Mr. Lars von Trier is a self-proclaimed idiot. And he made the polarizing yet truly inventive film Idiotene (1998), or Dogme #2, for idiots and about a group of idiots. Idiotene, which I initially decided to watch after seeing that celebrity author Karl Ove Knausgård had given his endorsement, just might provoke your pearl-clutching indignation with (what may initially appear to be) its brazenly bad taste. During my first viewing, I had to keep pausing this graphic oddity because I was laughing so hard it hurt. But in the end, the profound meaning, which is revealed by way of the absurd, earned my tears in streams. (Von Trier has a knack for making women weep, as his previous masterpiece, Breaking the Waves, caused Georgia Brown of The Village Voice to run out of its 1996 Cannes screening crying, with rock-star journalist Janet Maslin of NYT following to comfort her.) The outrageous shenanigans throughout Idiotene make sense and are justified when one considers what Mr. von Trier, the auto-diagnosed “best film director in the world,” truly had in mind. I could discuss this milestone and what I take away from it endlessly. However, that is a rant for another time…
In 2025, I watched a film by a different notable Nordic director responsible for another one of my favorite movies… In infinite respects, it was thoroughly insufferable — a big empty, albeit ambitious, slab of rubbish, or what one might call ego fuel for those vanilla and undiscriminating normies wishing to pride themselves on their self-perceived depth, sensitivity, and rarefied nature. Needless to say, the film failed to activate a single one of my facial muscles, except to yawn. Alright, I’ll admit: I couldn’t resist a solitary smile upon seeing a Danish veteran actor step in to make a cameo of sorts. Having been a script reader and knowing more than a bit about acting, I could dissect the audio-visual banality in question bit by bit. And yet, since it is genius that isn’t typically received kindly in its own time, this contrived two-plus-hour pretext for adults to pat themselves on the back for the feat of having endured it would garner comparisons to the work of the immortal Ingmar Bergman — as if there were any modern-day Bergmans, Dreyers, or Tarkovskys. (And where are the genuinely fascinating characters like Agnès Varda?)
Hollywood Needs More Weirdos Like Lars von Trier
I came away from this-since awarded soporific with a sense of sadness, resulting both from now having to bear the memory of one of my favorite actors participating in something so worthless as well as disappointment in the director. Granted, I shouldn’t have been at all surprised that the now-Conformist Without a (Much of a) Cause exposed his true (gray and beige) colors, as his loss of edge even predated his perilous transition to fatherhood, which can either dull or enrich a person’s perspective. Yet, fortunately, there is a silver lining: My respect for Scandinavia’s true reigning king, “The Boss of It All,” was renewed. Thank you, Lars von Trier, for your completely uncompromising, incorrigibly obnoxious (in a real way, not a pandering marionette way), and forever utterly brilliant approach to cinema. Von Trier does not seem to have lost an ounce of that childlike wonder with which he animated his first short film as an 11-year-old, Turen til Squashland (1967), and he continues to impart that same unshakeable, (ir)reverent, wide-eyed awe in audiences. His titles aren’t messy and outlandish because they are flawed, but because they are human and impregnated with the (oftentimes manipulative) unpredictability of life. Von Trier delivers raw emotion, transformative power, and everlasting cinematic images. In short, the rogue Lars von Trier is everything that the vast majority of prevailing filmmakers are not — an auteur genius, brave, inspired, inventive, chokingly hard to swallow. These are the elements missing from the contrived, derivative, and meaningless cesspit that cinema has become.
Whereas von Trier co-founded Zentropa, his own production company, in 1992, in part, so that he could take risks and embark upon endeavors that might lose money, other filmmakers and the systems they exist within are obviously too money-oriented, which is especially unfortunate given worsening consumer taste (You are what you’ve been fed, so the loop continues…). The entertainment business generally does not award opportunities to the best directors, actors, writers, etc., and can make it difficult for more innocent souls to persist. True (as in challenging) individualism and eccentricity (as opposed to superficial outward weirdness) are discouraged. I’m not a fan of today’s Hollywood’s workings and releases (and I sigh because the American influence has quite clearly had a corrosive effect on foreign offerings, creeping into matters as minute as the way actors hold themselves, as annoying and fake little behavioral Americanisms have infected people across the world)… State funding can allow uniquely gifted creators to emerge, but it comes with its own problems.
