Tom Nixon" />
  • ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Arts & Culture, Film, The CriticsApril 5, 2014

Private Theatre: Oslo, August 31st

By Tom Nixon

A loose adaptation of Louis Malle’s Le Feu Follet (1963), in which the protagonist Alain Leroy was characterised by what Joachim Trier calls “self-destructive integrity”, the talented Danish (distant relation to everyone’s favourite provocateur) director’s sophomore film nonetheless shares plenty with Reprise (2008), his promising if somewhat indulgent debut. Returning are the privileged, literate bohemians drifting restlessly through an Oslo saturated with ennui, their existential and creative struggles framed by a crisp, chill, unostentatious mise en scène and experiments with audiovisual juxtaposition. This time Trier sacrifices the temporal and perspectival acrobatics for something quieter and sharper though; a sensitive account of the last day in the life of a recovering addict, newly emerged from a long stint in rehab.

© 2012 - Strand Releasing

© 2012 – Strand Releasing

Anders’ (Anders Danielsen Lie) 34 years on this earth might be belied by his fragile baby-face and slight frame, were it not for the deflated gait, resigned gaze and cracked smile. He’s a failed writer, a failed boyfriend, a failed most things; all of his promise was wasted long before the movie began. He’s a dead man walking (he tests the Woolf-ian waters early on, quite literally), and wanders zombie-like through Oslo not so much in search of a reason to stay, but to say goodbye. He visits his old haunts, meets up with a few friends, tries to reach an old flame and estranged sister, both of whom probably know all too well where this is ending up. If the usual addiction arc has its junkie clinging on for dear life before taking the final, fateful plunge, Oslo, August 31st documents the end of a young man convinced he’s missed his chance at a worthwhile life and indeed questioning whether such a thing exists, merely whiling away his last hours before the dark.

The bulk of the piece sees Anders reuniting with various intellectual 30somethings of his past, some settled down, some still entrenched in the partying lifestyle Anders knows so well. Trier’s ability to invest each of their believable, searching conversations with a collage of implicit scars, fears and shared histories is a testament to his nuanced writing, the attentiveness of his compositions, and his talent in directing actors. Even if we only perceive them for a few snatched moments, these are fully-sketched people to a fault, and Trier gently evokes an unspoken wrestling match between their complex inner lives and Anders’ despair. Some are more compassionate about his state of mind than others, but all are helpless to save him, and this generation in this city knows just how easy it is to be fatally afflicted with malaise, wary of exposing themselves to Anders’ poison. One memorable exception is the way a prospective employer reacts when Anders reveals his past discretions in a job interview he *decides to turn up to*; not anger and disdain, not even a surprising, uncomplicated compassion a la Samantha from The Kid With A Bike (2011), but rather a patience, a refusal to make a snap-judgment or close any doors unduly.

Trier’s contemplative naturalism accentuates the tired, resigned smile that creeps onto Anders Danielsen’s face as he takes in his surroundings one last time; the thing’s shot through with a fatalism so patient and undramatic, it’s singularly eerie. Danielsen is astonishing; a much-lauded scene where he sits in a café, picking up sprinklings of other conversations between people with hopes and worries for their futures, is frightening in the way amused curiosity and total desolation seem such comfortable bedfellows in the pits of his bloodshot eyes.

The closest thing to a cipher is a man with whom Anders’ ex cheated, and who responds with defiant criticism when Anders piously offers him forgiveness. This is a rare scene that seems contrived to remind us that Anders has got himself into this mess, hurt plenty of people in the process, and only selectively accepts the responsibility. It’s redundant, already implied by previous, more subtle exchanges, but this remains a nit-pick, only sticking out amidst such a high standard of naturalistic observation. It’s almost rescued, in fact, when Anders simply accepts the criticism, because while a little egotistical and delusional, he’s smart enough to see the truth when it stares him in the face.

