Lars Von Trier's Melancholia is overall a banal bore, which only fires at the end. Without the drama of Wagner the sumptuous visuals framed by the planetary collision are empty of feeling and devoid of real meaning. It is one part too long. Part two can stand alone – it does not need the tedium and bourgeois antics that mark a thoroughly indulgent first half. Von Trier is pretty conceited for a depressive, pronouncing from a golf-cart that angst is truth and that mal-adjustment is a sort of bravery. Witness the contrived cowardice of the brother-in-law John. Depression if we wax poetic is a profound regret born of the unbearable awareness of impermanence, which comes from a deep compassion and paradoxically a dark anger at the pain such awareness brings. But depression is also a chemical imbalance in the brain. Rewire the brain or get zapped by the bio-chemists and it goes away. The ghost is in the machine not on the golf course or in the manicured gardens of the rich. Melancholia is a weakness not strength. Von Trier is a con-man spruiking art in a bottle. Cheers!
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