A Moving Picture, in More Ways than One: Camerawork and Emotion in A BETTER LIFE

19 February 2012

One of the most striking qualities about Chris Weitz’s A Better Life is the emotional punch the film packs.  From start to finish, the film explores the emotional struggles between father and son, as well as subtly engrossing the audience with understated yet honest poignancy.  In addition to powerful performances by the film’s acting ensemble, one of the ways the film cinematically achieves its high emotional value is through refined camerawork and clever cinematic technique.  More pointedly, there are two scenes, which nearly bookend the film, that, when looked at closely, highlight the director’s perceptive technique and how it contributes to the high emotional quality of A Better Life.

To begin, A Better Life follows Carlos Galindo (Demian Bichir), an illegal Mexican immigrant living in America.  Because Carlos has no papers, he works as a gardener “under the table” to make ends meet.  Moreover, Carlos has a teenage son, Luis (Jose Julian), whose mother left when he was young.  Luis runs with a rough, gang-connected crowd, which gets him suspended from school and in trouble with the law, much to his father’s chagrin.  Nevertheless, although tension exists between father and son, there is also a great deal of love between the two.  Seizing a business proposition, Carlos buys a truck and new gardening tools to start his own gardening business.  However, one afternoon a man Carlos hired to work with him double-crosses Carlos and steals the truck, the tools, and several of Carlos’ personal belongings.  Facing complete financial devastation, Carlos and Luis do the only thing they can do and begin a journey to recover their stolen items.  Along the way, Carlos and Luis’ bond grows stronger, but also gets subjected to the ultimate test.

Interestingly, the film has an extended exposition, with the actual plotline beginning nearly 40 minutes into the 98 minute film; however, this elongated exposition allows time for the film to explore characterization, as well as build an emotional connection between characters and between the characters and the audience.  Within this exposition there is a scene in which Carlos opens Luis’ bedroom door before waking him up for school one morning.  Carlos opens the door and lovingly gazes in on his sleeping son, establishing, for the audience, the love this father feels.  Yet, as a man trying to provide for his son (a son he knows is making poor choices and exhibiting reckless and disrespectful behavior), Carlos tries to take on the persona of a strict father, one who conceals his emotions.  Thus, not wanting to take the risk that Luis would recognize his father’s gaze as loving and mistakenly think Carlos could be taken advantage of, Carlos closes the door, knocks, and yells to his son, waking the sleeping Luis.  Then, Carlos reopens the door, as though for the first time.  As Luis awakes and the two begin a brief early-morning conversation, the camera cuts between respective medium shots of each character and slowly zooms in during each one.  The zoom is so slow, in fact, that unless one is looking for it, the movement could be missed altogether.

The slow zoom is the cinematic reaffirmation of the bond between father and son.  While the characters actions, such as Carlos lovingly gazing at the sleeping Luis, establishes the bond between the two, the camera’s slow zoom during their conversation symbolizes, visually, the two continue to grow closer.  Furthermore, the subtle, tender camera zoom helps build the audience’s bond with the film because as the camera zooms in on the characters the audience is also getting closer to them, spatially speaking, heightening the film’s emotional value.  Moreover, the fact that the zoom is so slow makes that intimacy it builds trustworthy; the audience is not being forced at the characters, instead the leisurely speed feels safe and comfortable. 

This early scene in the film echoes again in the film’s climax, when Luis finally visits Carlos in jail.  Just like the opening scene, the camera originally captures the characters in respective medium shots.  As their conversation becomes more emotional, and Carlos ultimately breaks down in tears, the camera begins the same subtle zoom. Like the previous scene, the zoom symbolizes the two are growing closer, and also that the audience gets closer to the characters.  Yet, unlike the previous scene, this segment takes the emotional level further; after some zooming, the camera cuts to respective close-ups of the two, instead of medium shots.  Close-ups are the shots typically conveying passion and feelings, which work best in this particular scene.  Thus, after the zoom builds the emotional impact of the scene, the close-up shots become even more potent, as the already invested audience gets the closest they have ever been to these characters during their most unfiltered, honest, heart-wrenching conversation.  Weitz’s decision to start with medium shots, then begin the slow zoom technique, and finally conclude with close-ups successfully builds the emotion of the scene up to a poignant climax, for both characters and audience.

