Sunday, December 2, 2018

the house that jack built review

Why can't serial killers just relax? It's because we all must build our lives out of materials, local or no, well they become local, don't they.

Von Trier frames most scenes independently like they're little vignettes with versions of the characters, not necessarily continuous, and this is good, liberating, allows for more felt out acting I think, history between characters can be spun way or another to suit the scene.

Whereas u might imagine that the film is purely discursive for this reason-- shifting histories, tropes-- there is a literal physical piling up of these specific encounters, the titular House. More than anything feels likely to me that a good ("" -ed) man's life is a series of killed miniature lives. I feel like I've killed my family friends exgirlfriends and the same weariness a-piling up in a space beyond time. Somewhat clueless about what to do with these except the eventual, nonplussed destination of hell.

And not just friends family and ex girlfriends but protracted relationships with near-strangers. The serial killer life models our own when it comes to getting something out of it. The satisfaction is bullied by near future satisfactions and emptied by previous ones and that the various pleasures will sum up into something ultimately dead, over and over again...

(Although lately no, I'm just happy to be where I'm at... as perhaps Jack was)



critical addendum: this is as much as the above film has to say I think with the added benefits of gore and some uhhhh hit-and-miss comedy. Matt Dillon is beautiful but he's not the best actor, outclassed by "Thurm" Thurman

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