Antichrist and an Amusingly Victorian Review

I just sat and watched an art house horror movie called Antichrist by the Danish filmmaker Lars von Trier. You may or may not have heard of it, but it gained some notoriety at the Cannes Film Festival this year where it was adored and reviled in equal measure due to its very graphic nature.

It’s the story of a couple (Willem Defoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg) whose young son falls from a window and dies, unnoticed by them while they are having sex. They retreat to a cabin in the woods to recover but fear, guilt and resentment lead them to begin systematically torturing each other, first mentally and then physically. All the while the woods around them begin to come alive.

Lars von Trier is not one of my favourite filmmakers by a long shot. I find his movies are usually pretentious, self-important and plodding and Antichrist isn’t much different. It’s not your average Cineplex popcorn seller, with scenes of close-up penetrative sex and genital mutilation among other things, but it is deeply unsettling, haunting and one of the most beautifully shot movies I’ve seen in a long time. Not one for the shelf, but a good movie nonetheless.

So, after watching a movie like this I like to go and read some reviews; see what the rest of the world thought. I prefer to read the bulk of movie reviews after the event. One stop I always find enjoyable is my old friend The Daily Mail. For those of you who don’t know, The Daily Mail is a British newspaper. It is a bastion of Victorian values and insane Conservatism and either gives me a good chuckle or sends me into a foaming rage, depending on the topic. I simply had to know what The Daily Mail film reviewer thought about Antichrist.

This is what I found. It’s long, and much like the films of Lars von Trier, it’s pretentious, self-important and plodding. But it is well worth the read!


What DOES it take for a film to get banned these days?

By Christopher Hart

As censors approve a movie that plumbs grotesque new depths of sexual explicitness and violence, one critic (who prides himself on being broad-minded) despairs...

A film which plumbs new depths of sexual explicitness, excruciating violence and degradation has just been passed as fit for general consumption by the British Board of Film Classification. They have given the film an 18 certificate. As we all know, this is meaningless nowadays in the age of the DVD because sooner or later, thanks to the gross irresponsibility of some parents, any film that is given general release will be seen by children.

You do not need to see Lars von Trier's Antichrist (which is released later this week) to know how revolting it is. I haven't seen it myself, nor shall I - and I speak as a broad-minded arts critic, strongly libertarian in tendency. But merely reading about Antichrist is stomach-turning, and enough to form a judgment. As Ernest Hemingway said of obscenity in a justifiably disgusting image, you don't need to eat a whole bowl of scabs to know they're scabs.

Here is the 'plot' of Antichrist, with apologies in advance. But since this is coming to a cinema near you soon - and then a DVD, a website and a late-night TV channel - you might want know about it. A couple are having sex. Graphically close-up. While they are doing so, their toddler falls to his death from a balcony. The husband and wife go to stay in a log cabin to recover from their grief. There, horrors the likes of which I have never witnessed unfold in graphic detail. Eventually, the husband strangles her and escapes through the woods, where he is surrounded by hundreds of children with blurred faces. The end.

Now the anonymous moral guardians of the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC), in their infinite wisdom, have passed this foul film for general consumption. Another bizarre but typical judgment from this panel of experts whose names we don't even know (and so we don't even know if they are parents). We do know that its president, Sir Quentin Thomas, gets £28,000 for 25 days' work a year. Nice job if you can get it. In a jaded and degraded culture, Antichrist is presumably intended to shock. In fact, it doesn't shock, it merely nauseates.

It doesn't shock or surprise me in the slightest that Europe now produces such pieces of sick, pretentious trash, fully confirming our jihadist enemies' view of us as a society in the last stages of corruption and decay. It doesn't surprise me that Antichrist was heavily subsidised by the Danish Film Institute to the tune of 1.5 million euros.

