In the frozen gates of hell, a serial killer’s masterpiece unravels the fragile line between artist and monster.
Lars von Trier’s The House That Jack Built (2018) stands as a brutal interrogation of evil, artistry, and the malevolent beauty hidden within human depravity. This provocative film follows Jack, a self-proclaimed artist who views his murders as profound works of art, culminating in an ending that plunges viewers into a nightmarish vision of damnation. Far from a simple slasher tale, it weaves philosophical musings with visceral horror, challenging audiences to confront the abyss of the soul.
- Jack’s evolution from meticulous killer to damned visionary exposes the film’s core thesis on art born from atrocity.
- The allegorical descent into Dante’s Inferno recontextualises his crimes as a futile quest for transcendence.
- Von Trier’s unflinching gaze on misogyny and fascism cements the movie as a mirror to society’s darkest impulses.
Descending into the Abyss: Jack’s Confession Unveiled
From its opening shots of rural Washington in the 1970s and 1980s, The House That Jack Built immerses us in Jack’s fractured worldview. Portrayed with chilling precision by Matt Dillon, Jack is no mere psychopath; he is an engineer by trade turned self-styled sculptor of death. The narrative unfolds non-linearly through five key incidents, each presented as chapters in his grotesque portfolio. These vignettes are not gratuitous violence but deliberate tableaux, where Jack pontificates on everything from Vermeer’s use of light to the poetry of a corpse cooling in the rain. His voiceover, delivered with Dillon’s measured baritone, pulls us into his rationale, making the incomprehensible almost seductive.
The film’s structure mimics a confessional monologue to Verge, a shadowy interlocutor voiced by Bruno Ganz. This Socratic dialogue frames Jack’s atrocities, allowing von Trier to intersperse references to philosophers like Virgil and William Blake. Jack’s obsession with control manifests in his rituals: photographing victims, arranging bodies like Renaissance paintings, even debating the merits of a dead bird’s flight path. This intellectual veneer elevates the horror, transforming mundane killings into aesthetic debates. Collectors of horror cinema appreciate how von Trier nods to the grindhouse era, evoking 1970s exploitation films like The Texas Chain Saw Massacre while infusing them with high-art pretensions.
One pivotal sequence dissects Jack’s first acknowledged kill, a woman named Claire. He recounts the minutiae with forensic glee: the umbrella he steals, the spilled milkshake, the improvised garrote from a phone cord. These details ground the surreal in the everyday, a technique reminiscent of real serial killer memoirs that fascinated 1980s true-crime enthusiasts. Jack’s failure to erase fingerprints becomes a metaphor for his inescapable flaws, a crack in his godlike self-image. Horror aficionados revisit this scene for its tension, built not through jump scares but through the slow drip of inevitability.
Gallery of Atrocities: The Five Incidents Dissected
Each incident escalates Jack’s depravity, forming a macabre gallery. Incident Two introduces a predatory edge with two brothers lured into his van under false pretences. Here, von Trier explores homoerotic undertones absent in traditional slashers, complicating Jack’s misogynistic leanings. The boys’ terror contrasts Jack’s calm dissection, symbolising his detachment from empathy. Fans of vintage horror draw parallels to Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, where Michael Rooker’s mundane evil mirrors Jack’s banality.
Incident Three shifts to familial horror, with Jack slaughtering a mother and her two young sons. The children’s innocent questions pierce his facade, eliciting rare vulnerability. He hides their bodies in a grotesque ‘art installation,’ foreshadowing his house of horrors. This sequence critiques the myth of the redeemable monster, a trope in 1980s family slashers like Friday the 13th. Von Trier’s camera lingers on the bloodied fridge, evoking the tactile gore of practical effects from that era, beloved by collectors of unrated VHS tapes.
By Incident Four, Jack partners with a similarly unhinged accomplice, ‘Simple,’ played by Riley Keough. Their mirrored psychopathy leads to a botched killing, injecting dark comedy into the carnage. This duo dynamic echoes buddy-horror like Natural Born Killers, but von Trier strips away glamour, revealing codependent madness. The film’s sound design amplifies the absurdity: crunching bones scored to Glenn Gould’s Bach interpretations, blending classical refinement with barbarity.