What’s Wrong With Modern Movies? Too Many Filmmakers Are Afraid to Take Risks.
The fact that hardly anything is well-written, well-directed, and well-acted can also, to an extent, be attributed to professors and pedagogues. A shocking number of prestigious institutions claiming to teach film and the dramatic arts have degenerated into sad jokes — the useless humiliation rituals frequently required of aspiring thespians can, indeed, be even worse than one might imagine, as I can well attest. Let it be understood: Great performances don’t always come from “professionals,” as demonstrated with especially moving effect by the French giants of yesterday like Louis Malle. Poor training is even more disadvantageous than none at all — the awkward results of the former, with its telltale signs, and (the even worse menace that is) a lack of talent are presently reflected in most recent motion pictures. Cringe-inducing and artificial are the words that describe most popular actors… and civilians. Part of the charm of old movies lies in the fact that a good percentage of our ancestors were more poised and better dressed than us — I am of the view that Western civilization, for one, has been on the decline, and the state of cinema is naturally symptomatic of that.
Most casting directors need to do a better job, yes. While we are all aware that nepotism is running rampant and is responsible for some unfairness, there are certainly countless bad and bland actors who haven’t earned their places and yet do not come from positions of privilege. (I would like to acknowledge that some so-called nepo babies are incredible, hardworking, and natural talents, and there are obviously cases where it makes sense for family to work with family.) Blaming casting agents too much can be problematic, however, as they don’t call all the shots, and their efforts can be undermined by their collaborators’ stubbornness. Moreover, sometimes, a movie is just so dreadful that even a superb actor will just fail in their role.
Along those lines, films frequently suffer from having too many cooks in the kitchen, some of whom are literally scribbling over each other in counterproductive manners. I once heard a writer reveal that he never had the experience of feeling proud of his work because, by the time it hit the screen, it no longer remotely felt like his. It can be especially irksome when those on the business end decide to give nonsensical input or hire more writers than necessary. The sense of cohesion in productions can feel almost nonexistent, especially since industry egos seem to be constantly inflating. Not to mention, heavy-handed editing or forced sanitization can destroy so much.
Women’s rights and more aren’t a way for your grubby paws to make money to spend cheating on your wife, pal.
Returning to the truth that an actor can’t save a drowning ship, I have observed a disappointing related phenomenon: Especially as skilled performers age, they might become more susceptible to flattery and/or the thought of helping out, as in signing on to a passion project by a subpar filmmaker who really admires them. Thus, you can have established titans eagerly involving themselves in utter garbage. Critics will then be even more likely to join in, lending a hand to the ceremonious w*nking festivities. While there are still some amazing reviewers, a decent portion have either become afraid or discouraged from penning what they truly mean, lest they offend a bigwig by attempting to hold them accountable for wasting the public’s time and money. Have you ever noticed that a lot of reviews aren’t reviews at all but rather synopses?
Let’s explore another culprit behind the decline of cinema. Why is James Ivory’s Maurice (1987) a memorable film? Not only did it feature true talents and was it based on a 1971 novel by the same name by E. M. Forster, but this romantic drama, which focuses on the relationship between two men, was directed by a gay man and produced by another, Ismail Merchant, with music by yet another, Richard Robbins. The product of their shared labor is heartfelt. On the contrary, I’ve overheard dissolute producers giddily expressing that they thought pursuing topics like feminism and gender identity would lead to commercial gains because they considered them “trendy.” Women’s rights and more aren’t a way for your grubby paws to make money to spend cheating on your wife, pal.