Figuratively speaking, emotion is the language A Better Life speaks, and camera technique is the instrument by which that language is expressed.  Not only do the characters ride an emotional rollercoaster throughout this film, but the audience, too, experiences the highs and lows of Carlos and Luis’ journey in large part due to exceptional and understated camerawork.  And, as stated in past entries and will continue to be stated when appropriate, it is always refreshing to see a film communicate to an audience primarily through cinematic devices, such as camerawork and technique, as opposed to relying on the narrative.  Cinema is a powerful medium of communication, and it is always a treat to watch films by a director who recognizes that power and uses it wisely.

Cinematic Sentiments: Curing Nostalgia with Hope in MIDNIGHT IN PARIS

12 February 2012

Everyone, at some point in life, wishes he/she could go back in time.  Some people wish they could return to a happier or simpler time in their own life, maybe reliving a special or exciting day.  Others wish they could return to era predating their life, an era idealized.  Although it seems this desire for yesteryear is harmless, fixating on the past has less to do with the glory of days gone by and more to do with avoiding the present.  Taking that thought further, reverting to the past, a time that has already been lived, seems a distressed attempt to secure safety from life’s unforeseen curveballs and quick turns.  Otherwise known as nostalgia, this longing for the past is the focus of Woody Allen’s sleeper-hit Midnight in Paris.

Allen’s Midnight in Paris follows Gil (Owen Wilson), a successful screenwriter from Hollywood who aspires to become a novelist.  Gil is vacationing in Paris with his fiancée, Inez (Rachel McAdams), and her family.  Although Gil and Inez are marrying in a short time, their relationship is falling apart; unbeknownst to Gil, Inez is having an affair with an old flame.  While strolling alone one night, Gil happens upon a taxi straight out of the 1920s, literally.  The taxi takes Gil back in time, to the era in Paris’ history Gil most idealizes, where his literary and artistic heroes, F. Scott Fitzgerald, T. S. Eliot, Ernest Hemingway, Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso, and Gertrude Stein, are in their prime.  Enamored with his idols, Gil returns to the 1920s at the stroke of midnight every night, which, literally and figuratively, pulls him even further from Inez.  Furthermore, Gil meets Adriana (Marion Cotillard) in the 1920s, and the two quickly develop feelings for one another.  One night, during one of Gil and Adriana’s walks, the two happen upon a horse-drawn carriage, which takes them back further into time, straight to Paris in the 1890s, which is the era Adriana most idealizes.  Finding himself in the 19^th century, in front of Toulouse-Lautrec in the Moulin Rouge, Gil must decide whether to keep living in the past or stay permanently in the present.  In the end, Gil bids the past goodbye, as well as his fiancée, Inez.  In the film’s final scene, Gil strolls alone though modern-day Paris, and, at the stroke of midnight, runs into Gabrielle (Lea Seydoux), a Parisian woman Gil met days earlier in the market.  Evident from their earlier meeting, the two clearly share interests.  As it begins to rain, a weather condition both Gil and Gabrielle agree is the most beautiful in Paris, the two walk off together to get a cup of coffee.

While the term nostalgia is not used as much in today’s culture as it once was, the word’s history is negative.  In the 18^th century, nostalgia was a medical disease (illness) one could contract.  In the 19^th century, nostalgia was a psychological disorder, under the umbrella of depression, for people who experienced extreme homesickness.  In both centuries, those afflicted with nostalgia were considered weak; as a diagnosis, nostalgia was often times humiliating.  Perhaps in response to the negativity attached to nostalgia, Woody Allen takes a stand by creating, arguably, one of his most uplifting films that offers one sure-fire cure for nostalgia, hope.