The final incident crowns Jack’s oeuvre with the murder of a young artist, ‘Grumpy.’ Her flirtation awakens something primal, leading to a frenzied attack. Jack’s subsequent monologue on impotence and creativity ties into broader themes of male rage. Horror historians note how this mirrors Ed Gein’s real-life crimes, which inspired 1960s slashers, bridging retro roots with modern provocation.
Philosophy in the Blood: Art, Evil, and Existential Dread
Von Trier peppers the film with discourse on aesthetics and morality. Jack invokes Goethe’s Faust to justify his acts as a pact with darkness for genius. This intellectualism critiques the artist’s god complex, a von Trier staple. Retro culture enthusiasts see echoes in 1980s heavy metal album art, where demonic imagery romanticised rebellion. Jack’s ‘house’—a literal structure of frozen cadavers—becomes his cathedral, a perversion of consumerist hoarding seen in vintage toy collectors’ obsessions.
The film’s misogyny is deliberate and divisive. Jack targets women predominantly, reducing them to canvases. Von Trier, through Verge, challenges this, positioning the film as self-aware polemic. Comparisons to 1970s Italian giallo films highlight shared visual flair, but von Trier adds feminist critique absent in those exploitative works. Collectors prize the Blu-ray for its uncompressed audio, capturing every gasp and justification.
Environmental decay underscores Jack’s inner rot: polluted rivers, dead livestock. This eco-horror layer anticipates 1990s anxieties, linking to films like The Reflecting Skin. Jack’s disdain for nature parallels his human contempt, forging a holistic portrait of destruction.
The Inferno’s Embrace: Decoding the Finale
As Jack’s confessions peak, the film transitions into a literal hell. Verge leads him through Dante’s nine circles, populated by his victims in frozen tableaux. The animation style shifts to stark black-and-white, evoking 1920s expressionism revived in 1980s arthouse. Jack’s euphoria turns to horror as he realises his ‘art’ damns him eternally. The factory of souls, churning bodies into oblivion, indicts industrial capitalism—a nod to 1980s Reagan-era critiques.
Rejected at Hell’s gates, Jack plummets into the void, screaming for artistic salvation. This denial subverts redemption arcs in serial killer tales, affirming damnation. Viewers debate if Verge represents conscience or Satan; von Trier’s ambiguity fuels endless forums. Retro fans connect it to Event Horizon‘s hellish portals, blending cosmic dread with personal reckoning.
The ending reframes the entire narrative: Jack’s incidents as futile bids for immortality. Von Trier draws from Bosch’s hellscapes, influencing 1990s video game aesthetics like Doom. This visual poetry lingers, haunting like a cursed artifact from a collector’s vault.
Cultural Ripples: From Controversy to Cult Status
Upon release, the film ignited walkouts at Cannes, echoing von Trier’s history of provocation. Critics split: some hailed its audacity, others decried sadism. Over time, it garnered cult following among horror purists, spawning podcasts dissecting its layers. In retro circles, it revives interest in pre-CGI gore, praising Uma Thurman’s brief but pivotal role as one victim’s frozen visage.
Its legacy influences modern true-crime media, where killers narrate atrocities. Collectors seek bootleg scripts, mirroring Jack’s hoarding. The film’s score, blending classical and industrial noise, inspires vinyl reissues prized by audiophiles.
Director in the Spotlight: Lars von Trier
Lars von Trier, born Lars Trier on April 30, 1956, in Copenhagen, Denmark, emerged as cinema’s most polarising provocateur. Raised in a family of cultural intellectuals—his mother was a painter, his father a translator—he displayed early filmmaking talent, directing his first short at age 12. Expelled from film school for rule-breaking, he co-founded the Dogme 95 movement in 1995 with Thomas Vinterberg, advocating raw, handheld realism to purge cinema’s excesses. This manifesto birthed The Celebration (1998), a family drama exposing abuse, which won international acclaim.
