When I watched “Melancholia” on an absolutely dreary 4th of July day, I desperately needed somewhere to put my angst, most of which I can blame on perpetual unemployment and all the instability thereof. Why else would you (re)watch a film where depression and mental illness is a metaphor for the end of Earth and all life in the universe?
The weather wasn’t the only thing that had me feeling like I was buried in the darkest depths of it all of course. There’s the fact that this was my country’s 250th anniversary, and it seemed to be doing its utmost to betray everything it claimed to be founded for. This, of course, is also the story of America, which bought and sold human beings as it crowed exaltingly about freedom, fought viciously against giving women the vote (or really anything that deemed them other than the property of a proximate male), etc.
But there was something especially egregious about it this year. There was that photo of a Black woman on a D.C. metro train surrounded by masked fascists, and I try to take some solace in the fact that there was more to that story as various protestors and military veterans stood up and opposed everything the Trump White House is attempting to do.
In the face of all this, it seems almost frivolous to bring up Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce tying the knot, but it was part of the reason I decided to return to Lars von Trier’s 2011 drama, with the fact that it kicks off with a wedding being the least of those reasons. There are other commonalities - it’s also a wedding of the wealthy, the effortlessly blonde, beautiful pairing of Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and Michael (Alexander Skarsgård) on a fabulous estate.
Estate is putting it lightly though, as the setting for the wedding and the majority of the film is actually a castle owned by Justine’s brother-in-law John (Kiefer Sutherland) and her sister Claire (frequent von Trier collaborator Charlotte Gainsbourg). But unlike Swift, Justine’s blonde and blue-eyed loveliness isn’t fuel for her ambition, but a convenient mask.
Few things are clearer indicators of social and societal expectations like a wedding, and Justine routinely violates them as it becomes more and more clear that she’s suffering from depression and is in the midst of an episode. It starts off funny at first - the limousine can’t make it to the castle reception fresh from the couple declaring their vows, Justine and Claire’s parents are antagonistic, insulting each other in their speeches with their mother Gaby (Charlotte Rampling) outright saying she despises marriage.
Things spiral from there, and it is Justine who is the source of much of the subsequent mishaps, wandering off frequently and disregarding sacred traditions such as cutting the cake. What’s really remarkable is what really seems to get under some viewers’ skin. Part of the reason for the existence of this essay is the huge response I got on social media to my post about this movie, and the one negative response focused on when Justine had “the audacity to take a bath and wallow in the middle of her wedding reception. Top tier sad rich woman behavior.”
The fact that this came from a commenter that featured “homosexual agenda enforcer” in their profile is likely why there was no shade thrown at Justine cheating on her husband of five minutes - with future indie darling Brady Corbet no less - but rather took issue with her taking time to disregard any consideration or obligation to anyone else and only indulge herself. That type of female misbehavior is what really seems to lead to a certain kind of triggering, the type which is usually channeled into pearls-clutching hysteria over female sexuality and any pleasure women receive in general.
So too, is the general reaction to the marriage of Taylor Swift, which is less about any inconvenience caused to New Yorkers than the symbolism of it all, justified or not. Yes, she donated quite a bit ahead of time to apparently worthy organizations, and no less than Roxane Gay has proclaimed the general lack of hassle the wedding has caused the locals, even though the entirety of Madison Square Garden and the surrounding area was reserved for an event that also naturally included other high profile attendees.
The objection seems to be over the principle of the thing, and most astonishingly, the Swifties wanting to give their favorite billionaire a pass for everything it represents. To be fair, Swift is likely a less problematic example of modern wealth whose behavior is a hell of a lot less damaging than others of her class who have taken over a city or location for their personal business.
Others have pointed out that this celebration can’t be anything but an obscenity when electricity is channeled for a glorified light display on the Empire State Building itself at a time when many in the city are going without power. Problematic or not, happy couple or otherwise, this was bound to be a reflection of something, given how Swift and other public figures live their lives at least somewhat…well, publicly, with their careers rising and falling accordingly. When one couple has this much riding on their personal decisions, it’s bound to feel like the rest of us are losing something, even if we can’t always quite define what it is.
At least in “Melancholia” we can very much define what the swift decline of both ceremony and marriage mean, both for Justine and Michael, who tries so hard to be supportive as his would-be wife disintegrates. But he hasn’t been informed of the extent of Justine’s illness or even its existence. When he departs for good at the end of the night, it’s not with scorn or disgust, it’s with a kiss to her forehead. Michael is not the other half, not to Justine or her story.
