There were reportedly dozens of walkouts during the Monday night Cannes premiere of The House That Jack Built, the latest film from Danish third-rail enthusiast Lars von Trier. I heard talk of depictions of brutal child murder, debasement of corpses, and the Holocaust. So I fired off an anxious tweet asserting my dread about seeing it soon, slugged some rosé with a few colleagues, and headed off to bed, fearing what I was to be made witness to in the morning.
Which is annoying, both because the movie is not actually all that shocking, and because my worry and sight-unseen revulsion is exactly what von Trier wants. The House That Jack Built is a tediously navel-gazing exercise in von Trier trying to explain, and make half-hearted atonement for, his "totally twisted, man," worldview, an explication of his personal psychology that is almost heartbreaking in its conflicted self-regard.
I say heartbreaking because I know theres real pain there—a gnawing depression, which von Trier has been open about, and which he turned into beautiful, bleak, nourishing art in his 2011 film Melancholia. Im reluctant to criticize an artist grappling with mental illness, because so much great art has been born of that struggle, and because as a sufferer myself I know how consuming the experience of depression can be—how intensely one wants to yank it out of oneself and show that throbbing, awful mass to the world in the hopes of finding of some clarity and, maybe, some peace.
But I also know that von Triers pain has manifested outwardly in ways harmful to others, whether in how hes reportedly treated actresses on set or his pseudo-Nazi-sympathizing comments during a Cannes press conference for Melancholia. My empathy, I guess, only extends so far.
To which you might say, who cares? A filmmaker doesnt need my empathy. But von Trier is ardently in search of his audiences care and attention, a fact he—I suppose admirably—lays bare in The House That Jack Built. The film is a desperate plea to be seen and reacted to, a provocation whose gruesomeness serves a vain, banal purpose
Matt Dillon plays Jack, a serial killer doing his terrible work sometime in the early 1980s, somewhere in America (the film was obviously not shot in America). In stilted voiceover, Jack confers with an unseen man called Verge (Bruno Ganz), a back-and-forth about art and awfulness that is mostly the filmmaker arguing with his critics and with himself. While the two men debate, were shown a series of murders carried about by Jack—women and children laid waste in varying fashion, the film constantly asking us if were freaked out yet. And, sure, Ill give von Trier the satisfaction of knowing that, yes, some of the images he creates are operatically repugnant and wrenching, humanity violated in harrowingly cruel and intimate ways.
But the metaphor here is lame. Von Trier is not a serial killer, or anything even close. Hes a filmmaker, and no matter how far past the borders of taboo hes traveled (to date, anyway), his work is only as insistent a fact as we choose to make it. So theres a tragic helplessness to The House That Jack Built, the film so violently trying to assert its inescapable and inevitable power while also realizing its limits. Its a self-loathing wank, achieving some kind of finish but no true catharsis.
Which von Trier seems half aware of in the film, punishing Jack (and himself) while still finding something frightfully awesome (in the old sense of the world) about the house of bodies hes built. Like any anonymous, shit-posting Internet troll, the film is keen to its ultimate insignificance. In fact, thats part of the game. But its still smugly certain that its rattled and disturbed you.
The trouble is, we can see all of von Triers shocks coming; weve been shown them before in various forms, in his films and in countless other movies and TV shows. So all of his efforts to eject bile out of himself and onto us—which will make us finally get him, damn it—fall short. Its a whole lot of lugubrious theatrics to yield so little impact.
On his technical merits, Von Trier is a talented filmmaker, and there are isolated moments in The House That Jack Built that are plenty effective. I even liked some of the films pretentious introspection; von Trier seems to have an at least somewhat complex understanding of the criticisms lobbied against him, interrogating the way he treats female characters and the lazy uselessness of his nihilism. He has been listening and absorbing, it seems, which is more than some hard-headed, wannabe iconoclast men can say for themselves.
Brutalism and alienation have their place in art, and I certainly dont think von Trier needs to change his whole deal to reinvigorate his filmmaking, or to earn back his audiences affection. (Plenty of my colleagues liked this film, so maybe that affection was never lost.) But theres nothing productive or enlightening about The House That Jack Builts grim posturing. Its undeniably interesting watching von Trier so directly grapple with his own evolving legacy (The House That Jack Built contains clips from his previous films), as it might be interesting listening in on anyones therapy session. But therapy is contained and private. Therapy doesnt invite strangers to watch simulations of children being killed or a womans breast cut off and used as a coin purse.
Im glad that von Trier is continuing his self-examination. But I dont think I want to hear from him again until hes had an actual breakthrough.
Get Vanity Fairs HWD NewsletterSign up for essential industry and award news from Hollywood.Full ScreenPhotos:Cannes Film Festival 2018: The Must-See LooksRichard LawsonRichard Lawson is a columnist for Vanity Fair's Hollywood, reviewing film and television and covering entertainment news and gossip. He lives in New York City.
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