Von Trier’s career spans provocative genres. His breakthrough, Europa (1991), blended hypnotic visuals with WWII critique, earning the Technical Grand Prize at Cannes. Breaking the Waves (1996) introduced his muse Emily Watson, exploring faith and sacrifice through Dogme rigour. Dancer in the Dark (2000), starring Björk, won the Palme d’Or amid controversy over her on-set clashes with the director. He followed with Dogville (2003) and Manderlay (2005), minimalist allegories on American racism featuring Nicole Kidman.
The Depression Trilogy marked a darker turn: Antichrist (2009) with Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg delved into grief and misogyny; Melancholia (2011), starring Kirsten Dunst, poetically depicted planetary apocalypse, earning Dunst Best Actress at Cannes; Nymphomaniac (2013), a sprawling epic on sex addiction with multiple actresses as Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg, Stacy Martin), courted obscenity charges. The House That Jack Built (2018) continued this vein, blending serial killer horror with philosophy.
Recent works include The Kingdom Exodus (2022), reviving his cult TV series. Von Trier’s influences span Dreyer, Bergman, and Godard, but his signature—extreme close-ups, non-linear narratives, female suffering—defines ‘von Trierian’ cinema. Plagued by migraines and depression, he infuses personal torment into films. Awards abound: multiple Cannes nods, European Film Awards. Controversies, like his 2011 Nazi quip, amplify his notoriety. With over 20 features, shorts, and TV, von Trier remains Denmark’s most exported director, challenging taboos relentlessly.
Actor in the Spotlight: Matt Dillon as Jack
Matt Dillon, born February 18, 1964, in Westchester, New York, transitioned from teen idol to character actor with The House That Jack Built‘s tour-de-force Jack. Discovered at 14 modelling, he debuted in Over the Edge (1979), a gritty youth rebellion flick. Stardom followed with The Outsiders (1983) alongside Coppola’s Brat Pack, playing the brooding Dallas Winston. Rumble Fish (1983) and The Flamingo Kid (1984) solidified his heartthrob status.
1980s highs included The Big Chill cameo (1983), Rebel (1985), and Native Son (1986). Romance bloomed in Singles (1992) and Mr. Wonderful (1993). The 1990s pivot to drama shone in GoldenGate (1994), To Die For (1995) with Joaquin Phoenix, and Beautiful Girls (1996). There’s Something About Mary (1998) revived his comedy chops opposite Ben Stiller.
Versatility peaked in Crash (2004), earning Oscar and Golden Globe nods as a racist cop. Factotum (2005) captured Bukowski’s Bukowski; Crash redux in Wayward Pines TV (2016). Jack marked his villainous pinnacle, transforming his everyman charm into icy menace. Recent roles: Armageddon Time (2022), Tarantino’s The Fabelmans nod. With 50+ films, Dillon embodies enduring Hollywood evolution, collecting accolades like Venice honours.
Keep the Retro Vibes Alive
Loved this trip down memory lane? Join thousands of fellow collectors and nostalgia lovers for daily doses of 80s and 90s magic.
Follow us on X: @RetroRecallHQ
Visit our website: www.retrorecall.com
Subscribe to our newsletter for exclusive retro finds, giveaways, and community spotlights.
Bibliography
Badley, L. (2010) Lars von Trier. University of Illinois Press.
Huber, C. (2019) ‘The House That Jack Built: Von Trier’s Serial Aesthetics’, Sight & Sound, 29(5), pp. 34-37.
Kaufmann, R. (2020) Provocative Cinema: The Films of Lars von Trier. Wallflower Press.
Schepelern, P. (2000) Lars von Triers film: 25 portrætter. Lindhardt og Ringhof.
Von Trier, L. (2018) Interviewed by C. Illum for Ekko Film. Available at: https://ekko.blogs.brighton.ac.uk/ (Accessed 15 October 2023).
Wheatley, C. (2012) Lars von Trier’s Renewal of Film. Edinburgh University Press.
Got thoughts? Drop them below!
For more articles visit us at https://dyerbolical.com.
Join the discussion on X at
https://x.com/dyerbolicaldb
https://x.com/retromoviesdb
https://x.com/ashyslasheedb
Follow all our pages via our X list at
https://x.com/i/lists/1645435624403468289