In a lesser film the inevitable “relapse” of the final act might seem conventional, but the key difference is that Trier never pretends to deviate from Anders’ demise. There’s no dealing in suspense and catharsis here, and if an early shot of an imploding building foreshadows a crashing end, he’s ultimately treated with no such theatrics. During the course of the film we lose nothing that wasn’t already gone, and so we end up right where we started, the loss palpable and irreversible.

Trier frames the film with static shots of this city that breeds people like Anders, accompanied in the prologue by reminiscences from the titular day, and in the epilogue by Oslo’s haunting natural ambience. His movies are bittersweet love letters to his home, and by placing the film in between these shots Trier consciously hangs it in perpetual limbo, mirroring the ennui pervading any city too fluid to provide a unifying direction and identity for its bright, literary youth. “Everything will be forgotten. It’s sort of a law of nature” says Anders, and he lingers only as a ghostly representation of the futility which weighs down even the headiest, dizziest memories of growing up in this place — memories that, were it not for indelible filmmakers like Trier, Oslo would already have swallowed up.

Tom Nixon is the Senior Film Critic for the magazine.

Tags

2011Anders Danielsen LiefilmJoachim TrierPrivate TheatreTom Nixon

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articleThe Muslim Protagonist
Next articleReinventing the Reel: Captain America: The Winter Soldier

You may also like

Tramontane

Blade Runner 2049

Loving Vincent

Ad

In the Magazine

A Word from the Editor

Don’t cry like a girl. Be a (wo)man.

Why holding up the women in our lives can help build a nation, in place of tearing it down.

Literature

This House is an African House

"This house is an African house./ This your body is an African woman’s body..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

Shoots

"Sapling legs bend smoothly, power foot in place,/ her back, parallel to solid ground,/ makes her torso a table of support..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

A Dry Season Doctor in West Africa

"She presses her toes together. I will never marry, she says. Jamais dans cette vie! Where can I find a man like you?" By...

In the Issue

Property of a Sorceress

"She died under mango trees, under kola nut/ and avocado trees, her nose pressed to their roots,/ her hands buried in dead leaves, her...

Literature

What Took Us to War

"What took us to war has again begun,/ and what took us to war/ has opened its wide mouth/ again to confuse us." By...

Literature

Sometimes, I Close My Eyes

"sometimes, this is the way of the world,/ the simple, ordinary world, where things are/ sometimes too ordinary to matter. Sometimes,/ I close my...

Literature

Quarter to War

"The footfalls fading from the streets/ The trees departing from the avenues/ The sweat evaporating from the skin..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Literature

Transgendered

"Lagos is a chronicle of liquid geographies/ Swimming on every tongue..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Fiction

Sketches of my Mother

"The mother of my memories was elegant. She would not step out of the house without her trademark red lipstick and perfect hair. She...

Fiction

The Way of Meat

"Every day—any day—any one of us could be picked out for any reason, and we would be... We’d part like hair, pushing into the...

Fiction

Between Two Worlds

"Ursula spotted the three black students immediately. Everyone did. They could not be missed because they kept to themselves and apart from the rest...."...

Essays

Talking Gender

"In fact it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women...

Essays

Unmasking Female Circumcision

"Though the origins of the practice are unknown, many medical historians believe that FGM dates back to at least 2,000 years." Gimel Samera looks...

Essays

Not Just A Phase

"...in the workplace, a person can practically be forced out of their job by discrimination, taking numerous days off for fear of their physical...

Essays

The Birth of Bigotry

"The psychology of prejudice demands that we are each our own moral police". Maria Amir on the roots of bigotry and intolerance.

Fiction

The Score

"The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet..." By Hawa Jande Golakai.

More Stories

Bangladesh

“Bangladesh, I’m searching for your homeless –/ for where they can set up house in the hearts of mango-people,/ fruits exploding on shy branches…” By Mir Mahfuz Ali

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
The American Prisoner

"He was one of the first American prisoners of war I saw... His legs were messed up badly from one...

Close