Lest we forget the darker side of love

Antichrist

In Genesis, Chapter 2, the first man awakes in the garden of Eden to find his newly formed bride, and so overjoyed is he to have a partner and companion, he exclaims, “This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh!” History tells us a different story, though, and even today one need only look to brothels filled with human trafficking victims or to the red-pill sewers of Reddit to find evidence that, far from being treated as equal to man, woman has more often been reduced to property.

It is upon this fallen world that Lars von Trier’s divisive horror masterpiece casts its gaze. The husband, played by Willem Dafoe, is the patriarchy incarnate. Full of smug benevolence, he moves his wife (Charlotte Gainsbourg) out to a remote cabin in the woods to treat her lingering grief and depression over the loss of their son. Over the excruciating days and nights to follow, the forest reawakens in her something dark and primal, transforming her into the Furies, Medea and Lorena Bobbitt all in one.

More than its darkly surreal imagery or graphic depictions of mutilation (genital or otherwise), what chills us most is Antichrist‘s insistence that the atrocities we are witnessing are not a perversion of the natural order, but its fullest expression. Deep in the primeval wilderness, stripped of civilization’s thin veneer, man and woman are reduced to mere players in a drama as old as multi-cellular life – one in which the only rule is “Kill to survive” and where chaos reigns. – Joe Hemmerling

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Many of us know what it’s like to go through a bad breakup. In the wake of such emotional devastation, there’s often a desire to forget as much about a former partner as possible, even if that means destroying a little piece of ourselves. Through a bit of artful speculative fiction, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind brought that reality out from the bottom of a bottle and into the sterility of a doctor’s office. When sad-sack Joel (Jim Carrey) discovers that his ex-girlfriend Clementine (Kate Winslet) has erased all memories of him through an innovative new medical procedure, he becomes determined to have all recollections of their volatile relationship wiped from his own brain as well.

We spend much of the film within Joel’s mind, especially as he undergoes the overnight procedure and—upon dreamily revisiting his memories with Clementine, both pleasant and painful—begins to have second thoughts. That Joel and Clementine, brains wiped, cross paths again and still feel a spark is a testament to subconscious elements of attraction, while a side-plot involving the memory-erasing doctor (Tom Wilkinson) and his infatuated young assistant (Kirsten Dunst) ultimately shows how the brain has little say when the heart wants what it wants. With Michel Gondry’s exquisite magical-realism touch, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind admits that while love can be a many-splendored thing, it more often than not leads to heartbreak and dread. – Josh Goller

Forgetting Sarah Marshall

There are plenty of movies about falling in love, maybe even more about recovering from lost love, but precious few about the raw, embarrassing, swallowing moments right after one’s heart has been shattered. 2008’s Forgetting Sarah Marshall takes that initial collapse and makes it the thesis of its screwball, Apatowian coming-of-age story.

After being dumped by his long-time TV-star girlfriend in the first five minutes, Jason Segel’s Peter Bretter spends the movie drinking too much, sobbing uncontrollably, having meaningless, unfulfilling sex with random strangers and making the kind of reckless, life-altering decisions that people who have been unmoored tend to make. Segel’s hang-dog look and dopey charms imbue the character with a quiet desperation that anyone who has struggled to get over an ex will recognize. Even as he’s making strides to better himself and improve his life, he’s willing to throw it all away at the drop of a hat if it means getting his lost love back.

As a romantic comedy, Forgetting Sarah Marshall shifts the power balance in an ending relationship, making the hero not a soldier who will survive and live on but a weak, unattractive wreck of a person who will suffer any indignity if it means a return to the status quo. In other words, it’s a movie about a person who just got dumped. – Nathan Adams

Punch-Drunk Love

Though primarily known at the time for a pair of lengthy, cinematic omnibuses, Paul Thomas Anderson’s fourth film was a lean, mean, 95-minute snapshot of the brutality and peculiarity of romance. Casting a rom-com stalwart like Adam Sandler in the lead role was a subversive decision, but it’s the film’s off-kilter style and genuinely touching tenor that stops it from being just another quirky love story. Sandler’s Barry Egan is a brilliant inversion of every manchild he’s played in his own Happy Madison universe. There’s something fundamentally wounded about this emasculated oddball wearing a cartoon suit everywhere he goes, cosplaying a functional adult male. He’s vulnerable but in a way that engenders sympathy more than it fosters laughter.

