SHORT REVIEW: In Order of Disappearance (2014)

This review appeared on The Upcoming website here.

‘A Scandinavian crime film’ and a ‘Crime-comedy in the vein of Quentin Tarantino and the Coen Brothers’ are two of the least appealing descriptions in modern cinema. Such things are now ten a penny and rarely worth sitting through. However, In Order of Disappearance (Kraftidioten) manages to transcend these simplistic descriptions by being, well, good.

After his son is murdered by gangsters for something that he did not do, his father Nils (Stellan Skarsgård) decides almost immediately to take revenge. Despite there being nothing in his past to suggest that he should be any good at this kind of thing, he proves remarkably able. It is not long before kingpin Greven (Pål Sverre Hagen) takes notice. However, his inability to figure out who it is that is killing his men leads to a series of further misunderstandings and more bloodshed.

The last high body count gangster comedy with arthouse cachet was the late Aleksey Balabanov’s tiresome The Stoker, so there does seem to be little precedent for the success of a film like In Order of Disappearance. Yet it does. Aakeson and Moland seem to have decided to shove in all of the tropes of crime cinema. The story goes along at a very fast pace – writer Kim Fupz Aakeson and director Hans Petter Moland are either much too eager to get to the shootouts or they are mocking the too familiar plot points of this kind of film. The film is slightly mocking throughout, with lots of stupid laughs. Characters appear only to very quickly be dispatched and the intertitles displaying the names of those just killed along with the symbol of their respective religions are a constant presence. The film largely maintains an off-kilter and unpredictable feel, and it plays out with great verve.

Sadly, it has no characterization whatsoever. Skarsgård is given very little to do throughout and most of the other characters are barely discernible beyond slight details speedily presented and tangential conversations about the joys of Norwegian prisons and how no country has both sunshine and welfare.

Though the film is amusing throughout and quite a good parody of its genre, which is too often used as a simple framework for gruesome violence and bad writing, it is difficult to work out why it exists. It is a good deal of fun, but the film really could have used a point.

REVIEW: Nymph()maniac Parts 1 & 2 (2014)

Divided into two parts for commercial reasons, but worth seeing in one sitting – most art house cinemas are allowing the option of seeing them together with a short interval – Nymph()maniac has been declared as Lars von Trier’s magnum opus and it certainly feels like a summation of his career, of both the films and the public controversies.

It is difficult to write about what Nymph()maniac is about since it is a highly deceptive film, seemingly about nothing in particular and about everything at once. Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård) is walking home when he spots a woman lying in an alley, brutally beaten. She calls herself Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) and, refusing medical help, agrees to go to Seligman’s flat for a cup of tea and some rest. Once there, she starts to talk about her life from her first sexual experiences to her adulthood coping with, as she insists on calling it, nymphomania. Insisting also that she is a bad person, her stories are intercut, and frequently punctured, by Seligman’s digressions into all kinds of subjects that seek to naturalise her seemingly extreme behaviour. This digressions move from the art of fly fishing to Bach’s music, to differences between Eastern and Western theology, to mathematics and art.

Nymph()maniac is, in many ways, a highly satisfying art film in the best sense of the term, since it is a fascinating and multifaceted discussion of a series of themes all presented to an audience positioned to watch critically and engage with the subject matter. The film’s Brechtian devices allow the audience some distance from the often intense drama, allowing them to question the events onscreen and come up with their own conclusions concerning what the film is about and what the film is doing. These Brechtian devices are present in many different forms and are often fascinating to detect. The film begins with Joe lying in the alley, snow gently gliding down onto the scene while the camera focuses on the sets, creating a sense of the construction of the scene as opposed to it’s drama. This is also the site of the film’s first major disruption – the sudden explosion of Rammstein’s “Führe Mich” – that immediately throws the audience out of whatever impression they were forming of the film. Taken as a distanciation device, it is a powerful moment of upset that would probably make Brecht, or Godard, proud. It also represents a certain bravery in Lars von Trier’s film, which gleefully subverts the conventions of ‘good’ art, since the sudden inclusion of this song is so disruptive and, ultimately, hard to take. It also reveals how, even from the opening minutes, Nymph()maniac is not afraid to risk losing you.

