In the last couple of days I've been in the "movie mode" - I felt like watching a movie or two. A couple of days ago I spent one hour and a half watching "Grimm love/Rohtenburg" (after a real case) and like three days after thinking about it. The movie is pretty well made, although a bit Hollywood style, but my main question was, after watching - "why on Earth would somebody want to have his penis bitten off and then served as exquisite dinner dish?". OK, I can pretend to understand the desire to be eaten, but I fail to understand the quest for horrible pain and mutilation just to have a very particular steak on the table that night. Since the answer to this was not really at hand, I had to leave the questions open and tried to watch something else, to somehow wash away the feeling of being awe stricken and tongue-tied by the hideousness of the dark corners of our mind and soul.
The natural choice was a horror, of course. Like a horror in which nothing is real, because this is why we like horrors - how can you fear a Freddy Krueger, actually? So I went for the last production signed Lars von Triers - "Antichrist" - advertised as an "art drama/horror". Oh well... I have to confess I've never felt sorry for spending my boyfriend's money, but this time I was overwhelmed with remorse. I can't think of anything that would have made a worse purchase than that movie ticket.
It starts well... like a story of losing and coping with grief. So far so good, you are even ready to believe that taking your patient/wife to the forrests for a curative trip is actually a current therapy practice. The first sign of doubt appears when a a blood-covered fox, which is disemboweling itself, turns to the main character of the movie and says something like "chaos reigns". One can assume it's because of the little bell hanging on the fox's neck and, given that you actually came there open heartedly and paid ten euros for the ticket, you don't rush out of the hall. WRONG, you should have when you saw the first sign, because from there on everything turns into a gory involuntary comedy.
Shortly put, there is some sort of feminist cry for the women murdered all along the history for the simple crime of being women, mixed with a wierd desire of the director to have close shots of (very unshaved) genitals. And I can only blame it on my luck that the leading female character has an urge to section her clitoris with a pair of scissors - in the end, it's been just a few days since I watched another movie with self-removed genitals.
After these last two experiences, I think it's about time to face the bitter truth - I have the soul of an engineer and I do not understand art. I also don't understand humans, but this is minor and irrelevant, who the hell cares about humans? ;). So, I made up my mind ... from now on, I shall only go to movies which are about either Godzillas or some invasion of the killing tomatoes. I am just as sick and tired of art for the sake of art as I am of living for the sake of not dying. If beauty is the destination of all these trips, then... for fuck's sake, let's not forget the journey till there. The risk of slipping into absurd and grotesque is way too high and, instead of bringing the beauty in the eye of the beholder, you poke the eye out to roll it in your "art".
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