There is a saying that goes, “Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it,” and this is the very mantra Allen suggests is key for those, like Gil, struggling with nostalgia.  In Midnight in Paris, Gil is caught up in a romanticized version of Paris in the 1920s.  For him, the modern-day world he lives in pales in comparison, making life miserable.  However, Gil seizes a fantastical opportunity when he enters the mysterious taxi each night and goes back in time to the era his mind idealizes as the Golden Age.  At first, visiting 1920s Paris is everything Gil imagined it would be; however, as time goes on, Gil realizes the 1920s offer many of the same trials and tribulations as the modern-day.  Furthermore, when he learns Adriana believes Paris in the 1890s is the Golden Age, he realizes something more about his fixation on the past: nostalgia has nothing to do with the place or time a person romanticizes; nostalgia is about fearing the present and being unsatisfied with one’s life.  Gil was granted what he wished for when he returned to the 1920s, but by going back he learned his romanticized version on Paris in the 1920s was not everything he glorified it to be.  Thus, in the film’s conclusion, Gil resolves to take ownership of his present, by leaving his fiancée and deciding to move to Paris, and give life in modern-day a chance.  It is a difficult decision for Gil, but one inspired by hope.

Building greater hope in the film, Allen bookends Midnight in Paris with two uplifting segments that reassure viewers Gil’s decision to leave the past behind, freeing himself of the nostalgia that once bound him, is the right one.  The opening sequence of the film is a three and a half-minute montage of modern-day Paris.  The sequence shows the best of Paris: beauty, grace, history, popularity, and style.  It is a blend of familiar images, such as the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, and more discrete alleyways located off the city’s beaten track.  The opening sequence suggests modern-day Paris is as beautiful, inviting, and booming as it has ever been.  The visual postcard is homage to a city that stands as strong and vibrant today as did in the past.

The second bookend is the film’s final scene.  While gazing up at the Eiffel Tower, Gil hears a clock strike midnight.  This is the first time Gil has not caught the taxi at midnight to return to the past.  And, as the clock continues to chime, Gabrielle emerges in front of Gil.  Her appearance at midnight, which feels a lot like fate, reassures the audience that Gil’s decision to stay in the present was the correct one.  Earlier in the film, fate brought the taxi to Gil at the stroke of midnight, and now, after he let the past go and took control of his life in the present, fate brings Gabrielle to him at the stroke of midnight.  Although a bit hokey, Allen’s final scene suggests the romanticism Gil mistakenly placed in the past has now been accurate inserted into his present.

The bookends in Midnight in Paris support the hope Gil finds in the present, which is his cure for the nostalgia that plagued him.  The only way Gil could realize his vision of the past was skewed came from visiting the past for himself and seeing that life, no matter which era or in which city one lives it, is difficult.  In the real world, people are not given the opportunity Gil received; however, watching his journey to let go of the glorified past in the “reel” world certainly offers are great sense of hope for audience member about the present.

Silence Speaks Volumes: A Timely Message in THE ARTIST

5 February 2012

When a silent film gets released roughly 70 years after silent films ceased production, one logical question that comes to mind is, “Why now?”  To be blunt, why The Artist?

In short, Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist is a silent film about silent filmmaking.  Set in 1927′s Old Hollywood, George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is a silent film superstar, the elite of celebrities, beloved and respected by all.  However, with the onset of “talkies,” George’s status in Hollywood gets lost, seemingly overnight.  Like many real-life celebrities of the time, George’s refusal to accept talking pictures as the future of cinema caused an abrupt end to his remarkable career.  That, compounded with the stock market crash of 1929, forced George into bankruptcy and depression.  Depression so bad he attempted suicide to escape his crippling sadness.  Yet, young starlet, Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), who was unsuccessful in silent films, but found a prosperous career in the talkies, falls for George.  The romance between the two blooms, which pulls George out of the depression and gives him the inspiration necessary to reinvent a new career within the rapidly changing film industry.

 

Today, we live in an era that will surely go down in the history books as a technological revolution.  More prevalent in first-world countries, it seems every minute advancements in technology are made, creating newer, better, and faster devices.  For example, upon the release of the iPhone 4S, people were already buzzing about the, still unreleased, iPhone 5.  Surely, thanks to the brilliance of the late Steve Jobs and his contemporaries (assuming there are others who match his genius), this new phone will perform tasks more expediently and effectively.  Yet, what was wrong with the iPhone 4S?  For that matter, what was wrong with four other iPhones that came before it?  The answer is nothing.  In today’s world we no longer subscribe to the ideology, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”  Instead, we have stopped waiting for the breaks; we are focused on moving quickly enough to avoid them all together.