The film is a discursive, dialectical work that offers a multitude of perspectives and arguments over one significant, unifying theme. As a result, it may appear to be about nothing – a meaningless exercise in brutality – though it is the arguments and the digressions and the film’s refusal to simplify its themes into easily digested titbits that makes Nymph()maniac worthwhile. While Joe recounts her life story – unreliably since her stories (told in eight chapters) seem to be based on objects littered about Seligman’s room – she could be seen to be confessing her crimes in a final act of masochistic penitence. Either this or she is gleefully asserting her nymphomania, wanting to shock the intellectual Seligman. Seligman, however, insists on drawing parallels between her behaviour and a variety of subjects, including art, architecture and mathematics. Gainsbourg subtly conveys a degree of annoyance, flustered that the frequent shock tactics in her storytelling only seem to invigorate Seligman’s intellectual curiosity. Only towards the end of the film is Seligman properly appalled (on the subject of Joe’s pity for paedophiles) and Joe gleefully argues her position, seemingly changing his mind on the subject.

This seems, to me, to be key to the understanding of the film. The film is loaded with references to Lars von Trier’s previous work and to his public appearances. Seligman’s comment that anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism are too frequently confused would seem to be a gesture towards the controversy surrounding von Trier’s Nazi comments which had him declared persona non grata at the Cannes Film Festival in 2011. He also recreates the controversial scene of child death from Antichrist as well as that film’s themes of female sexuality as monstrous. The film has Joe’s husband Jerôme (Shia LaBeouf) suggest she see other men in order to help their sexual relationship as well as having Joe have a spontaneous orgasm played as a religious experience, both suggesting Breaking The Waves. Joe’s shock tactics, if that is what they are, may represent what are perceived as von Trier’s own shock tactics. As a result, the figures of Joe and Seligman can almost be seen to be two strains of von Trier’s own personality – just as, in Melancholia, Justine’s (Kirsten Dunst) depression seemed to represent von Trier’s own. But what of that? Lars von Trier is a filmmaker who airs out his own issues and thoughts via fictional means. In Nymph()maniac, Joe also tells stories, the veracity of which are often in doubt. Seligman’s frequent parallels with art suggest that Joe’s problems are far from unique and that art – be it music, writing, architecture, fly fishing – offers, to a degree, comfort for one’s problems. In other words, Seligman’s interpretations naturalise Joe’s issues, the shocking and the mundane alike, and helps her to come to terms with them and Nymph()maniac is primarily about the regenerative power of art. This would seem to certainly be the case towards the end of the film in which Joe is left feeling, though not entirely convinced, assured and positive about the future. However, in a shock ending, so frustrating since the film had suddenly seemed to find a heart and something positive to say, von Trier gives a lie to such simplistic notions about life and art, suggesting that there is ultimately no answer. It is, however, a great moment, reminding us of the use of Rammstein in the beginning of the film, puncturing our need for art to say something affirmative and our need for an empathetic figure that we can all get behind – a ‘good’ man in ‘good’ art.

As it is, Nymph()maniac remains a difficult but fascinating film that can either mean nothing at all or is brimming with ideas and themes. This review constitutes only the first impressions, since I have only seen the film once, and barely scratches the surface – especially since it hasn’t even mentioned the film’s representation of nymphomania or female sexuality in general, the use of brackets in the title in place of the ‘o’, the performances (Shia LaBeouf’s dodgy British accent as another Brechtian device (?), the awkward actor changes between young and old versions of Joe and Jerome another (?)) or the scene in which Joe tries to have sex with two African men that she is unable to understand, which feels horribly racist and probably requires a whole other review. It does, however, suggest that Nymph()maniac is a complex work, a fascinating if uncomfortable watch and quite possibly von Trier’s most challenging film.

DVD REVIEW: We Shall Overcome (2006)

Niels Arden Oplev had a hit on his hands with the first adaptation of Stieg Larsson’s “Millennium” trilogy – The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. Now, he is safely away in Hollywood, with a Colin Farrell thriller (Dead Man Down) that seems to have disappeared without much attention. Was he an interesting voice in Danish, or Swedish, cinema who has now taken the path of blockbuster anonymity or was he always destined to go Hollywood? Drakes Avenue has chosen to unearth some of Oplev’s back catalogue so that we can see for ourselves.