Such thinking can backfire at the box office, as a fair share of viewers are actually hoping to be entertained and can see through the (ab)use of social issues as mere selling points by, in many cases, the last cretins, or (regardless of gender) serial sexual harassers, who should be taking on such subject matter. In a similar but less insidious vein, maybe you’ve seen a lesbian sci-fi flick or two made by a possibly decent, but aging and bored, man, attempting to connect with a younger audience while quite obviously lacking any connection to the characters and their struggles, hence giving the story the profundity of a car commercial (a reminder of the kind of work they used to do)? That said, if one dives into an area they have no first-hand experience in with enough care, then admirable outcomes can be achieved, and distance can be turned into a perspectival plus in gaining insight. The point, however, is that I think we can all agree that in desiring to be “current” in themes and practices, certain disingenuously preachy filmmakers have spawned results worthy of South Park and Ricky Gervais’ mockery. Now, I’m fully aware that there are plenty of exceptional human beings in the entertainment industry, so, for their sake too, let’s call the pretenders what they are.
As far as I’m concerned, Jessie Grant of Movie Magick gives excellent takes. I mention him here because he reminds us that Orson Welles posited that the cinephiles were ruining cinema by their excessive copying, or, as some might put it, homages. “In short, filmmakers should be more in love with ideas and philosophy than they are with movies,” Grant stated when summarizing Welles’ views. These words are very true. Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange (1971), The Emigrants (1971) by the underrated genius Jan Troell, Bille August’s Pelle the Conqueror (1987), Volker Schlöndorff’s The Tin Drum (1979), and Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters (1985), as penned by director Paul Schrader with the now-late Leonard Schrader, all epitomize respect for literary tradition. As such, they provide unbelievably rewarding food for thought. I will say that some degree of on-screen worship for one’s cinematic forebears can be fruitful too: If a director is brilliant enough, their nods to their idols won’t come across as that odd mix between sycophantic and hollowly pretentious that we regularly see, but rather as genuine and clever acts of love, refreshing little caprices even.
If screenwriters took more instruction from fine and ennobling literature (and were encouraged by their bosses and colleagues), then perhaps their scripts wouldn’t be so impossibly formulaic.
The fact that our filmmakers need to be more erudite (and scrupulous) routinely comes across in period pieces, as they are not always accurate enough to warrant our belief. (Just as today’s filmmakers often seem to despise the authors they adapt, they rarely properly appreciate the nuances of past eras.) On a related note, historically, spirituality has played a massive role in art, and it simply isn’t incorporated enough in (at least, Western) cinema these days — there is no modern-day Andrei Rublev (1966), Ordet (1955), or Babette’s Feast (1987). It’s been 20 years already since Pavel Lungin’s religious triumph The Island (2006), which starred the eternally reposing one-of-a-kind master Pyotr Mamonov.
Speaking of Mamonov, if I may be a bit tangential, Nordic actors may be among the most dazzlingly natural gems, but Slavic cast and crew have taken commitment to another level. For example, child actor Aleksei Kravchenko was nearly killed during the filming of our lost hero Elem Klimov’s anti-war classic Come and See (1985), not to mention his hair temporarily lost its color due to starvation, and yet this gentleman, whom I used to see dutifully walking around The Moscow Art Theatre, still acts — almost any actor of a younger generation would have run away to the cops, but I digress…
If screenwriters took more instruction from fine and ennobling literature (and were encouraged by their bosses and colleagues), then perhaps their scripts wouldn’t be so impossibly formulaic. During a recent screening of a brand-new atrocity, I whispered, “Now he gets a call that his brother died,” approximately two whole seconds before the destined ring occurred. I can usually look at the time on my iPhone snuggled in my purse and have a pretty good sense of what is coming next.
In short, cinema has become infested with talentless morons with, behind, and in front of cameras, trying to impress us with the sense and sensibility they wish they possessed… But what we really need are more playful idiots. Idiots not only like von Trier but also Paprika Steen! Vibeke Windeløv. Molly Malene Stensgaard. Bodil Jørgensen. Jens Albinus. Nikolaj Lie Kaas. Anne Louise Hassing. The sadly deceased Mogens Rukov. And the other bouquet-worthy Danish trolls who made Idiotene, which correctly prophesied that idiots are the people of the future, the cerebral tour de force it proves.
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