An Endless Parade of Human Suffering - The Beauty and Depression of Lars Von Trier
Frances Basketfield
The idea of Auteurism is one of the few theories that can be directly credited as finding its first use in film criticism and scholarship (as opposed to literary or theatrical). Created in the 1940’s by Andre Bazin and Roger Leenhardt to differentiate the independent directors that populated the French New Wave movement from their contracted Hollywood peers, Auteurism quickly spread to genres outside of the bounds of the French New Wave. New directors, such as Ingmar Bergman and Stanley Kubrick, were quickly viewed as auteurs and gave rise to a new manner of viewing filmmakers that has endured to modern times, with new directors such as Christopher Nolan and Tim Burton becoming recognized as auteurs in their own rights. Auteurism has always suffered from a certain vagueness in regards to its definition, with the text Looking at Movies: An Introduction to Film by Richard Barsam and Dave Monahan defining Auteurism as, “A filmy theory based on the idea that the director is the sole ‘author’ of a movie” (493). They further explore the film Breathless by Godard (1961) as an example of an auteur film, citing his particular use of editing and references to other filmmakers as being indicative of both the director’s, and the film’s, unique styles (433). While this does little to solidly pin down a formulaic method for establishing a director as an auteur, we can still see the methodology behind their and other scholars’ assessment of it. For the purposes of this essay I will be working with the simple holistic definition of an auteur as a director for whom an audience member does not need a title card to know the film was directed by them. While this definition is also quite facile, I find that it neatly encompasses the sense of recognition that most auteurs enjoy throughout their established careers. It is important to note that none of these definitions come with a value judgement of the filmmakers in question, nor do they restrict them to certain subject matters, only requiring that the films in some way uniquely express the artistic vision of their progenitors. It is from this point that I would like to introduce the director I intend to analyze for this essay, Lars Von Trier.
Lars Von Trier is, in many ways, one of the most contentious filmmakers in modern cinema, even to the point of having been alternately banned and re-welcomed into the Cannes Film Festival. His films ooze with a particular sense of beauty and disgust, both attracting audience members while also repelling them. Coming into prominence with his joint creation of the minimalist Dogme 95 movement (along with another Danish director, Thomas Vinterberg) Von Trier has established himself as a director who will often produce films that even the most seasoned of audience members have difficulty sitting through. This broad reputation for lovingly framed and directed repugnance is, strangely, what I believe lends Lars Von Trier his auteur status. Throughout his entire body of work, no film rings as anything other than a personal narrative, even if a strangely --and grotesquely-- filmed one. In fact, Von Trier’s most recent trilogy, popularly known as the Depression Trilogy, creates some of the strongest pieces of evidence towards this idea. Comprising three films, Antichrist (2009), Melancholia (2011), and Nymphomaniac Parts 1 & 2 (2013-2014), the Depression Trilogy opens a fascinating window into Von Trier’s mind and his own struggles with depression.
The first film of the trilogy, Antichrist, is perhaps the most graphic of the films, and definitely the hardest to sit through (especially during the ending portion of the film). Created while Von Trier was suffering from a particularly bad bout of depression, the atmosphere of the film is claustrophobic and tense, the sensation of which is created using an editing and filming style that Von Trier will repeat throughout the rest of the films in the trilogy. The film starts with a series of slow motion shots that are frequently utilized in Von Trier’s other films (a notable instance being in the beginning of Melancholia), as well as one of the only pieces of non-diegetic sound within the film, the aria Lascia Ch’io Pianga composed by Handel. While this Prologue (as it is called in the film) is beautiful, featuring magnificently composed black and white shots, it is also the audience’s first introduction to the repellent content that will inhabit the rest of the film. As a husband and wife (both of which are never named, being credited as “He” and “She”) indulge in the physical side of their relationship, their young son crawls out of a window, eventually falling to his death in perhaps the most beautiful shot of a child dying ever put to film. As both the aria and the scene come to a close, we are directed to the next portion of the film, titled “Chapter 1 - Grief”. This ‘chapter’, as well as the rest of the film excepting the Epilogue, are filmed in highly saturated tones of blue and green, with both actors (especially Charlotte Gainsbourg’s character) wearing clothing dominated by the color blue. This color palette both emphasizes the depressive nature of the characters (blue frequently being associated with sadness or depression), as well as gives the later shots of the forest the majority of the film takes place in a certain beauty. From here we follow both male and female characters as the husband attempts to ‘fix’ his wife’s depression, eventually compelling her to travel to the place she is most afraid of, the woods surrounding their cabin, Eden.
