“Don’t wake me for the end of the world unless it has very good special effects”-Roger Zelazny
To say that Lars von Trier’s latest, Melancholia, be labeled a disaster movie about a planetary collision should rather be categorized a waste of my Saturday afternoon. Though watching over 2 hours of a dead-face Kirsten Dunst is enough to wish the world’s end.
The first hour is comprised of her wedding (which was longer than The Deer Hunter‘s epic ceremony without the purgatorial undertones that lead to a cathartic game of Russian roulette) is a hand held study of a manic depressive bride and her dysfunctional family only to lead to a marriage shorter than Kim Kardashian’s. And we haven’t even got to the second fucking half!
At this point I wish I had a revolver handy because the second part is about Kirsten’s postpartum depression recovering from that sand trap wedding while staying with her sister Charlotte Gainsbourg, her husband Kiefer Sutherland, and child, that live on an estate looking over the sea somewhere out of a Bergman/Tarkovsky landscape or a Chanel No. 5 commercial where they have the luxury to gaze up at the sky and calculate their impending doom with the use of a wire hanger and a fucking stick. How about just turning on the Telly? At least they Wiki’ed it the day before.
The revelation is not how the world ends in a pow wow skinless teepee nor Kirsten’s moon tanned juggs but that Rex Reed’s flaming 0% rating on Metacritic was spot on and that I once again succumbed to the pretentious critics, the Frenchies who awarded Dunst with a best actress, and my hipster friends’ buzz about the movie.
My weekend is not all lost yet and I’m praying it can be salvaged by the 3 1/2 hour Woody Allen doc on PBS tonight since last weekend I saw J. Edgar Hoover which was even more of a waste of time considering I didn’t even bother to fucking review it because I can sum it up in one word-Gay!