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Haunting and morbidly ethereal, Lars von Trier’s epic and unstoppable Melancholia is a powerful film that re-evaluates and redefines our views and interpretations of life and human connection.

Told in classic yet finitely improved von Trier style, the apocalypse is well under way by the time the film starts. Gloomy montages serve as the prelude to the story, but one thing is very clear: the end of the world is nigh.

While the inner universe of the desperately depressed Justine (a career-defining performance by Kirsten Dunst) crumbles all around her, a mysterious planet called Melancholia makes its way towards Earth, looming threateningly close.

The film begins on the eve of Justine’s lavish wedding to the unassuming Michael (Alexander Skarsgård) at the palatial country estate of her overbearing sister Claire (the always-impressive Charlotte Gainsbourg) and Claire’s wealthy husband John (Kiefer Sutherland). From early on, its easy to see the dynamics of this family are already frayed beyond repair. Claire domineeringly hovers over the mercurial Justine, whose marriage is quite literally over before the night’s end. John obsesses over maintaining his image of the aristocratic authoritarian to his pretentious guests. The whole evening is an extravagant show, one that Justine clearly wants no part of. She spends her time morosely soaking in the tub, hiding from the festivities that wage well into the early hours.

As the events unfold uncomfortably, Melancholia oversees it all, blinking malevolently.

An undetermined period of time later, Justine returns to her sister’s estate. She is nearly catatonic, consumed by her illness. But von Trier dares to defy this sickness with the idea of premonition: that Justine is really some sort of transient prophet. Her consumption fades as Melancholia approaches; essentially she is renewed by its presence and promise of impending death. It is cathartic and beautiful: a stupendous exercise in realism.

The mystical planet’s arrival into the earth’s orbit leaves no one unaffected, especially not Claire, whose mothering oppressiveness becomes more and more desperate and childlike. Tensions rise over the course of the next few days, as the inevitable end approaches in a climax that is as hard-hitting as the collision of the planets themselves.

The subversive and social commentary of this film is like a venomous snake laying in wait under the weeds: lethal, but patient, always hiding beneath the line of visibility. Von Trier is enthralled by the destructive nature of humans (2009’s Antichrist is blistering with masochistic and sadist themes), made clear in one of the most despairing yet poignant observations made by Justine about the planet’s demise: “The earth is evil. There’s no need to grieve for it. No one will miss it.”

Von Trier’s captivating eye for dark beauty never ceases to amaze me. Meloncholia is his best film yet, and remains nothing short of a masterpiece. The juxtaposition of Justine and Claire’s deterioration with the earth’s destruction is one of the most inventive and effective contrasts in recent years. It seems many critics either didn’t understand or didn’t appreciate the subtext of this film, which although not surprising, makes for a great loss for any real cinephile. Its reinvention of the genre is nothing short of spectacular, evoking the mastery and innovation of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Top-notch cinematography, meticulous direction, superb styling, and a credible cast not only make this picture a cut-above, but reverential for contemporary cinema. Although the apocalypse theme is habitually done each year by some inane and brainless blockbuster, no film has ever come close to Melancholia. While it is rife with special effects, you barely ever notice them; they are integral, built into the story as much as the characters. Von Trier is a visual-artist in the truest sense of the word, which is another reason why his work is so superior to his peers. He knows how to translate his vision directly into our own, as if linked by a cerebral wire.

An opulent tableau of divine reckoning, Melancholia is an exploration of Lars von Trier’s favourite subject: the suffering of people at the most pivotal moments in their lives. It radiates like a supernova: luminous and explosive, poised to outshine the entire galaxy.

10/10

Almodovar’s The Skin I Live In is a playful and sumptuous spectacle: a contemporary and edgy commentary that scorches, and yes, burrows deep under your skin.

Set in the present, but feeling specifically futuristic, the story is set in Toledo, Spain, and like most effective and deranged tales, weaves through the past and present almost imperceptibly.

Antonia Banderas takes a welcome break from playing Antonio Banderas and steps into the role of Robert Ledgard with perfect ease. Ledgard is a brilliant scientist, haunted by memories of his dead wife and daughter. He obsesses over creating a synthetic skin, impermeable to destruction. His motivations remain unclear until Marilia (a spunky, show-stealing Marisa Paredes), the devoutly loyal housekeeper, recounts the story of his past, setting this tale into motion.

An esteemed plastic surgeon, Ledgard is leaps and bounds ahead of his peers, but they all regard him with wariness and unease. Infatuated with experiments of skin and blood, Ledgard works fanatically in his home-laboratory, shutting himself out from the world that left him jaded. But other things lurk beneath the surface of this ceramic-tiled estate. Locked away in a sterile room is his patient, his prisoner: Vera (Elena Anaya). Enigmatically beautiful and equally disturbed, Vera is monitored through several screens around the house. She spends her time doing yoga and creating Bourgeois-esque busts of mutated faces.

Slowly, like stitches sewn together, the mystery reveals itself. Who is Vera? How did she get there? Why does everyone think she is Ledgard’s dead wife?

By the time you figure it out, its effect is already seeping into your pores. The Skin I Live In is a skilled piece of work, crafted carefully and meticulously. From the first few moments into the film, we can tell we’re seeing a master in exceptional form. Almodovar’s captivating technique, biting wit and bold eye for detail are in full-force in this glossy drama. It is one of those shadowy films that doesn’t need the dark filters or gloomy lights to capture its malevolence, instead trading them in for a shiny, colourful palate: rich in texture and a feast for the eyes, like you can almost reach out and touch the fabrics.

Gender identity and societal norms are Almodovar’s bread and butter in this piece. It remains an ode to its master, specific and unique: a voice nearing the top of its range. Blistering with ruthless revenge, its blood lust starts off delicately, only to spread like a splash of crimson on the canvas, expanding its reach to the very edge.