We Shall Overcome follows the coming of age of the thirteen-year old Frits (Janus Dissing Rathke) during the summer of 1969. Deprived of a father (Jens Jørn Spottag) due to a sudden nervous breakdown, Frits finds a temporary but inspirational replacement in Martin Luther King, introduced to him through the family’s brand new television. At school, Frits becomes the victim of the increasingly tyrannical school principal Lindum-Svendsen (Bent Mejding) and falls under the wing of a hip new teacher Mr. Svale (Anders W Berthelsen). As life at school becomes more and more difficult, Frits begins to rebel…

Arial;">One can be forgiven for thinking that this is going to happen. The film frequently referencing real protests – from the African-American civil rights movement to Danish students opposing the Vietnam war, both shown to be violently suppressed by harsh authority figures. There are several references to slavery in Denmark with one class on Peter von Scholten’s emancipation of Denmark’s slaves in the West Indies providing the background for a telling close-up on Frits. This simplistic parallel is nicely subverted when Frits claims that the history teacher is wrong and that the slaves were freed for less compassionate reasons. Later, during a nationalistic display for their parents, the pupils will silently and rather ominously approach Lindum-Svendsen en masse only for nothing to happen. Instead, they recite the song “We Shall Overcome” as unexcitedly as they did the religious hymns previously. It is unclear whether Oplev intends to suggest that their newfound rebellious spirit is the result of just another indoctrination, but it is a strange moment. It has a parallel too, in a sequence in which Frits, finding out that they have been successful in launching an inquiry into Lindum-Svendsen’s behaviour, runs across the fields jumping and dancing in celebration.

Janus Dissing Rathke throws himself around gamely, but it is a deflated moment, far from the obvious Billy Elliot antecedent (compare the DVD covers). One gets the impression that Frits is playing at being an adult and that he does not fully understand what is going on around him. His celebration is totally exaggerated, considering how little has really been achieved, and seems to be an act, like a child celebrating more to mimic their parents’ jubilation than because of any genuine sense of personal achievement.

As befits a coming of age story, Frits will lose his role models – Mr Svale loses his halo in a surprising but totally inconsistent plot mechanism – and has to succeed thanks to his own strength. However, the film finishes on a strange note of non-victory, far from the rebellion that most of the audience would surely have been waiting for. Though this is a much more realistic and sober conclusion, it nonetheless feels like a cop-out, as if the film wasn’t brave enough to stray too far from what was safe, conservative and family-friendly. This is less a surprise than a disappointment since the film that precedes this ending was almost resolutely conventional and by the numbers.

We Shall Overcome feels like an assignment, a coming-of-age film made by people who don’t have any particular affection for their own schooling or youthful dabbling in outsider politics or lifestyles but, instead, an interest in a packaged, marketable film with a happy ending and a Billy Elliot poster. Niels Arden Oplev has now safely absconded to Hollywood where, it seems, he was destined to go. Danish cinema, which, under Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg, has often been fearlessly confrontational and experimental, hasn’t lost a major voice.

REVIEW: The Act of Killing (2013)

In 1965, a military coup crippled Indonesia. Begun apparently to thwart a communist coup in October, the military, under General Suharto, slaughtered half a million people with the active support of both the USA and the UK. Suharto violently suppressed all opposition and led a corrupt government. Thatcher visited in 1985, later writing in “The Downing Street Years”, “though there have been serious human rights abuses, particularly in East Timor, this is a society which by most criteria ‘works.’” This was Indonesia’s invasion and occupation of East Timor between 1975 and 1999, which killed a further one hundred thousand people. Since a society ‘works’ despite human rights abuses, Callaghan, Thatcher and others continued to sell Suharto arms. The murderers in Indonesia live on with impunity and they are still in power – still able to intimidate their neighbours and still honoured on national television for crushing the communists. Essentially, they are mass murderers who won, their crimes ignored (two and a half million killed) and their country running along thanks to the support of the capitalist West.