I tried to find out more from the Institute, but to my small surprise they disdained to reply. But you can be sure that they in turn are funded by the EU and so by my taxes - and yours. How do you feel about that? If not shocked, then weary, furious, disgusted? Well you can complain all you like, but no one is listening. Our arts mandarins, along with the rest of our lofty liberal elite, don't work like that. Their job is to take our money and spend it on such fashionable torture porn - sorry, art - not ask us our opinion.

Since sex and violence are both intrinsic parts of human experience, art and literature will necessarily contain both. There are few more horrific moments on the English stage than in King Lear, when the Duke of Cornwall gouges out the aged Gloucester's eyes. I must have seen the scene 20 times and it never fails to appal. But although superficially similar to the atrocities of Lars von Trier's Antichrist, it differs in every significant respect. Shakespeare is dramatising the tragic universe we inhabit, human evil at its worst, and the hidden moral process by which Cornwall will eventually be punished for his cruelty.

The world of Antichrist, by contrast, is blatantly amoral, without any sense of justice or retribution whatever. Its mingling of sex and violence, the cheapest and nastiest trick in the book, is usually one which the BBFC pounces on in a straight horror film. But here they are blinded by their own cultural snobbery, swallowing the lie that Antichrist is Art. Von Trier, the film's writer and director, naturally scorns as a philistine rabble those who don't appreciate his rare genius. 'I don't think about the audience when I make a film. I don't care. I make films for myself.'

A pity he doesn't fund those films for himself too, then. But he cannot be blamed for his atrocities, he explains. 'It's the hand of God, I'm afraid. And I am the best film director in the world. I'm not sure God is the best god in the world.' Willem Dafoe, meanwhile, who plays the father, is evidently proud of his work in Antichrist too. He believes that all that child death and sexual violence is 'poetry', that the film is 'true and fresh and living', and dismisses any objections as 'very conservative.' In quintessential luvviepseak, he explains: 'Your responsibility is to the integrity of what you do to yourself.'

Now bearing the stamp of BBFC approval, Antichrist is to be released uncut into our cultural bloodstream. In artistic terms, it is the equivalent of food poisoning. How odd that while government-appointed health czars are so obsessed with anything that might harm the nation's physical wellbeing - hanging flower baskets, conkers, too much sunshine, not enough sunshine - any concern with the nation's moral or spiritual well-being has completely vanished. Its approval by the BBFC raises the question: what on earth does it take for a film to be banned nowadays? If the visceral sadism of Von Trier's film passes muster, surely anything will?

Censorship today seems to have been reduced to the feeble principle that if it doesn't harm children, then it should be allowed. As soon as it's released on DVD, Antichrist will harm children anyway, deeply and irrevocably. But when did this principle of protecting only children arise anyway? What about harming adults? If I were to see Antichrist, I don't believe for a moment that it would incite me into copycat violent behaviour or make me a danger to others. But it would poison my mind and imagination, with explicit, ferocious scenes of sexual violence that would stay with me for ever.

Isn't that good enough reason to ban it, or at least demand extensive cuts? But have we - that is to say, the hesitant, fumbling, comfortably cushioned, value-free Leftish elite who now govern us - got the guts? I doubt it.

Just remember, he hasn’t actually seen the film but…

Let The Right One In - Review

It is 1982. 12 year old Oskar lives with his mother in a run down estate in Stockholm. He’s a lonely figure, bullied at school and harbouring violent dreams of revenge. When a 12 year old girl called Eli moves in next door, living with an ageing man but seemingly just as lonely, Oskar strikes up a tentative friendship with her. At the same time, a series of grisly murders begin befalling the residents of the estate. As Oskar’s feelings for Eli deepen, he learns the truth about who she really is and is faced with the question of how much you can forgive for love.

Vampire movies are two-a-penny at the moment. I know, I’ve written one myself, so I sat down to watch this Swedish addition to the genre with no great expectations. This is pretty much how I approach all horror movies these days since the ratio of good to bad when it comes to horror is about 1/100. Admittedly, the odds increase when the horror movie is subtitled and Let The Right One In, adapted by John Ajvide Lindqvist from his own novel and directed by Tomas Alfredson, is without a doubt that 1 in 100.