It is at this point in the film that the audience is introduced to another hallmark of Von Trier’s films, especially throughout this trilogy, strange editing. While jump cuts are widely used throughout filmmaking, Von Trier uses them to unique effect. As all three films focus on the characters’ experiences of depression and melancholy, Von Trier uses cuts in the middle of dialogue to parallel the strange sensation of time endemic to depression. Many portions of dialogue between characters are cut in the middle, taking up the thread at the end of conversation. This can be seen as Willem DeFoe’s character, “He”, attempts to psychoanalyze his wife, as well as scenes in Melancholia such as where Charlotte is disappointed by her father’s emotional distance, and Nymphomaniac as Joe relates the complicated and tumultuous events that illustrate the inexorable and often befuddling hold her nymphomania has over her. These awkward jump cuts create a sense of disquiet within the viewer of the films, and contribute to the unsettling air that saturates most of the Depression Trilogy.
This sense of disquiet is compounded by a unique visual style, such as in Antichrist when “She” enters the forest with her husband and the audience is shown a fascinating visual metaphor for the warping power that the woods have on her psyche. Von Trier subtly warps the visuals of the trees behind the characters so that they fold in on themselves, circling ever inwards, magnificently paralleling the magnetic and overwhelming force they present to the wife’s character. This propensity for visual metaphor extends to the frequent slow motion shots within the film, as well as other similar shots in Melancholia and Nymphomaniac. These captivating moments create brief pools of tranquility within the films they are featured in, and emphasize the sense of stasis that many of the character’s within them feel, trapped in a moment and glorying in it for all of it’s horror.
Willem DaFoe (Antichrist) surrounded by falling acorns representative of his son, and Kirsten Dunst (Melancholia) surrounded by falling leaves symbolic of the death of nature and the world itself.
The wife’s entry to the forest also introduces the only piece of sound work not experienced in the characters’ visceral reality, the strange combination of a thrumming and humming noise, not dissimilar to either an electrical current running deep underwater, or perhaps a heartbeat coming through low-quality speakers. This comprises almost the whole soundtrack of the film (excepting the aria in both the Epilogue and Prologue of the film), and can arguably be considered diegetic, as it only appears during times of intense mental stress on the part of the characters within the film and brings to mind the fuzzy background noise most people remember during times of extreme duress. This use of almost no non-diegetic sound can be tied to the previously referenced Dogme 95 movement cofounded by Von Trier, as it markedly emphasises a certain austerity on the part of the director in regards to the filmmaking process. Advocating for things such as a complete abstinence from the use of non-diegetic sounds as well as the exclusive use of handheld cameras, the remnants of Dogme 95’s style very visibly saturate Von Trier’s films throughout the trilogy.
Melancholia shares both Antichrist’s use of title cards (a feature that also ties them to Nymphomaniac), as well as its remnants of Von Trier’s past in the Dogme 95 movement. Much like the first film in the trilogy, Melancholia only has one non-diegetic score that plays throughout the film, in this case Tristan and Isolde by Wagner, and also much like Antichrist and Nymphomaniac the director exclusively uses handheld cameras (excepting the slow motion shots within the films). This use of almost zero non-diegetic sound can also be found in Nymphomaniac, with the gargantuan Director’s Cut of the film (running almost 6 hours in length between both parts) containing barely any non-diegetic sound at all. This almost brutal emphasis on handheld cameras (which can quickly become nauseating once its presence is recognized) and diegetic sound gives the films within the trilogy a very visceral feel, not allowing the audience a moment of respite in even their most grotesque moments. The violent strangulation of “She” in Antichrist, the brooding despair of Charlotte in Melancholia, even the loveless copulation in Nymphomaniac, all force the viewer to stare at them, to become overwhelmed by them. The viewer cannot escape them or their tragedies, becoming just as captured in a moment of surreal agony as the characters are, and just as forced to vicariously experience their suffering as Von Trier is forced to partake in his own depression. This forced melancholy is endemic of Von Trier’s films, and after the viewing of his filmography an audience member might even feel they are being made to despair, to suffer. The result of this is the sense that Von Trier’s goal is to inflict upon others the nebulous, and often damaging, nature of his own psyche.
A fascinating note is that Von Trier glories in his suffering, that much is inarguable. Melancholia and Nymphomaniac present odes to his depression, defenses and arguments for its special place in the diaspora of human consciousness. It is Charlotte’s character in Melancholia who alone can suffer the weight of the end of the world, literally bathing in the light of the destructive planet as it hurtles towards Earth; it is Joe’s character in Nymphomaniac who alone accepts her sinful nature, openly repudiating the idea that she needs to change her ways and mocking another woman who seeks to in a group therapy session. Von Trier languishes in his neurosis, he loves his own misery, and it shows in his films. While it is simple to say his films are easily recognizable for the overpowering amount of human suffering featured within them, they are also some of the most beautiful films in modern cinema. Shots from Melancholia could be works of art in their own rights, and the lovingly framed (if admittedly phallic) imagery of Nymphomaniac creates a surreal and dreamlike atmosphere that denies the brutality of the film.
