The House That Jack Built

Von Trier may be a provocateur, but his brand of provocation seems to be growing stale.

The violence in The House That Jack Built is horrific...you've been warned.

If this shrill, manipulative, sledge-hammer allegory is right for our times, give me Dante any day. Von Trier has certainly done better, but never worse.

Here, examined, we're given instead raw narcissism, humdrum in the end, a soul worth glimpsing only for a second before casting aside. Nothing to behold.

It may be the dullest film about serial killing in the history of dull movies about serial killers.

There are two sadists here. One of them happens to be onscreen.

It's precisely because I see the merits of his form that I find its overly mindful digressions into self-indulgence tiresome.

In this ending, Lars von Trier takes another step towards the abyss, demonstrating his mastery of the story. [Full review in Spanish]

A jarring narcissistic expression of artisitic desires and a brutal confrontation on the vulgarity of...

Lars Von Trier grabs your head and shoves it into the vortex of any subject he chooses to examine (...) it's never a pleasant journey, but he always delivers the goods.