Antiquation is a necessary counterpart to technology.  We are always making room for tomorrow and rarely glancing back at what is being thrown away from yesterday, and this is the message in The Artist.  George Valentin was outsourced by talking pictures.  There was nothing “broken” about silent films, but they became instantly antiquated when technological advancements supported sound in film, thus antiquating George.

From this, The Artist asks its viewers to consider what is being lost as technology progresses so quickly.  Sure, George does land on his feet in the end (of course audience are treated with a happy ending…painfully typical and too often forced Hollywood conclusion, thanks a lot, The Artist), but George represents a generation of people who were not as lucky: Louise Brooks, Harold Lloyd, and Clara Bow, to reference some of the silent-era’s major players.  Even Charlie Chaplin, who seems to have been a major inspiration for the character of George, faced setbacks when persevering to continue with silent filmmaking after “talkies” become the sensation.  In consideration of what is being left behind, The Artist questions what all this feverish outsourcing is costing us.  What are we “throwing away?”  Evolution and progression are necessary, especially in technology, but who is accounting for the casualties, and where are they piling up?

The Artist, as a silent film, may initially seem out of place for 21^st century audiences; yet, it is really no different than science fiction films set in other worlds or the far-off future.  Like these sci-fi movies, Hazanavicius’ The Artist distorts today’s reality, or removes itself from it enough, to comment on it.  The Artist’s message about rapid technological advancements is entirely relevant to today, making the film timely, clever, and highly appropriate for 2011 audiences to reflect upon.

Still from SAFETY LAST! (1923), starring Harold Lloyd, that seems to say it all

On Specs: Visual Clarity amid Narrative Debacle in TINKER TAILOR SOLDIER SPY

29 January 2012

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, in its original form, is the first dense and lengthy novel of the Karla Trilogy, written by John le Carre in 1974.  In 1979, a 5-hour BBC mini-series adapted the novel, and this past year a feature film condensed the material further, to just over two hours, for the silver screen.  Yet, although the shortest of all representations of this narrative, Tomas Alfredson’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, the feature-film, still contains all the plot twists, characters (and characters and characters), historical information, and espionage jargon of its much lengthier interpretations.  Thus, audience members watching Alfredson’s film are unavoidably overwhelmed by the seemingly insurmountable narrative.

As briefly and straightforwardly as possible, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy takes place in 1973 during the Cold War.  Control (John Hurt), chief of the British Intelligence agency known as the Circus, retires at the beginning of the film.  Strangely, he forces his right-hand man, George Smiley (Gary Oldman), to retire as well.  Due to their departure, other members of the Circus, Bill Haydon (Colin Firth), Roy Bland (Ciaran Hinds), and Percy Alleline (Toby Jones), assume Control and Smiley’s positions within the organization.  Shortly after his retirement, Control dies, leaving Smiley with a nearly impossible task.  Control had information that there is a Soviet spy in the Circus, meaning one of the three men in Circus is feeding the Soviets top-secret British Intelligence information.  Before dying, Control code-named each man:  Percy as Tinker, Bill as Tailor, and Roy as Soldier.  In his “retirement,” along with trusted Intelligence connections, Jim Prideaux (Mark Strong), Ricki Tarr (Tom Hardy), and Connie Sachs (Kathy Burke), Smiley embarks on an international investigation to uncover which British Intelligence agent, Tinker, Tailor, or Soldier, is the spy.

Reduced to this plot summation, which is devoid of the narrative’s density, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy boils down to one essential question:  who is the Soviet mole in the Circus?  Subplots aside, Smiley’s quest to uncover the mole, completing the work of his mentor, Control, is the film’s driving force.

Curiously, in the midst of a complicated narrative, the mole’s identity is a relatively simple thing to figure out.  In fact, aesthetically speaking, this film actually calls attention to the mole himself rather early on in the film.  To unpack this idea will require a close look at a highly significant motif in the film, a motif in the form of a prop, glasses.

Smiley wears glasses, and not just any glasses, thick, brown framed glasses.  Theoretically speaking, in a film, male characters who wear glasses are “see-ers,” typically meaning they see what is happening within the film from a better perspective, or have a heightened awareness and/or knowledge of something significant within the film.  An important distinction, but complete aside, is that female characters who wear glasses are typically stripped of their femininity on film; thus, females who wear glasses are weakened and challenged in cinema.   Women in films are there to be seen, not to see for themselves.  Nevertheless, Smiley is a male, and his thick framed glasses represent his alert, clever persona and his ability to see through the guises around him to find the truth.

