Crafting acomplex portrait of afraught father-daughter relationship set against agrand dragestil family home in Oslo, Joachim Trier turns to family, ancestral traumas and art to convey all that can’t be articulated through language.
LWLies: The house doesn’t feel like home anymore, to any of the characters. How do you treat that subtle transformation when afamiliar space becomes alien or hostile?
Trier: You make it sound like it’s ahaunted house movie – Ilike that! When we remember, we need an arena, astage for the memory. You can remember amoment from your life wherever you grew up in, and maybe you don’t remember in what order it happened, but you have afeeling of the situation. That feeling, to me, is very often connected to space. At its strongest, cinema can deal with that idea. In this film, we’re taking that very literally. For the sisters, after their mother dies, they come into the house and the younger sister Agnes says ‘I always imagined Iwould love to live here, but we can’t afford to keep this house,’ and Nora’s like, ‘you would want to livehere?’as if it’s the most alien idea in the world. There are these very different approaches to the same place. On top of that, the house has witnessed this tremendously long story, which is almost arepresentation of the 20th century. So we’re playing around with the tropes of cinema to see the different layers of time, from the silent movie eras, into the ’30s and ’40s, up until the ’80s, then up to the present day. The house is asking abigger question about how short ahuman life is and at the core of this is understanding how little time we have with our parents and children. The house gives us all of this to playwith.
We tend to be very protective of our childhood homes and resistant to change, and there’s something inherently violent about renewal.Originally, the house seems to represent an older, more private, emotionally compressed Oslo. I’m interested in its development as one that mirrors the transformation of the family, of the city around it.
Renewal is an interesting word. Towards the end of the film, there’s that idea of reconciling yourself with the paradox of memory, which is that you hold the past to remember. This is also astory about the Second World War’s effects on afamily through several generations, the echoes of history. I’ve had that in my family. My grandfather was captured during the war because he was aresistance fighter against the Nazis. It tremendously affected him and the way he was. That ripples down through the generations. I’m pondering that on some level, we have to let certain things go. Ilook at my children and Idon’t want to transfer amemory of that war into the fourth generation and the subtle, weird implications of that… On the other hand, Iowe it to them to remember. As asociety, we do, to not forget and not repeat even though at times it feels like we have forgotten toomuch.
Gustav’s late mother is arguably one of the most powerful presences in the film. How did you shape herghost?
It is ahaunted house, isn’t it? Coping with the phenomenology of being through space, Ithink is fundamental. Idon’t know why, I’m not aphilosopher, but Iquestion it. Iexperience it to be true. Iwas afraid of what the Americans would call “rubber ducking” which is the bad use of aFreudian idea that there is one trauma that explains it all. Idon’t think life is like that, yet there is trauma. We know that the mother has implications of artistic interpretation in Gustav’s film, but we also know in the factual world of the National Archive, that Agnes goes and reads the report of her grandmother’s experience and the traumas of the Second World War. The voiceover says it was hard to explain how it affected her because they’re facts they already knew. That is interesting to me – that the artistic work over in that building of the National Theatre is connected to the experience of the factual world of the National Archive. At the archive, you have all the factual accounts of every life that’s been, and with The Second World War, the memory, the responsibility as asociety to place that somewhere. And on the left side of the brain, you have the theatre where we’re asking ourselves “Who are we? Who are we?” through fiction, through adifferent language. Between those two things, this family is trying to reconcile something and to have the ghost of the grandmother floating over this yearning to understand ourselves, it creates an energy in thestory.
There’s areference to ‘The Seagull’ in the film that made me think of how Chekhov explores creative failure as an emotional architecture that’s raised inside, rather than asingle event. Like acurse passed from parent to child. There’s atragicbut hopeful question there about whether the next generation can find away to create without repeating thepain.
That’s abeautiful perspective. The funny thing about fiction and ghost stories, and the determinism of the Greek myths up until the Renaissance, Shakespeare, up until Chekhov and the break into the modern theatrical traditions, is that they align themselves with afeeling that we all find true: There is alanguage underneath everything, between parent and child, where traumas can be transferred without ever pointing to them in the social language that we call language. That space of unspokenness, those glitches, those slow feelings that derive from our survival techniques of empathy, bring damage, but also bring healing. The unspoken space of trauma is very similar to the unspoken space of art, where the sublime exists. In this story, we’re trying to talk about how afather and adaughter are so similar, they’re saying exactly the same things, but they are completely unable to manage the social language. The reconciliation has to happen through action, and the action is the idea that art can reconcile something without being tied up to having abig talk and then everything is fine. Nothing is ever going to be fine, but you can reconcile yourself more with the fact of what you weren’t given as achild. In Chekhov, you have that questioning of this exact subject.
