Part of The Genius and Misanthropy of Lars von Trier (Dir. #7)

Review by Sam C. Mac: Lars von Trier's cinema tends to exist in a twilight zone between realism and deliberate artificiality. The Danish director co-created the Dogme 95 movement, which strictly enforces a set of rules prohibiting, among other things, the recording of sound apart from the image, the use of special lighting, and the inclusion of "superficial action" (defined as any kind of violent act). But von Trier himself has actually produced only one film that follows exactly the rules of Dogme 95 filmmaking (Dogme #2, "The Idiots"), and has spent much of his energies both prior to and since distancing himself from the movement—whether intentionally or not is anyone’s guess This is certainly true of the two films that bookend his Golden Heart trilogy, 1996's "Breaking the Waves" and 2000's "Dancer in the Dark." The former, a period piece, defies rule #7 ("the film must take place in the here and now") by being set in the 1970s, and filmed at least in part inside of a studio. The pseudo-musical "Dancer in the Dark" is an even worse offender, employing lavish song and dance numbers, camera filters, and even depicting death and violence. Through this evolution it becomes clear that von Trier never had any intention of shackling himself to a specific set of rules, but instead relishes toying with convention. He seems to use Dogme 95 as a jumping off point, incorporating the movement's emphasis on docu-realist intimacy and grainy, digital photography, but allowing it to mutate when coming in contact with other influences, like pressing Silly Putty to a newspaper. For instance, Bjork's idiosyncratic identity seeps into "Dancer in the Dark" and embeds itself, creating something entirely new, but born out of the Dogme 95 formula.

For "Dogville," von Trier's imposing magnum opus, the influence is that of Bertolt Brecht's theater. It's probably the least characteristic film von Trier has ever made. The Dogme 95 aesthetic can scarcely be detected here—it is shot on digital video, mostly handheld, but that may be the one similarity. It's conceived more as a play than a film; props consist largely of furniture, and the set is defined most prominently by white chalk outlines and labels in place of shrubbery, houses, and other objects. Von Trier purposely makes "Dogville's" artificiality known through theatrically embellished performances (in no way could this be taken for realism), the use of stage lighting, and the odd sound effect (the opening and closing of doors, despite there being no doors). An ever-present narration, delivered dry and ironic by John Hurt, describes people and things with a literary specificity, and is used, rather overtly, to underline the metaphorical content of the film. All these devices serve a very Brechtian purpose, meant to remind that "Dogville" (both the eponymous town and the film), is a construct, one that offers facility to the ideals von Trier is projecting directly at his audience.

The film is divided into nine chapters (equivalent to the scenes of a play), prefaced by a "prologue" which acclimates us to the lay of the town—using a bird's-eye shot of the stage—and introduces us to its population of fifteen adults and six children. The narrator establishes that the film is told from the perspective of the town's young and unpracticed philosopher, Tom Edison (Paul Bettany). Whereas most in Dogville find contentment in the quiet hamlet (located somewhere in the Rocky Mountains), Tom sees through the surface smugness of the townsfolk and insists on hosting regular lectures on the subject of "moral rearmament." Being the son of Dogville's respected doctor (Phillip Baker Hall), most humor Tom and attend these meetings, but they're never particularly receptive to his assessment of their behaviors. Tom is convinced that the people of Dogville are never challenged by anything, living as they are, isolated from the outside world—a single road leads out of town, and on all other sides Dogville is surrounded by mountains. It takes a shot in the dark at the outset of Chapter 1, announcing a carload of gangsters and the woman they're chasing, for Tom to find the means necessary to conduct his "illustration." The woman of interest is Grace (Nicole Kidman), a vulnerable, privileged beauty. She's tightlipped about her past, but that doesn't much matter to Tom; he helps her elude the gangsters by offering her shelter in Dogville's old mineshaft. This causes concern in the township, and Tom holds an emergency meeting so he may outline something of a social experiment. His proposal to the worried people of the town, who fear both Grace herself and the gangsters pursuing her, is to harbor the runaway for a period of two weeks, during which time they will get to know her and decide if she should stay.