This argument in justified by the film when Jim Prideaux, now out of British Intelligence, becomes a teacher at a school for boys.  One of the outcasted boys, Bill, who builds a bond with Jim, wears large glasses, not dark in frame, but very similar to Smiley’s.  Jim notably tells Bill “as long as he’s got his specs” he will always be able to see things.  Jim empowers the young boy with the constant reiteration that he is strong because he sees things around him clearer and more objectively than others.  Moreover, toward the end of the film, when Smiley visits Jim at his school, Jim calls Bill over to him as the boys are all playing on and open field.  Jim points to Smiley, who is standing at the other end of field.  From this distance, Smiley paces, waiting for the opportunity to speak to Jim.   Jim prompts Bill to look at Smiley and tell him what he sees.  Through this action, the film is calling to attention Bill’s perspective, through his “specs,” is a desirable one; to Jim, Bill can see Smiley in a way others cannot.

With the motif better examined, enter the mole.  Bill Haydon inconsistently wears thinly-framed glasses in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.  At times, Bill attends the Circus meetings, at the start of the film, with glasses on, but mysteriously loses them as the film progresses.  Once the film establishes Bill wears his glasses in top-secret meetings, but misplaces them other times, it becomes clear he is the mole.  Only the mole would become a “see-er” during top-secret meetings, so he would have information to pass on to the Soviets, but be unable to see outside the meetings, as Smiley narrows in on the Circus spy.  Haydon is a “see-er,” but only when it comes to information for the Soviets, making him an ideal spy.  Yet, Haydon is not as consistent a “see-er” as Smiley, who wears his glasses always, thus is unable to see Smiley’s investigation will lead to his undoing.

It is ironic that Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is so complicated from a narrative perspective but could reveal itself so simply from a visual standpoint.  Yet, while the mole’s identity is the film’s driving force, its intricate exploration into espionage during the Cold War is the film’s true purpose.  Thus, by the time Tailor gets outed, in the conclusion, the film fizzles out.  Tailor’s fate now seems minuet and unimportant compared to the portrait of the Cold War Alfredson’s film painted.

On A Collision Course with Depression: Unpacking von Trier’s MELANCHOLIA

22 January 2012

Melancholia, the latest film from Danish director Lars von Trier, is an apocalyptic drama told in two parts: Part I: Justine and Part II: Claire.  Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) are sisters, and, although each part focuses on the two women respectively, each woman plays a vital role in her sister’s section of the film.  In Part I, von Trier captures Justine’s descent into a bout of deep depression during her all-night wedding reception.  In Part II, which takes place shortly after Part I (although he audience is never told exactly how long after), von Trier follows Claire’s anxiety and panic as the rouge planet, Melancholia, which was “hiding” behind the sun, changes course and makes its way toward Earth.  By the film’s conclusion, Claire’s worst fears become reality; Melancholia collides with and destroys Earth a ball of fire.

In many ways, Melancholia is a quintessential Lars von Trier film.  First, as in so much of his filmography, von Trier presents a female protagonist(s).  Justine and Claire, like the women in almost all von Trier’s films, are struggling females living within a flawed system or society.  Subsequently, the flaws within the system and society lead to the undoing of the protagonists.  Justine and Claire are unique women, yet there are echoes of Grace (Nicole Kidman) from Dogville, Bess from Breaking the Waves (Emily Watson), and Selma (Bjork) from Dancer in the Dark in them (to name female characters from some von Trier films of the last 15 years).

In addition to the female protagonist, the camerawork in Melancholia is also quintessential von Trier.  The director almost always uses the handheld camera technique; therefore, the film, ideally, has a greater affect in its audience.  With the handheld technique the camera moves around in the middle of the action, giving the audience a greater sense of realism.  Moreover, the constant movement of the camera and the way it causes images to rapidly come in and out of focus can make the audience a bit motion sick.  The camera is intentionally unstable in Melancholia, which can be a difficult von Trier signature for viewers.

