Melancholia (Lars von Trier, 2011)

Lars von Trier's latest passes the Ronseal test with flying colours, as you might expect, taking little time to start shoving emotional splints under the fingernails after a faux-airy narrative opening which has already been doomed by a montage of apocalyptic images in the pre-credits sequence. The couple about to have their wedding reception at a country house may seem happy, but alarm bells start ringing when the realisation dawns that any moment of real emotional engagement between them is swept under a carpet by overemphatic displays of physical attraction. Then things turn overtly sour.
It's a film of two parts, not just explicitly but also tonally. The second part brings to the fore the device of a new planet bearing down on Earth, and once we're able to bypass the credibility gap in terms of the physics involved and see it as just a representation of the fate you really can't escape, the film takes on a quite gut-wrenchingly powerful impetus. The antagonist is a stroke of genius: rarely have characters been laid so hopeless and weak with absolutely no conceivable way out. Von Trier is the planet Melancholia, inexorably and pitilessly rolling on to crush the viewer under the weight of his depression. The quite extraordinary beauty of Manuel Alberto Claro's photography working on unsettling portentous imagery is expressly subjugated to the purpose of keeping the viewer entranced until the final cut. You will leave dazed, and that is no small feat in itself.

7/10