By K.A. Laity
As Bitch Magazine has already observed, the sky is blue, water is wet, and the Oscar nominations are a big feminist disappointment. This seems to be the year they officially become as irrelevant as the Grammys, in industry showcase that reflects no vision of reality outside the industrial boardrooms. In a year when awards can be offered for run-of-the-mill biopics that make horrid people "vulnerable" and "human" (one begins to suspect a subterranean right wing campaign funding both the films and the awards). At least the National Society of Film Critics and the jury at Cannes picked up on it.
In the seemingly ever smaller number of films that pass the Bechdel Test, one major got completely overlooked for the major awards: Lars von Trier's Melancholia. It's kind of stunning because it includes the sort of bravura acting that usually gets awards—had it been men in the roles, perhaps the statues would be lining up. Perhaps it was the uneasy accusations of misogyny leveled at von Trier particularly in the wake of Antichrist. But here's the thing: every female character does not have to be a squeaky clean role model or redeemed hooker. Male characters have the space to be good, bad or better yet, complicated. Women remain largely relegated to secondary roles in most films and to films dismissed as 'chick flicks' when they star in films.
Melancholia is no chick flick. It is harrowing in so many ways—not least for the unflinching portrayal of real depression. I get tired of people who say "Oh, I'm so depressed!" They have no idea. It's a terrible and debilitating disease and von Trier nailed the fatiguing blow-on-a-bruise daily pain of living with it in a way that I found particularly powerful. The anger and frustration of being a carer came to vivid life as Charlotte Gainsbourg's Claire tried to halt the downward spiral of her sister Justine (Kirsten Dunst). While the initial lot revolves around a wedding, there real center is the sisters' relationship. For all the horrors and flaws they both exhibit, what emerges in the end is their amazing strength.
There were also the stunning visuals, including an opening prologue that was like surrealist paintings come to life. The audience remained silent throughout the initially dream-like experience that offered no recognizable narrative. I thought how can von Trier match the power of that opening prologue—but he did, holding the audience in the palm of his hand even as he tightened the grip. When a less than captivated audience member loudly snorted at an apropos moment at the screening I attended and the audience burst into laughter, it was evident how much we needed the release. It's a film that dares much and asks the audience to follow it into oblivion: audacious.
Gainsbourg and Dunst were both commanding. If they were male actors, they would be proclaimed so. Charlotte Rampling turned in a wonderful performance as well in a completely unsympathetic role and I was impressed with Kiefer Sutherland whom I've not seen in anything in years. Very affecting. I think of this as a painterly movie, but that gives an impression of stasis and this was completely fluid. We need more films where women are people—screwed up, misguided, not role models, but real people.