Theater of Memory: Antichrist

Going to a movie theater is a regular part of my weekly routine.  I find myself in the cool darkness of the cinema three to five times a week, sometimes spending entire afternoons there, taking in whatever I can get my eyes on.  The act itself is generally uneventful, as automatic as getting dressed in the morning or stuffing my face-hole with junk food while marathoning Adventure Time.  But every once in a while, going to the theater can be a truly memorable experience, whether because of some extraordinary event that happens, an idiot parent who brings their screaming baby to an R-rated movie, or because the movie you're seeing elicits such strong reactions from the audience.  My most memorable theater-going experience falls into the latter (lattest?) category.

By the time Lars von Trier's Antichrist made it to Columbus, it had already passed its controversial peak and was more or less yesterday's news.  For a month or so, you couldn't visit a film news website without seeing a headline about genital mutilation; normally, you have to go to a very different kind of site for such features.  Still, the extreme reactions, the intense backlash, and the promise of something I literally (and fortunately) had never seen before made me excited to find out exactly how von Trier artistically dug his way out of a deep depression, as the story goes.

Playing at a semi-arthouse theater just off Ohio State campus, I found myself in the theater with five other brave souls, all older men by themselves.  The movie started with promise: a gorgeous, slow-motion black and white sex scene juxtaposed with a child crawling up to and falling out of a window, fascinated by the falling snow.  The beautiful, subtly brutal ballet of that first scene was naught but a tease, as the bulk of the film delves into much darker territory, perhaps too hard to take.

As Charlotte Gainsbourg's She (one of the best performances of the past decade) gives into her idea that women are, by nature, evil, the unrest in the theater was palpable.  I can't remember when the first guy left, as he did so in polite, quiet nature.  But (SPOILER ALERT) when She started drilling into He's (Willem Defoe) leg to attach a grinding stone, another man a few rows above me stood up, yelled "Come on!" and stomped out of the theater.

Meanwhile, I'm watching the horror unfold through my fingers, not sure if I want to actually see the genital mutilation that made all those headlines.  I see the infamous scene, and my retinas have been scarred ever since.

When I left the theater, I noticed one of the other guys from the theater talking to an employee, and I stopped to briefly join in the conversation.  Antichrist isn't the kind of movie you see, then go grab a bite to eat and get on with your day.  It's the kind of movie that demands human contact as soon as possible post-credits, if only to remind yourself that the world isn't full of demonic women and talking foxes that eat their own babies.  Our conversation was basically mumbling how that was something, just something.  Then we went our separate ways.

Next year, with the release of The Nymphomaniac, von Trier may be giving movie-goers another chance to leave the theater screaming.  If nothing else, it should at least be another showcase for Charlotte Gainsbourg's impressive talent.