Eschewing the trend for making vampires glamorous, cool and alluring (a trend most recently seen in the inferior Twilight) Lindqvist and Alfredson place their story in a setting that is cold, bleak and grey. Snowbound Stockholm is not glamorous and Eli is far from cool. Instead she is a lonely, sometimes heartbreaking figure. She’s not evil or good. She just is what she is; as trapped in herself as we all are. So, too, is Oskar. But together they form the dark, beating heart of this movie.

Alfredson lets the story move along at a languid pace and makes excellent use of sound effects to unsettle. There are startling moments of violence, all the more effective for punctuating such a subtle mood, and the movie has a final scene which will stick in your mind for days. And building throughout is as touching a romance as you’re likely to see. Again, all the more effective for blossoming in such dark surroundings. I had a tear in my eye at the end.

Film of the year so far and much recommended. See it now.

Hmm. I kind of like this movie reviewing malarky. I might inflict some more on you. :-)

Manifest Dentistry II

“Mr Lamb, please.”

Fuck. Fuck shit fuck. Fuck shit wank fuck.

I stand up and hand the freshly completed forms over to one of the two overweight blonde receptionists (coincidence or dentist’s fetish?). I was really hoping the forms would take longer to fill out than this, thereby delaying that opening line a little longer. I mean, don’t you want to know more about me? I’ll tell you everything, just give me more forms to fill out. Please.

The receptionist takes the forms from me with a chubby hand and a bored expression and flicks her eyes toward the stairs which, refreshingly, lead up into hell. I climb the stairs as slowly as I can but there aren’t that many and the sense of the inevitable has overcome me. May as well just get it over with. I’m aided in my resignation by the fact that I have been in a deep depression since yesterday and therefore much more able to detach myself from any emotional encumbrance that has followed me here. You know, like nerves, fear, panic, blind terror. All are greatly diminished by the fact that I’m in the hole and feeling pretty much nothing.

There are times when depression is an asset. Yay for depression. Sort of.

At the top of the stairs I’m greeted by a gentleman, standing in the doorway of a room and dressed entirely in green. He looks like some sports team mascot missing only the giant frog’s head. He offers me a predatory smile and then steps aside to let me into the room. I get my first glimpse of the chair. The chair! Satan’s own recliner! My legs feel weaker suddenly and my tummy feels all squirty. Damn depression isn’t doing the job here.

I do my best to return the smile but Lord only knows what feeble approximation the man in green actually sees. Something akin to the expression of a zebra trying to charm a pack of hungry hyenas. He gestures to The Chair and bids me be seated. I slump down into it like a man who has all but expended his resistance. For such a man am I. There’s nowhere left to go. This is it. Resign yourself, my son.

And so it begins. Just as I predicted it would be. Rubber covered fingers and cold metal poking around my mouth while some smothered droning voice calls out strange numbers and says ‘hmm’ a lot. I close my eyes and think of movie scenes. I think of the book I’m writing with Margaret and I try to crush her hand psychically (glad that worked). I think of Jen chanting ‘OM’. I think of Joe being a wise-ass. I repeat my mantra ‘get me the fuck outta here, get me the fuck outta here’. But nothing can distract me from the fact that all this shit in my mouth is making me want to puke.

Finally, thankfully, it’s done. I lay there staring at the light hovering over me, wishing it were some beautiful archangel come to take me away, but it’s not. There are no archangels for me today, just the thought of two possible root canals and a shitload of treatment for my gums. Oh yes, this is just the beginning. Satan’s own recliner is not done with me yet. The Chair will be taking me into its embrace again real soon.

Strangely, the depression doesn’t abate.