A still from Melancholia as the eponymous planet approaches Earth. One sister stands framed underneath the moon, while the other sister, a melancholic, aptly stands underneath the light of the approaching giant.
Lars Von Trier is a master at depicting the art of suffering, and his reputation as an auteur is well earned due to his unique, and most certainly masterful, ability to blend the gut-churning and the classically beautiful. Throughout his films the audience is both subjected and treated to his demons, to his struggles with religion, even to his strange focus on Ash Trees (making appearances in monologues featured in both Antichrist and Nymphomaniac), all coming together to create his unique vision. While this vision debatably contains unsavory elements, such as a strange conception of women and an often violent view on sexual intimacy, it is uniquely, and quickly, visible as his.
Lars Von Trier is, in many ways, one of the most contentious filmmakers in modern cinema, even to the point of having been alternately banned and re-welcomed into the Cannes Film Festival. His films ooze with a particular sense of beauty and disgust, both attracting audience members while also repelling them. Coming into prominence with his joint creation of the minimalist Dogme 95 movement (along with another Danish director, Thomas Vinterberg) Von Trier has established himself as a director who will often produce films that even the most seasoned of audience members have difficulty sitting through. This broad reputation for lovingly framed and directed repugnance is, strangely, what I believe lends Lars Von Trier his auteur status. Throughout his entire body of work, no film rings as anything other than a personal narrative, even if a strangely --and grotesquely-- filmed one. In fact, Von Trier’s most recent trilogy, popularly known as the Depression Trilogy, creates some of the strongest pieces of evidence towards this idea. Comprising three films, Antichrist (2009), Melancholia (2011), and Nymphomaniac Parts 1 & 2 (2013-2014), the Depression Trilogy opens a fascinating window into Von Trier’s mind and his own struggles with depression.
The first film of the trilogy, Antichrist, is perhaps the most graphic of the films, and definitely the hardest to sit through (especially during the ending portion of the film). Created while Von Trier was suffering from a particularly bad bout of depression, the atmosphere of the film is claustrophobic and tense, the sensation of which is created using an editing and filming style that Von Trier will repeat throughout the rest of the films in the trilogy. The film starts with a series of slow motion shots that are frequently utilized in Von Trier’s other films (a notable instance being in the beginning of Melancholia), as well as one of the only pieces of non-diegetic sound within the film, the aria Lascia Ch’io Pianga composed by Handel. While this Prologue (as it is called in the film) is beautiful, featuring magnificently composed black and white shots, it is also the audience’s first introduction to the repellent content that will inhabit the rest of the film. As a husband and wife (both of which are never named, being credited as “He” and “She”) indulge in the physical side of their relationship, their young son crawls out of a window, eventually falling to his death in perhaps the most beautiful shot of a child dying ever put to film. As both the aria and the scene come to a close, we are directed to the next portion of the film, titled “Chapter 1 - Grief”. This ‘chapter’, as well as the rest of the film excepting the Epilogue, are filmed in highly saturated tones of blue and green, with both actors (especially Charlotte Gainsbourg’s character) wearing clothing dominated by the color blue. This color palette both emphasizes the depressive nature of the characters (blue frequently being associated with sadness or depression), as well as gives the later shots of the forest the majority of the film takes place in a certain beauty. From here we follow both male and female characters as the husband attempts to ‘fix’ his wife’s depression, eventually compelling her to travel to the place she is most afraid of, the woods surrounding their cabin, Eden.
It is at this point in the film that the audience is introduced to another hallmark of Von Trier’s films, especially throughout this trilogy, strange editing. While jump cuts are widely used throughout filmmaking, Von Trier uses them to unique effect. As all three films focus on the characters’ experiences of depression and melancholy, Von Trier uses cuts in the middle of dialogue to parallel the strange sensation of time endemic to depression. Many portions of dialogue between characters are cut in the middle, taking up the thread at the end of conversation. This can be seen as Willem DeFoe’s character, “He”, attempts to psychoanalyze his wife, as well as scenes in Melancholia such as where Charlotte is disappointed by her father’s emotional distance, and Nymphomaniac as Joe relates the complicated and tumultuous events that illustrate the inexorable and often befuddling hold her nymphomania has over her. These awkward jump cuts create a sense of disquiet within the viewer of the films, and contribute to the unsettling air that saturates most of the Depression Trilogy.