Her sister Claire is the one who has that unenviable position, and it is her viewpoint that takes over the rest of the film. Writer-director Lars von Trier not only based Justine on himself, this film was inspired from a depressive episode he suffered, and it would be somewhat remiss, not to mention exhaustively repetitive, if he didn’t widen his gaze to include the effects of depression not only on the person suffering, but on their loved ones who must witness and cope with it as best as they can.
When Justine arrives back at the castle some undefined time later in the film’s Part Two, she’s recently suffered some kind of breakdown and is unable to get in the bathtub to wash herself or even enjoy her favorite food that Claire prepares for her, breaking down into tears as she proclaims, “It tastes like ashes.” It’s heavy stuff, both for the audience and the class that claims both sisters. Wharton, who hailed from a clan that is the very reason for the adage “keeping up with the Joneses,” put it best when she wrote of a people with a distaste for anything unpleasant, and “considered that nothing was more ill-bred than ‘scenes,’ except the behavior of those who gave rise to them.”
For Justine, so weary of the weight of her illness and always expecting the worst, the upcoming collision with the planet Melancholia is something akin to a form of salvation. Yet for most of us, Claire is the one who would be aspirational, with the way she wears approachable wealth like it is both her birthright and a second skin. As I watched her desperately try and salvage something out of the apocalypse itself when she knows she will be completely unable to save her young son Leo (Cameron Spurr), I was reminded of how Taylor’s fanbase of Swifties likewise seem desperate to justify her in the face of what her happiness represents for the rest of us.
It isn’t like many of us wouldn’t have a similar reaction to something we always counted on turning out to be unreliable. It isn’t close to any kind of equivalent to all life on Earth ending, but given the reaction Swifties have to anyone who even comes close to critical of their favorite pop star, you would think it was. In some ways, it’s understandable, even as it’s baffling. Who doesn’t want to see a woman publicly reap the fruits of her labor when there seems to be a determined, concentrated effort to rob an entire gender of any and all joy?
But a billionaire is a billionaire, and amid all the noise about the general principle of this event, there are accusations that a major ICE official was among the attendees, which seems out of character for a performer who openly endorsed Kamala and other Democratic candidates in the past. Small wonder that much of the reaction is reminiscent of Justine’s disdain of Claire trying to make the end of the world somewhat dignified, or rather, nice. Calling a plan that attempts to make complete annihilation remotely nice “a piece of shit” isn’t exactly wrong, but also an unintentional commentary on how mothers always seem obligated to defer to the expectations of others. Apparently not even the apocalypse can change that.
What has changed is my reaction to that apocalypse; I was emotionally devastated by “Melancholia’s” ending when I saw it during its original theatrical run. I know I’m not alone in feeling that everything seems to be imploding, even as I recognize my relatively privileged position. I have been without stable employment for over a year, my chosen profession seems to be gutting itself from within, eliminating every human element which contributes to it, and I may have to leave a city I love for months, if not years.
“Melancholia” used to be a film that I could turn to to indulge my darkest, most unreasonable moods, and it still is. But in the face of history that seems to be repeating itself on a daily, hourly, weekly, monthly, annual basis, there’s now almost a kind of horrific cathartic relief to see it all go, even if I can never agree when Justine proclaims life on Earth as evil. I can’t believe we’re cooked, as so much online sentiment states. I can’t afford to, not when I survived and clawed my way out from red state hell to be the first in my family to receive my college degree and became determined to write and work for the world I wanted to see.
Resignation is not an option, especially when we still have so much to lose. And the chance to see our despair reflected in a film that humanizes such a stigmatized state of mind is actually among the least of it. Because in a fascist hell that we create, art that reflects the true and devastating breadth of humanity is one of the first casualties.
I am fortunate enough to have a loving, supportive partner and access to what I need, even if my finances have come to a point where I must eschew many pleasures I once thought of as basic, such as buying new clothes or even purchasing a latte. But the disturbing question isn’t why this movie has become so cathartic, or even why so many seem to be embracing fascism, but why so many seem willing to march to and even embrace death, for themselves and others. Because at its heart, that is what fascism truly is: an unsustainable system that doesn’t bother to hide its sinister intentions, and ushers even its most loyal cohort into a hellish end that only a thinking species like mankind could create.