Tom’s plan at first results in a peaceful, even beneficial union of town and outsider, but eventually buckles under the weight of extenuating circumstance. Wanted posters are pinned up by the authorities and a reward is offered. A steady accumulation of maliciousness, born from fear and a corrupting sense of entitlement, slowly but inevitably consumes Dogville, as Grace's presence becomes more and more a liability to the township. Increasingly scared and even envious of the saintly, beautiful, and endlessly forgiving outsider, the people of Dogville receive Grace's patience and understanding with sadistic cruelty. First, Grace is asked to work longer hours and for less pay, in order to compensate for the increased danger she brings, but eventually she's abused both physically and mentally, even sexually. After a failed escape from the town, she's harnessed and chained to a metal weight, forbidden to leave. During all this, Tom neither helps her in any significant way, nor does he join in the torments and oppressions. He's a passive observer and, in the end, von Trier deems his passivity in the face of cruelty just as punishable as the crimes themselves.

"Dogville" is a film of various implications. It is, of course, made in the mold of Brechtian theater, but its thematic implications are even more complex than its aesthetic ones. You can read "Dogville" as a condemnation of American values from a filmmaker who's never actually been to this country, but to do so is to misjudge von Trier's intentions. As he puts it, "evil can arise anywhere, as long as the situation is right." Considering the film’s stunning credit sequence, a collage of Depression-era photographs set to David Bowie's "Young Americans," you could read “Dogville” as a commentary not on the inherent evil of Americans (as so many incorrectly assume), but as an assessment of the moral toll imposed on a country faced with poverty, segregation, and oppression. Also, with its dichotomy of good and evil, sin and retribution, “Dogville” can just as easily be taken as religious allegory, as a Christ parable. Consider Grace, a Christlike figure who suffers for the sins of others, and whose ironworks harness represents her cross. Then there's the fire-and-brimstone wrath brought down on Dogville at the film's end, suggesting God's divine punishment for transgressions committed. That all sounds a little heavy, but what "Dogville" doesn't get enough credit for is being, well, the cinematic equivalent of a page turner. While essentially a message-peddling film that clocks in at three hours, it's quite a testament to von Trier's ability to fuse storytelling so seamlessly with complex and varied commentaries, resulting in a film that never feels tedious or dull.

Like in "Breaking the Waves," one of "Dogville's" most enduring assets is the hypnotic strength of its suffering heroine. Kidman's role may not be as demanding as Emily Watson's in 'Waves,' but it's still the best work of her career—a far cry from the confident vixens she's played in "Moulin Rouge" and "To Die For," Kidman's Grace is a visibly broken character, and the actress manages to both manifest her suffering, noticeable in glazed expressions and wilting posture, while also capturing her near unbreakable faith in forgiveness and understanding. A scene at the end of the film, involving a conversation between Grace and her father (James Caan, in a cameo performance), is acted brilliantly by both parties, but the moral struggle Grace undergoes is nailed by Kidman, who has to convince us of a radical change of heart in a very short period of time. It's a scene which also shows von Trier's incredible ear for dialogue, and for deft characterization. One of the reasons it's not too difficult to dismiss charges of misogyny aimed at the Danish provocateur (however valid) is that few modern directors create the multi-dimensional female characters that he does, and few are able to coax better performances from the actresses they work with. Kidman's Grace sits comfortably with Watson's Bess and Bjork's Selma, completing an impressive trifecta of female endurance in the face of hardship.

Two year's after "Dogville's" release came "Manderlay," a terribly misjudged sequel which attempts to comment on the lasting impacts of racism in America while simultaneously taking a jab at the debacle of the Iraq war. The film uses the same Brechtian devices and staging, but the tone is all wrong, the performances of no great consequence (Kidman is subbed out for Bryce Dallas Howard in the role of Grace, who's adequate if underwhelming), and the message-peddling tends to be obnoxious and awkward, delivered in speechified sermonizing rather than woven into the subtext as it is in "Dogville." The failure of that film is a disappointing one, but it's not exactly surprising; the deft balance von Trier strikes in "Dogville" seems like a one-time thing, and trying to replicate it was probably a fool's errand. (With that in mind, don't expect much from the proposed third film in this trilogy, "Wasington," which Lars has promised to make at some point in the future.) The two films von Trier has made since—the inconsequential office comedy "The Boss of it All," the bat-shit crazy Cannes provocation that is "Antichrist"—have yielded diminishing returns. It’s known that somewhere in there Lars suffered a crippling depression which nearly ended his career. Indeed, the monolithic "Dogville," so far, has proven a hard act to follow.

Last Word: As Brechtian theater, as a critique of the inevitable corruptibility of humanity, as a religious allegory, and as one hell of an engrossing, three hour epic, "Dogville" is just about as good as cinema this decade gets.

Review By:
Sam C. Mac

IN REVIEW ONLINE