Manifest Dentistry

I have an appointment with the dentist in a few days. Now, you may not think this a worthy subject for a blog. Indeed, you may be sitting there thinking to yourself, ‘yeah, so and what’. If this is the case then by all means fuck off.

Whoops, did I say that out loud? I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive me but I’m a little bit tense. You see, this appointment is something which I have been putting off for a long time. For years, in fact. I’ve been putting it off for the simple reason that I am utterly, completely and most whole heartedly terrified of dentists. The thought of sitting in that chair fills me with the kind of dread usually reserved for gallows, guillotines, firing squads and episodes of Friends.

I don’t know why I fear them so much. It’s not like I’ve ever had an unusually bad experience with dentists. I’ve never lost a girlfriend to a dentist. I was not abused by a dentist as a child. My mother was not kidnapped by dentists. I never had a favourite pet murdered by a dentist. I wasn’t forced to watch my family being gunned down by a group of rogue dentists.

To my knowledge, dentists have not figured largely in my nightmares or my waking life at all. And yet, before this white-coated demon I become a wide-eyed, gibbering child prepared to let everyone else in the waiting room go first. I’ll even sit there all night and let the next day’s patients go first too. For crying out loud, I’ve had spinal surgery, the thought of which didn’t provoke a fraction of the terror in me that this appointment does.

I know I’m not alone in this, and psychologically speaking a phobia of dentists is hardly intriguing. My phobia of clowns and ice cream vans is a lot more interesting, but fortunately I don’t have an appointment with either of them in a few days. I’d just love to know where this fear originated. Maybe it was the movie Marathon Man? I remember watching that as a child and being horrified by Laurence Olivier’s sinister Nazi dentist. Is this what did the damage? Will I sit in that chair waiting for my dentist to ask me if it’s safe in a comedy German accent?

Or worse, will he turn out to be dressed as a clown? Will he honk his red nose, invite me to sit in his big, rainbow chair before offering me an ice cream? Will he slap around the room in his giant shoes waving a pneumatic drill in the air and shouting, “Nurse, give this man the gas, forthwith!”

I have got to get a grip.

That sterile room, the minty odour, the sound of rattling implements and that awful screeching drill. Rubber covered fingers and cold metal poking around my mouth while some smothered droning voice calls out strange numbers and says ‘hmm’ a lot.

I want my mum. And failing that, I want a semi-automatic weapon. And failing that, I want God to explain to me why he made our bodies so fucking high maintenance.

Beyond the Sea: An Inked-In Collaboration

This blog is a collaboration between Richard Lamb and Margaret Reyes Dempsey discussing their collaboration.

Or

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Other Writers.

Margaret: It seems membership is increasing at Inked-In. I'm sure many people join just to see what it's all about, as I did back in July. I never dreamed it would turn into a collaboration with a fellow writer on the other side of the Atlantic. I'm always up for a challenge, so when Richard said, "Hey, we should write something together," I immediately agreed. We had hit it off socially and admired each other's writing. He was a "long-winded" screenwriter who thought he might be better at novels. I was a "woman of few words" novelist who thought screenwriting might be a better match. (When it comes to talking, it's actually the reverse.) In the end, we decided on a novel, hoping our styles would meet somewhere in the middle.

Richard: Truth be told, I’ve never been much of a collaborator. When I was at Art College and I found myself having to do a group project, I would invariably come to blows with everyone else and then lose interest because they weren’t doing things the way I thought they should be done. I wanted total autonomy over all my projects or I simply lost enthusiasm for them. I’ve always been something of a loner, most especially when it comes to creative endeavours. So no one was more surprised than I when I suggested to Margaret that we collaborate on a novel together. We’d met on Inked-In a few months earlier and quickly discovered that we had a lot in common, both personally and creatively. So as far as whims go, it seemed like a fairly logical one. Which is more than can be said for most of my whims.

