The action, mostly of the pretentious pornographic variety, then moves to a more primitive setting, where the grieving couple retreats to their vacation cabin in the woods that they term Eden, to confront their broken lives. Now, He just happens to be a psychotherapist, and various kinky when not satanic sex remedies are prescribed for his inconsolable wife, who complains that He never paid much attention to her previously.
In the course of this perverse psychodrama, genitalia are trimmed off with large scissors, a sex organ ejaculates blood, She expresses her demonic separation-anxiety issues by driving an iron rod through her spouse’s leg and then attempts to bury him in a tree trunk, and von Trier seems to be amusing himself on the sidelines by torturing wildlife creatures, when not the actors and audience, including feeding a bug-infested baby bird to a vulture.
Dafoe, in the course of the narrative, transforms from New Age sexorcist into a deranged spouse with homicidal tendencies, as rambling, pointless small talk aims for mystically trendy. One hopes Antichrist was at least just the cure for whatever ailed the director.