His connection with Emily Watson’s Lena Leonard, a friend Barry’s sister tries to set him up with, is a strange one, if only for the curious chemistry the two stars display with one another. Lena immediately seems to understand Barry in a way none of the other characters can. It’s comforting, bordering on twee, for two weirdos to find one another in a film so dulcet and eccentric. It’s the pugilism bubbling beneath the beautiful veneer that helps it ring so true. Anderson, aided by Jon Brion’s effervescent score, creates a warm, colorful world of intimacy between Barry and Lena and nestles it inside a heightened approximation of the real world. Barry’s Hulk-like rage contrasted with the blunt calculation of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s antagonist Dean Trumbell and his gaggle of mattress warehouse villains shows what it’s like to want to protect someone dear to you from the thorny world around you. That’s how love really feels sometimes. Like battling reality to keep your pretty little fiction safe just a little longer. – Dominic Griffin

Requiem for a Dream

Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream is revolting. Yet, it commands constant attention. So are the perils of love and lust. Based off a Hubert Selby Jr. novel of the same name, the 2000 release is best remembered for its stark outlook on drug use and addiction. However, as is too often the case in reality, the rush of amphetamines or opioid-induced escapes were secondary to the need for love – self (Sara Goldfarb), paternal (Marion Silver), material (Tyrone C. Love) and young (Harry Goldfarb). By seeking these mystical notions of love, all four eventually self-destruct.

These lessons don’t arrive quickly. Prior to the breakdown, it’s Tyrone (Marlon Wayans) and Harry (Jared Leto) living the life of their dreams. Harry stacking enough cash to keep Marion (Jennifer Connelly) high and living in her accustomed luxury – showing her the undivided attention she could never capture with her father. And even Sara is able to fit back into that seductive red dress. These momentary peaks provide a false sense of reality, a hope that only escalates this destruction.

No matter how deep the massive slide, it is still love that prevails when the film concludes. With Tyrone wishing for home on a prison cot, Marion cradling a hard-earned bag of heroin alone on her living room sofa and Harry crying (sans left arm) in a Georgia hospital, the film closes on Sara’s fantasy of a life-fulfilled and a happily engaged Harry and Marion. No matter how nasty its bite might be, there is no addiction as strong as love. – Derek Staples

The War of the Roses

The War of the Roses should be subtitled “A Cautionary Tale.” The antithesis to every romantic comedy, it is solely concerned with the nature, survivability and inevitability of divorce. Inevitable, it should be noted, according to its divorce lawyer narrator (Danny DeVito). His clients, Oliver and Barbara Rose (Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner), start out happily enough. One could go as far to say that they meet-cute, fighting over a cheap figurine at an antiques auction. They build a life together, have two children, pick out a home (well, Barbara picks out a home) and fill it with even more carefully selected figurines. But when Barbara wants a divorce, their separation is more like a war, the ultimate escalation of the battle of the sexes.

To say the film is unrelenting is an understatement. It’s downright vicious. Oliver and Barbara graduate from ruining business dinners to all-out sparring with those very symbols of their marriage almost overnight. The black comedy hinges on its cartoonish depiction of acrimonious divorce, but these characters’ malevolence is no less authentic. When it comes down to it, Barbara wants the chance to be independent. Oliver loves Barbara so much that he won’t let her go. And so they destroy each other, piece by piece. The film walks a fine line with its slapstick and brutality, making it hard to laugh in good conscience. But, rest assured, you will never look at a chandelier the same way again. – Katherine Springer