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LORDS OF CHAOS
Director: Jonas Åkerlund Cast: Rory Culkin, Emory Cohen, Jack Kilmer, Sky Ferreira, Jon Øigarden, Valter Skarsgård MPAA
Rating: Running Time: 1:58 Release Date: 2/8/19 (limited) |
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Review by Mark Dujsik | February 7, 20197 The opening text of Lords of Chaos announces that it's based on "truth, lies, and what actually happened." This assertion might seem contradictory in at least two ways, but such are the actions, the attitude, and the short life of the film's subject. He was Øystein Aarseth, a guitarist who formed the band Mayhem and founded what he dubbed Norwegian black metal, which is heavy metal for and by folks who actually abide by all of the dark, evil, and Satanic ways that critics ascribe to regular, old heavy metal. For the "sell-outs," the darkness is a way to sell albums. For guys like Aarseth, who was known by the stage name Euronymous, it was and, apparently, still is a way of life. There's not much to admire or even like about the film's version of the musician, who seems apathetic about life to such a degree that it often resembles some form of sociopathy. That's the way this version of the man wants us to see him, anyway. We can't abide most of his outlook and deeds, but we can grant him that. One of the early turning points in the story, which could have been a turning point for the man himself, arrives with the horrifying suicide of the band's original lead singer. Seeing the gruesome aftermath, Euronymous, played here by Rory Culkin, thinks of calling emergency services, if only so that the man's body can be removed, but instead, he gets back in his car and drives to a local gas station. There, he buys a disposable camera. The rest almost doesn't need to be described, but it must be noted that the absolute indifference with which Euronymous considers the scenes, stages the weapons next to the body, and takes his time to get just the right photo is, in its own way, almost as disturbing as the graphic re-enactment of the singer's suicide. One questions co-writer/director Jonas Åkerlund's decision to show that scene in its full, bloody horror, but there's little denying that the juxtaposition of the violence with Euronymous' reaction to it says everything that needs to be said about the man. At least, that's the way it seems in the early parts of Euronymous' story, which follows the guitarist from the formation of Mayhem in 1984 to his vicious murder in 1993. In between, he encourages and even participates in a series of arsons targeting local churches. As for his friends, the musician seems to have a knack for attaching himself to men whose dedication to a hatred of life, the world, and humanity is even greater than his own. They would commit their own horrors, from plans for chaos to an impromptu but premeditated murder (This is before Euronymous' own murder). If there was anything the man who promoted such ideas among his peers could do to put a stop to the madness, he certainly doesn't bother to figure it out here. The big questions of Åkerlund and Dennis Magnusson's screenplay ("inspired by" Michael Moynihan and Didrik Søderlind's non-fiction book of the same name) are ones of motive and sincerity. It's pretty obvious that Varg Vikernes (Emory Cohen), a musician who idolizes Euronymous so much that he turns from a poser to a killer of his hero, is a true believer of everything for which Norwegian black metal stands (as well as neo-Nazism). It's also apparent that Faust (Valter Skarsgård), the drummer of another band who later murders a complete stranger, has a similar stance. Dead (Jack Kilmer), Mayhem's original front man, is only around long enough for us to know that his hatred for life and the world is ultimately aimed at himself. The film's version of Euronymous doesn't seem like much of a mystery at first, since he's the one who gives his bandmates pieces of their deceased singer's skull as necklaces and who condemns the altruism of religion to the point that he says churches should be burned down. Despite its terrible characters and their equally terrible deeds, which are shown with a blood-curdling degree of realism, Åkerlund's film gradually reveals a somewhat subversive level to this biographical account of a man and a musical movement. There are moments, in between the destruction and the violence, that are almost comic in their depictions of these characters. It is, in a twisted way, a comedy of errors, in which a bunch of young men try to one-up each other to be the most evil of the bunch. There's an argument to be made that at least two of these men are legitimately evil and that we're fortunate that their actual errors are ones of egoism and outright stupidity—such as bragging to a local newspaper reporter about unsolved crimes while the reporter is sitting the perpetrator's living room. Meanwhile, Åkerlund and Magnusson uncover layers, whether real or imagined, about Euronymous, whose own life plays out as a tragedy of errors, as his words inspire more than he actually wanted. His sincerity about a dark, misanthropic view of the world seems cemented by his actions, but Euronymous' steady narration suggests a level of detachment. In the midst of the outrage over and investigation into the church burnings, he realizes how far his philosophy has taken his underlings and laments that all of this was supposed to be "fun." It might not be saying much about Euronymous that he draws a line at multiple arsons and murder, but it's more than can be said about his compatriots. Lords of Chaos ends with Euronymous, from the beyond the grave, complaining that he shouldn't be sentimentalized. We can grant him that, too. Copyright © 2019 by Mark Dujsik. All rights reserved. |
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