The opening sequence of Lars von Trier’s Antichrist is purely cinematic. Extreme slow motion is set to an operatic backdrop rendering passionate intercourse and the death of a child both haunting and beautiful. The unnamed couple lose their only son to an open window during the distraction of sex in what is clearly a carefully orchestrated and conducted introduction to a film the strays greatly from this initial beauty. Trier focuses on the extreme reaction by the mother to the self-blaming death of her child. And while the film sets itself up as a familiar psychodrama of death and grief, we know from the title the more sinister intentions are in store.
After retreating to a cabin buried in the depths of a foreboding and uninviting woods, the therapist husband and distraught wife manage a cohabitation wrought with denied episodes of distraught sexuality and ominous visitations of animal suffering. In all attempt to help his wife heal, he only discovers her inability to care for the child during its life. Evil makes its presence known, if the title of the film didn’t demand it already. But Trier’s film is far from the torture porn and senseless violence of commercial fare. It is even farther from the immature and gawking sexual exploits of college targeted gross-outs. But to consider the film a simple horror film would be to discredit the intensity of its images. The sex and violence, and sexual violence demands more than a casual aside. It is extremely difficult to write of the film without ruining it, but simply put, it has not left my mind and will occupy an uncomfortable place for some time.
Lars von Trier suffered from depression during the making of the film. And if this is any indication of the nauseating and miserable tone achieved, then it comes as no surprise that the film has become both heavily praised and massively criticized. Perhaps it's the director at helm, but more likely the film would have found itself at the top and bottom of lists despite who designed it or when it was made.
The presence of nature is never wholly comforting yet consistently achieves a mesmerizing, at times hypnotic, effect. The distorted and melding landscape obscured by fog, growing in and out of itself, becomes a main player in the film. More than a motif, the roots and branches of the surrounding fauna seem inescapable. Whether they be dirt particles gently falling from the roots of a plant in water or the black branches that deliver blows to a baby bird as it falls to its death, the natural life-giving plants are firmly connected to both sex and death. Beneath the dark and dirty tree of life, he and she copulate in front of the hands reaching out from the roots. It is here, in a fox hole meant for protection, that he repeatedly beats a crow to death only to find its cawing marking its return to life. Much the same, the fox who so pathetically disembowels itself still manages a short and un-pained utterance. What makes this film’s connection to the natural world so interesting is that humans are thrust into its presence and are bombarded by its power at nearly ever moment.
Antichrist is the only film I ever recall being afraid to see. And while my imagined expectations outweighed the final product this in no way suggests said product was tame. The film is fierce in misogynistic viewpoints and blatant in its confusing sexual content. Perhaps the work of the devil demands violence, if so this film is the place. And while the few hours since viewing it have left me perplexed as to my reaction, I can only take this as benefit to the film for developing such intriguing and perplexing content of which I hesitantly want to explore.
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