Nymphomaniac‘s Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) is a sex addict who falls victim to the one thing she had sought to avoid: love. Comparing her libidinous story with that of Bess McNeill (Emily Watson) in Lars von Trier’s Breaking the Waves shows a director obsessed with tales of female brutalization and marks the latter as a turning point in von Trier’s career. Upon its release, the film was understandably controversial, but the sexual martyrdom that Bess pursues seems like child’s play compared to the events of von Trier’s recent films Nymphomaniac or Antichrist. Nowadays, what strikes viewers even more forcefully than her sexual deviance is the extent of Bess’ selflessness.
A naive Hebridean woman who carries on conversations with God—speaking his words in a deep, stern voice and her own as an even meeker, availing child—Bess is a little off. She exhibits a childlike buoyancy, despite living a cloistered existence in a deeply religious community—the sort where women would still be viewed as temptresses and are not allowed to speak within the church. For all her quirks, Bess’ only act of defiance is in marrying an “outsider.” Jan (Stellan Skarsgård) is a husky Scandinavian oil rig worker who enthralls Bess. We see none of their courtship—and gather that it was short-lived—but are given a good indication of the dynamics of their relationship during their wedding reception. Bess drags Jan into the bathroom amidst the festivities and announces, “You can love me now!” Her giddiness betrays her innocence.
The trouble is, Jan must return to the rig. Like any child losing something they adore, Bess lashes out angrily. And, once Jan has gone, she wails constantly, her emotions tripped by any offhand comment. The futility of her extreme frustration is expertly conveyed by von Trier in a shot where she stands on the rocks, her screams vying to be heard over the crashing of the waves. This heartbroken Bess prays to God to bring Jan back, and back he comes. But Jan has been seriously injured in an accident and, according to the doctors, is permanently paralyzed. Jan, for his part, tells his devoted wife that he fears he will forget about love and that the only way he can survive this trauma is if she makes love to other men and tells him about her experiences.
Now, the natural reaction to such a request is probably more along the lines of Bess’ sister-in-law, Dodo’s (Katrin Cartlidge): “Are you sleeping with other men to feed his sick fantasies? His head’s full of scars! He’s up to his eyeballs in drugs!” But Bess, ever the one to take things literally, resolves to do as her husband has asked, even though he is the only person she wants to be with. And it’s not just that Bess accepts what Jan has told her is the only way. She actually believes that by sacrificing herself in this way she can cure Jan. That kind of blind faith makes her fearless in her desperation and directly leads her into degradation and despair. Now, the psychological implications of Bess’ transference of her devotion to God to her devotion to Jan are, needless to say, troubling. When he loses consciousness, she speaks for him much like she did for the God who she no longer hears. But is his absence meant to reflect any judgment on her actions? The film’s final moments would seem to suggest otherwise.
Released a year after the Dogme 95 Manifesto, Breaking the Waves isn’t a Dogme film but bears many of its markers. From Robby Müller’s handheld cinematography to the grainy images that reinforce the drudgery of the setting, von Trier is intent on presenting a painstakingly realistic, visibly gritty film to tell his divisive story. That is, with the very important exception of the seven extremely incongruous chapter titles that divide the narrative, each a still frame of a pastoral scene over which ’70s pop hits from the likes of Mott the Hoople and David Bowie play. The juxtaposition of those title screens with the sober subject matter reflects a larger tonal complexity in Breaking the Waves. It is deeply dark but manages to muster truly humorous moments, especially in its first half. It stands as a clear precursor to Dancer in the Dark—in its combination of despair and humor—and later von Trier films that also tackle discomforting sexual situations. But, unlike those later films, Breaking the Waves—by virtue of it being an early von Trier film—was viewed as a work unto itself, the director secondary to his script.
Even now, the ambiguity of von Trier’s tale leaves Bess’ fate to individual interpretation. Bess is, after all, a good person. She’s too innocent to be otherwise. And she becomes the town slut of sorts for selfless reasons, yet bears the brunt of her neighbors’ disdain for it. Is an unstable woman being manipulated by a sick man? Is she embracing her power to save Jan? It’s hard to imagine that any film could simultaneously, contradictorily be seen as a feminist piece and a disturbingly misogynist work, but Breaking the Waves is that film.
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