The Act of Killing follows a number of these murderers, particularly Anwar Congo, a self-proclaimed gangster and sadistic murderer, who looks back on his crimes with pride and nostalgia. They were leaders of their local Pancasila Youth paramilitary death squad. Initially, we see Congo and his old colleagues describe their killings and their love of cinema. These two interests go uncomfortably hand-in-hand when Congo describes going to see an Elvis film and then swaggering across the road to kill more prisoners. The documentary follows them as they attempt to recreate their tortures and killings, turning genocide into spectacle, offering insights into their thoughts and motivations.

The film’s main novelty is the fact that it contains interviews with wholly unrepentant murderers and a lot of the most shocking scenes are both evil and banal. These people make jokes about their murderers (one recounts an incident wherein he walked down a street, stabbing any Chinese person he found and he is sure to finish with a punch line) and are frequently honoured as war heroes and patriots. In a break during filming, one killer boasts of how many women he used to rape during a raid of a village and, in particular, his pursuit of fourteen-year olds to a group of laughing cohorts. However, as the film progresses and the re-enactments, ranging from gangster movie pastiches to musical numbers, continue, the façade cracks and some of the murderers, particularly Congo, begin to express regrets.

This is not to say that the film lacks contemporary insight since many of these ‘gangsters’ – frequently translated as ‘free men’ – are still active. One even stands for election into a corrupt government. We see them travelling through their neighbourhoods, extorting money from local businesses and forcing mostly quiet and distant people, for fear of showing disobedience, into participating in their epic, violent visions. One actor reveals himself to be a child of one of the murdered and yet participates nonetheless. These scenes are disturbing and enraging and they also point to the ongoing lack of justice in Indonesia, but they are also part of where The Act of Killing falters.

The film is very short on context. The text at the opening of the film is brief and not very detailed. It is also unclear whether director Joshua Oppenheimer initiated the project of re-enactments or whether he is merely following a pre-existing phenomenon. As a result, we are given very little insight into Oppenheimer’s dealing with these people and, hence, his own culpability with the evil we see and hear. Congo and his friends are clearly acting for Oppenheimer’s camera but what about the local people and the business owners who are filmed being threatened. Is Oppenheimer’s camera observing or instigating? When we see neighbourhood children (with, very possibly, relatives who are/were victimised by the Pancasila Youth) crying, clearly disturbed by the violent nature of the re-enactments that are being filmed, may our own outrage not justifiably be directed at Oppenheimer for encouraging Congo et al.?

Similarly, there are too many scenes that feel a little too convenient. At the film’s end, Congo, having shown a re-enactment of one of his tortures to his grandchildren, suddenly starts to show real remorse. He says that he now understands how the victims were feeling since he had the same feelings during the filming. Now, and only now does Oppenheimer challenge him – saying that it is incomparable since Congo was being tortured for film and his victims were being tortured for real. Then, we cut back to the rooftop were Congo strangled so many of his victims to re-do a too-light hearted previous demonstration of his methods. Suddenly, Congo seems to be violently, physically suffering from the enormity of his guilt, loudly retching and visibly shaken. This sequencing is unexpectedly moving and offers a harrowing reminder that these mass murderers are not, after all, monsters. However, since Oppenheimer hides the nature of the documentary’s production, these scenes feel manipulated and deeply untrustworthy. Conclusions are too easily drawn and their honesty and ultimate truth is difficult to come by. It is not clear if we are seeing everything and if the editing choices were made in the pursuit of verisimilitude or merely a good story and drama.

The Act of Killing is valuable in demonstrating what Indonesia is today but also the kind of state that the West is prepared to support for their own economic interests. It is valuable for its undeniably real scenes – such as the talk show honouring the murderers broadcast on national Indonesian television and interrupted by frequent applause from the audience for each barbarity mentioned, a clip that really has to be seen to be believed. It is awkward formally and depends on withholding, manipulation and subterfuge much more than is comfortable. Its key message is damaged thanks to its untrustworthy and unsophisticated presentation. However, this message, either explicit or implicit, of full impunity for murderers in Indonesia and of the West’s culpability in mass slaughter, is worth telling again and again.

See also: Into The Abyss: A Tale of Life, A Tale of Death (2012)