This sense of disquiet is compounded by a unique visual style, such as in Antichrist when “She” enters the forest with her husband and the audience is shown a fascinating visual metaphor for the warping power that the woods have on her psyche. Von Trier subtly warps the visuals of the trees behind the characters so that they fold in on themselves, circling ever inwards, magnificently paralleling the magnetic and overwhelming force they present to the wife’s character. This propensity for visual metaphor extends to the frequent slow motion shots within the film, as well as other similar shots in Melancholia and Nymphomaniac. These captivating moments create brief pools of tranquility within the films they are featured in, and emphasize the sense of stasis that many of the character’s within them feel, trapped in a moment and glorying in it for all of it’s horror.
Willem DaFoe (Antichrist) surrounded by falling acorns representative of his son, and Kirsten Dunst (Melancholia) surrounded by falling leaves symbolic of the death of nature and the world itself.
The wife’s entry to the forest also introduces the only piece of sound work not experienced in the characters’ visceral reality, the strange combination of a thrumming and humming noise, not dissimilar to either an electrical current running deep underwater, or perhaps a heartbeat coming through low-quality speakers. This comprises almost the whole soundtrack of the film (excepting the aria in both the Epilogue and Prologue of the film), and can arguably be considered diegetic, as it only appears during times of intense mental stress on the part of the characters within the film and brings to mind the fuzzy background noise most people remember during times of extreme duress. This use of almost no non-diegetic sound can be tied to the previously referenced Dogme 95 movement cofounded by Von Trier, as it markedly emphasises a certain austerity on the part of the director in regards to the filmmaking process. Advocating for things such as a complete abstinence from the use of non-diegetic sounds as well as the exclusive use of handheld cameras, the remnants of Dogme 95’s style very visibly saturate Von Trier’s films throughout the trilogy.
Melancholia shares both Antichrist’s use of title cards (a feature that also ties them to Nymphomaniac), as well as its remnants of Von Trier’s past in the Dogme 95 movement. Much like the first film in the trilogy, Melancholia only has one non-diegetic score that plays throughout the film, in this case Tristan and Isolde by Wagner, and also much like Antichrist and Nymphomaniac the director exclusively uses handheld cameras (excepting the slow motion shots within the films). This use of almost zero non-diegetic sound can also be found in Nymphomaniac, with the gargantuan Director’s Cut of the film (running almost 6 hours in length between both parts) containing barely any non-diegetic sound at all. This almost brutal emphasis on handheld cameras (which can quickly become nauseating once its presence is recognized) and diegetic sound gives the films within the trilogy a very visceral feel, not allowing the audience a moment of respite in even their most grotesque moments. The violent strangulation of “She” in Antichrist, the brooding despair of Charlotte in Melancholia, even the loveless copulation in Nymphomaniac, all force the viewer to stare at them, to become overwhelmed by them. The viewer cannot escape them or their tragedies, becoming just as captured in a moment of surreal agony as the characters are, and just as forced to vicariously experience their suffering as Von Trier is forced to partake in his own depression. This forced melancholy is endemic of Von Trier’s films, and after the viewing of his filmography an audience member might even feel they are being made to despair, to suffer. The result of this is the sense that Von Trier’s goal is to inflict upon others the nebulous, and often damaging, nature of his own psyche.
A fascinating note is that Von Trier glories in his suffering, that much is inarguable. Melancholia and Nymphomaniac present odes to his depression, defenses and arguments for its special place in the diaspora of human consciousness. It is Charlotte’s character in Melancholia who alone can suffer the weight of the end of the world, literally bathing in the light of the destructive planet as it hurtles towards Earth; it is Joe’s character in Nymphomaniac who alone accepts her sinful nature, openly repudiating the idea that she needs to change her ways and mocking another woman who seeks to in a group therapy session. Von Trier languishes in his neurosis, he loves his own misery, and it shows in his films. While it is simple to say his films are easily recognizable for the overpowering amount of human suffering featured within them, they are also some of the most beautiful films in modern cinema. Shots from Melancholia could be works of art in their own rights, and the lovingly framed (if admittedly phallic) imagery of Nymphomaniac creates a surreal and dreamlike atmosphere that denies the brutality of the film.
A still from Melancholia as the eponymous planet approaches Earth. One sister stands framed underneath the moon, while the other sister, a melancholic, aptly stands underneath the light of the approaching giant.
Lars Von Trier is a master at depicting the art of suffering, and his reputation as an auteur is well earned due to his unique, and most certainly masterful, ability to blend the gut-churning and the classically beautiful. Throughout his films the audience is both subjected and treated to his demons, to his struggles with religion, even to his strange focus on Ash Trees (making appearances in monologues featured in both Antichrist and Nymphomaniac), all coming together to create his unique vision. While this vision debatably contains unsavory elements, such as a strange conception of women and an often violent view on sexual intimacy, it is uniquely, and quickly, visible as his.