Margaret: Of course, I had reservations. As similar as we were in some ways, we couldn't be more different in how we approached the writing process. There were also difficulties (putting it very mildly) with misunderstandings due to American versus British English, not to mention the trouble you can get in with inflectionless forms of communication like online chat. What we did have in common, though, was the ability to duke it out and get on with the work. Well, eventually get on with the work, that is.

Richard: We came up with our idea in short order and quickly realised that we had something that was pretty original in its approach and execution. That gave us the initial buzz to get started and five months on we are still hammering away at it. Well, sort of. Maybe hammering isn’t the right word. Light tapping might be better.

Margaret: There were a few months when I was immersed in edits for my soon-to-be-released novel. But the real reason it took so long to get in the flow was the difference in our approach to writing. Richard is a spontaneous, "without a plan" kind of writer and I like to have a loose outline of where I'm heading (otherwise my finished project ends up looking like little Jimmy going from Point A to Point B in the Family Circus cartoons).

Richard: Okay, so there have been lapses in motivation along the way. On both sides. There have been times when Margaret has accelerated past me and times when I have accelerated past her. There have been many times when other projects have dragged us away (Margaret’s soon to be published novel is the prime example) and certainly times when we have become frustrated with ourselves and, from time to time, each other. However, I have not once lost interest in it and I have never really found myself wanting to reach across the Atlantic and strangle Margaret. Not in relation to this book anyway.

Margaret: In time, Richard began to see that his approach wouldn't work in a collaboration. After all, we couldn't read each other's minds and the type of novel we're writing demands consistency. We compromised by discussing individual chapters as we went along. Then we finished chapter four and got stuck again. Finally, Richard suggested that we plot the whole thing out so we knew where we were going. Wow, what a great idea. Wish I had thought of that. ;-)

Richard: I’ve been surprised how easily we have worked together. We complement each other creatively and I’ve even enjoyed Margaret’s little brainstorming sessions, a concept which I have usually found extremely tedious in the past. In fact, we spent God knows how many hours brainstorming almost the whole thing over the last few days. It was exhausting but surprisingly satisfying.

Margaret: So, the last two days have been a whirlwind of activity. We spent hours on the phone plotting out the novel (me on my lounge chair sitting out in the sun on a mild New York spring day; Richard on his sofa under an English night sky). It was exhilarating and grueling at the same time. But in the end, we had something amazing that we both really liked. We'll see where it goes.

Richard: I guess the secret of this collaboration’s success is the way in which we complement each other. Sometimes I need to be told to write less and sometimes Margaret needs to be told to write more. Together we find a common ground where I think something very special will be produced.

My Irrational Loathing Of The Word 'Excursion'

As writers, we can have a unique relationship with words. We work closely with them and therefore can develop a singular appreciation for their texture and flavour. Now, I don't know about you, but there are some words that I just hate. For no discernable, rational reason. They just irritate me. It's not their meaning, it's the word itself. For example, the word 'excursion' can send me into spasms of rage simply at the sight of it. I fucking hate that word and I have no idea why. It's just so utterly irritating. Similar words, such as 'explosion' or 'expiation' don't bother me at all, but 'excursion' will have me clenching my teeth and turning my nose up with unbridled contempt.

There are other words too. 'Chutney'. What a horrible, ugly, irritating word that is. I have no problem at all with the condiment. We get along just fine. But the word. It makes my flesh crawl. Chutney. I can scarcely bring myself to write it.

Madness.

On the other hand, of course, there are those words which I simply adore, with just as little justification. I adore the word 'curmudgeon'. What a great word! It always makes me smile. It's so warm and cuddly. In direct contrast to its meaning. Curmudgeon. Say it with me now.

And how about the word 'unction'. I love that word! Place it in tandem with the word 'emollient' and I get a pleasant little tickly feeling in my stomach. Unctions and emollients. How cool does that sound?

Lunacy.

So how about you? What words irritate or delight you for no apparent reason.