When their toddler son wanders out of bed and heads out an open window to join falling snowflakes, Antichrist looks like the most depressing and sexually graphic perfume commercial you’ve ever seen.Ī month later, She’s still grieving, so He, a psychologist, decides to take over her therapy and insists she face her fears at the remote cabin. In the prologue, He and She have sex in sumptuous black-and-white slow motion, complete with a Handel aria on the soundtrack and a penetration shot from the actors’ body doubles. How pretentious is Antichrist? Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg play a married couple identified as He and She, who speak wistfully of their cabin retreat called Eden. Were Antichrist a piece of hackwork, so to speak, it'd be easy to dismiss. An instantly notorious award-winner at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, Antichrist proves to be an alternately draggy, repellant and opaque cinematic experience, while clearly representing devoted efforts from several master screen artists. Lars von Trier’s Antichrist eventually reveals how unguarded genitalia hold up against carpentry utensils, but without the justification of Sick’s humanism or thematic clarity. Nevertheless, the close-up atrocity summed up the obsessions and life experiences of a self-punishing performance artist with a fatal case of cystic fibrosis and a surprisingly tender marriage. I can’t even truly say I saw more than brief glimpses before I averted my eyes, as if confronted by a solar eclipse. I can't truly say I enjoyed watching a man nail his penis to a wooden board in the 1997 documentary Sick: The Life and Death of Bob Flanagan, Supermasochist.
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