Yet, while there are classic von Trier stamps on Melancholia, there is something new in von Trier’s cinematic approach with this film.  Typically, von Trier emphasizes realism in his films’ visual presence; Melancholia is a complete change.  Inspired by German Romanticism, Melancholia’s aesthetic is sensationalized and reminiscent of the beautiful paintings and artwork of the 18th and 19th centuries.  For example, during the overture the images, which are moving in extreme slow motion, seem like portraits from the German Romantic movement.  Due to this remarkable shift in aesthetic, Melancholia serves as a foil for Dogville, an earlier von Trier film, filmed in a black box theatre with no set and minimal props.  The German Romantic movement inspires a completely new feel and design to von Trier’s film that he has not explored before, marking an expansion in von Trier’s style.

Nevertheless, in content, Melancholia aligns with von Trier’s personal experience.  As an individual who struggles with depression, von Trier courageously confronts his own demons in Melancholia, which allows him to explore this subject matter with authenticity and accuracy.  The film is about depression, yet that word is never mentioned.  Clearly, Justine suffers from severe depression, which, at one time, would have been diagnosed as melancholia.

In Part I: Justine, Justine’s efforts to “be happy” at her wedding reception unavoidably deteriorate as her behavior becomes odder and increasingly dejected.  As an audience member, it is not difficult to understand that Justine suffers from severe depression and she slipping into a dangerously deep bout right in front of our eyes; the severity of her suffering is almost immediately evident and frighteningly tragic.  However, as an audience member it is difficult to understand the people surrounding Justine.  Why does no one acknowledge Justine’s condition?  Claire refers to her as “sick,” tells Justine she must not let her new husband, Michael, know she is “sad,” and reminders Justine more than once at the wedding reception that she “promised to not do this” (meaning, slip into a fit of depression).  Claire is completely preposterous.  How could Justine be held to such a senseless and impossible promise?  Moreover, Justine tells her mother (Charlotte Rampling) outright that she is “scared,” while she begs for help, and she pleads with her father (Jesper Christensen) to stay and talk to her, but both parents selfishly deny the plight of their anguished child.  Even the party guests at the wedding frolic around, dancing, drinking, and laughing, as the bride mostly wanders around, dejected, from place to place, often lurking in the background of her own wedding reception, and frequently fleeing the party mysteriously for long periods of time.

The film argues that society’s treatment of depression is, in many ways, just as dysfunctional as depression itself.  According to this film, ignoring depression feeds depression.  As Justine’s behavior is swept under the rug, mostly by Claire who chases Justine around and feverishly trying to hide and excuse her behavior, Justine’s depression worsens.  Depression is the elephant in the room, until, of course, its gigantic presence can no longer be hidden…enter the rogue planet Melancholia.

In Part II: Claire, the rogue planet, Melancholia, which is vastly larger than Earth, “dances” with Earth.  The planet, evident by its name, is a metaphor for depression.  Traceable with the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), the term “melancholia” dates back to the 17^th century and has always referred to a state of severe depression (Justine’s affliction).  Claire is terrified Melancholia will hit Earth and end the world, but her husband, John (Kiefer Sutherland), relentlessly attempts to pacify her by saying, “Melancholia is [only] going to pass by us.”  Again, this is preposterous; melancholia does not pass by, it hits and hits hard.  Claire’s fear of the planet is the same fear she has always had of her sister’s depression, but this time she cannot sweep it under the rug and pretend it is not there; Claire must confront Melancholia, stare it down in all its glory as its majestic, immense blue aura shines down on the Earth.

Initially, as everyone watches, Melancholia passes by the Earth.  But, in passing by, the elephant in the room can no longer be ignored; Melancholia no longer hides behind the sun or in the shadows.  Therefore, the game of pretending is over, the fear is real, and the end is near.  Melancholia continues its dance, circling back and consuming the earth.

Von Trier treatment of depression in Melancholia is as honest as it is hopeless.  Like the planet, the film dances with melancholia and ultimately succumbs to its power.  There is no artificial, fairytale ending that recuperates the film, allowing the audience to feel the satisfaction of right having been restored.  Like Earth in the film, Melancholia consumes its audience.  Thus, even with the new terrain von Trier explores in Melancholia, in terms of the German Romanticism inspired aesthetic, the film sustains the signature, avant-garde von Trier techniques, which never disappoint.