8/10

The sleeper hit of the festival circuit this year, Martha Marcy May Marlene is a tight, tense and harrowing picture: creeping into your psyche slowly but purposefully, a time-released poison waiting to strike you down.

One grim, gray morning, Martha (a breakout performance by Elizabeth Olsen) takes one look behind her before disappearing into the forest. Having been lured into a backwoods cult, she escapes to a diner and calls her sister Lucy, who she hasn’t spoken with in two years. Terrified and unravelling at the seams, she goes to stay with Lucy at a lake house upstate. Estranged and unfamiliar, the sisters are more like two drifters who share blood rather than actual siblings; each lost in an oppressive past of family skeletons and invidious tribulations. Told through flashbacks, we learn the how and why of Marcy’s undoing. The farther back we go, we see just how deep this darkness has set in, and it doesn’t take long for Lucy’s organized and conservative life to clash with Martha’s odd and increasingly erratic behaviour.

As the story progresses, the dynamic of the cult unfolds. The leader, Patrick (played with chilling inhibition by John Fawkes), lords over these wayward children like a miscreant Messiah: moulding them into brainwashed deviants. He renames all of his disciples - a sadistic way to establish psychological ownership over his subjects.

The uneasy tension gains speed like a freight-train, demolishing anything and everything that threatens to defy it. The haste and precision in which this shattering drama unfolds makes it all the more menacing; its ease-of-pace hissing threats while tightening its grip on the jugular.

The dark beauty of this film is that every character is so vastly flawed in such different ways that its commentaries on normality, violence and human connection are all the more compelling. The ending is searing: nearly perfect in every way. Its ambiguous interpretation is not only fitting, its downright terrifying, leaving you to choose Martha’s fate for her, with neither choice more appealing or less grave than the other.

The screenplay and direction are high-calibre as far as American psychothrillers go; writer-director Sean Durkin is clearly one to watch. Olsen’s catapult into the spotlight and international acclaim this year are well-deserved here. She lives and breathes this character, a nuanced and precise performance given her experience. I was very impressed with Martha Marcy May Marlene. It is one of those rare animals that is more cunning than you are, especially when you think you’ve outsmarted it. But the real jolt and punch of the story lies not in Martha’s unravelling, but the incomprehension and dread of those around her; putting forth the idea that fear is unstoppable, spilling over in waves until every last person is burned: the beauty of the beast. 

8/10

Subliminal and sinister roadsigns go by as I hurtle towards an uncertain destination; a disquiet passenger on a lost highway of the eccentric and macabre. With the city lights fading behind me, I settle in, anxious and wary, expecting the inexplicable.

David Lynch’s debut album Crazy Clown Time is a hypnotic and eerily enigmatic ensemble. It clocks in at over 70 minutes, spread out over 16 pervasive tracks, and was released in November of last year (I know this review is four mouths late, get over it). Wonderfully deranged, it reads like a loveletter to the empty American dream, unfolding into a grim and parallel world that glimmers like devil’s treasure: intoxicating and perverse.                                                                    

When I first heard about this project, the allegory of a clown seemed absurdly obvious and disappointing. But a couple minutes into this nightmarish roadtrip and its clear that it fits, a phantom emblem that is unsettling and demented enough to keep us under the spell.

Lynch’s muse of over twenty years, Julee Cruise, is ever-present as a haunted siren, whispering and prodding us further along this twisted quest. The first track, Pinky’s Dream, fires like a fully-loaded pistol: an unexpected and unapologetic shot to the heart. ‘Please, Pinky, watch the road,’ begs Karen O, a seductive plea that refuses to be ignored.

Welcome to your very own Lynchian odyssey.

Every song punches its way into the cerebrum, sometimes (but not always) against your will. The malevolent vocals and downtempo rattle on Noah’s Ark gets under the skin almost immediately: a schizophrenic prophet telling us to turn back.  Other tracks, while always remaining a near-perfect soundtrack to the Lynch experience, might overstay their welcome and border the unnecessary (So Glad, These Are My Friends). Echoey guitars creep in and out of the tracks seamlessly, nervous twitches that demand attention.

Occasionally, however, disappointment sets in. The processed and robotic drones of Strange and Unproductive Thinking are barely coherent, drifting between mysticism and pretentious banality, a let-down considering it could have really stood out from its peers.                                                                   

There are a few pitstops on this journey: roadside freakshows slurring their embittered disdain (I Know, The Night Bell with Lightning), which conveys our own incoherence and dread almost perfectly. Stone’s Gone Up is a stand-out, the dream portion of the experience. A punchy poem of the dirty little secrets of an idealistic and misguided youth, it is self-assured, drunk on nostalgia.

The main course, a textured and grungy Crazy Clown Time is sharp and obtrusive: a jolt to the senses that has American gothic running through its veins. Tense and provocative, it flows like a foreboding omen of what’s to come.

The road gets bumpy from here on in, I’m getting close, and its clear I won’t be going back. The twists and turns are getting harder to navigate, and the signs are long gone. All that lays between me and the end are headlights and roadkill.

The final track, She Rise Up, is an apocalyptic ballad, restrained and slightly unsure of its footing. It leaves you feeling empty and wanting, evoking the loneliness and undoing of Nikki Grace in Inland Empire. This only means that it does exactly what it is supposed to, ending this trip as abruptly as it started, with still no clear sight of what’s ahead.

Suddenly, I’ve arrived, but its clear my destination is only a drawn-out stopover: a fork in the road of two ambiguous paths. As I close my eyes and let the darkness envelop me, I fall into a dreamless sleep, wondering which ghost roads David Lynch will lead me on next.

7\10