Antichrist

It isn't often that I ever regret seeing a movie, but I'm still annoyed that I wasted the time and money to see Lars von Trier's witless and pointless film Antichrist yesterday. It put a crater in my Sunday afternoon, and the $6.99 I spent in purchasing it from On Demand could have been put to more useful purposes, like a value meal at McDonald's.

This dismay is not for the shock value of the film--as a regular viewer of hard-core pornography, the sight of a prosthetic penis ejaculating blood garners more giggles from me than horror. What angers me is the inane nature of the film, which seems to be more about von Trier flexing his "look at me, I'm a rebel" chops than making art.

The story begins with an unnamed couple, Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg, having a frenzied fuck that starts in the shower and ends up in the laundry room. While they are doing it, their son, a toddler, finds an open window and plunges to his death. This scene is shot in black and white, in slow motion, and with an opera on the soundtrack, as if it were a tony perfume commercial. If this was meant to be poetic or tragic it fails miserably--I found it funny.

Gainsbourg has trouble dealing with her grief, and Dafoe, who is a therapist, comes up with the bright idea to go to their weekend cabin in the woods, which they call "Eden" (ooh, religious metaphor!) He wants to get at the core of Gainsbourgh's fear, which he charts in a sophisticated manner--he draws a triangle on a piece of paper.

What ensues is the camping trip from hell. Gainsbourgh is so spooked by the woods that she has trouble setting a shod foot on the ground (she describes nature as "Satan's church") and they both go bonkers. Dafoe watches a doe being born, and then an eviscerated fox speaks to him, telling him that "chaos reigns." I'm tickled that this month will see two films with talking foxes (the other being The Fantastic Mr. Fox) and that they couldn't be more dissimilar.

They make love, but things get out of hand when Gainsbourg whacks Dafoe in the privates with a log and then gives him the worst handjob ever. For good measure she takes a drill to his leg. Then, after masturbating in the woods, she takes a pair of scissors and snips off her clitoris. Isn't this edgy stuff? I can almost imagine von Trier writing this, cackling to himself and thinking, "This will get the critics talking."

So what was the point of all this? I'm not sure, other than being a warning to those who want to take a romantic weekend trip to the country. I think it has to do with the lack of a distinction of good and evil in nature, but I'm not sure. Gainsbourgh mumbled most of her lines and the middle section of the film was so boring that I watched it while winnowing my CD collection (I'm selling a good portion of them).

The worst sin of this film is that it's boring, which is saying something given the controversial aspects of it. Von Trier, in the opening sex scene, includes a shot of real intercourse, which was done with porn actors as stunt doubles. There is absolutely no reason for him to do so, other than to get people who don't watch porn to gasp. I think it's the equivalent of the forty-something guy who grows a pony-tail and wears a motorcycle jacket to make himself look cool.

This is all a shame because von Trier, when he's on his game, can make some startling films, such as Breaking the Waves and Dancer in the Dark. This one is a complete monstrosity, though, and will be tough to beat for the worst film I've seen all year.