A "roman negre" is a French novel written by a famous author such as Octave Mirbeau who wants -- perhaps because it's too personal, or else because it's not self-important enough to satisfy the rabid litterateurs -- to say something that he wouldn't say under his own name. And believe me, it's more than possible that von Trier didn't want his own cognomen on a script that includes the line "Here with more on the flying Ugandan phenomenon..."
Twice.
Thomas Vinterberg, from what I've seen of him, is joined at the hip to Von Trier as his prettier, younger apprentice. He won his spurs by trudging through a Dogme project on the oh-so-serious theme of incest that critics loved, only to be blown out of the water by his mentor with his own devious Dogme contribution, The Idiots. And he has recently directed his third film, Dear Wendy, whose screenplay is actually credited to von Trier alone -- can you imagine a more thankless job?
But after seeing It's All About Love in the theater last year, and again on Sundance Channel last night, it's equally clear that, influenced though he might be by his own personal Dr. Frankenstein, Vinterberg's second film is ultimately the only one that is entirely HIS. No matter how much the deus ex machina ( deus ex machine gun? ) character of Morrison reminds you of the similar hit-man/God figure from Dogville, despite the prevalence of a gnostic philosophy that von Trier only recently picked up for his "American trilogy," and even despite lines like "I don't want to be a dog" uttered ironically by people who have at that very moment thrown away their souls and become exploitative, desperate, vicious monsters a la the citizens of Nicole Kidman's least favorite mining community, what It's All About Love proves is that there are places Vinterberg can go that von Trier can't, namely, into the enchanted realm of the CARAXIAN -- the beautifully naive and youthfully idealistic, despite the prevalent doom and despair. Like Sean Penn says at the end, it really is all about love, even if that love now is just a memory.
People don't seem to get this movie, don't seem to get much of anything anymore, and every single baffled, acidic review on this page makes me jealous, because it proves that Vinterberg's "report on the state of the world" is extremely vital. This is a movie, my friends, that "not getting" means you're dead and blind, so it's quite imperative that you watch again. There are many ways to prepare yourself. Perhaps the easiest would be to watch its sister films of 2004, Winterbottom's Code 46 and Kar-Wai's 2046 ( the similar titles are no coincidence ), as well as some more mainstream gnostic films about the costs of our profound spiritual crisis like Enduring Love, Dogville, The Hulk, or Spielberg's twin contributions, The Terminal and A.I. Or, if you really want to suck all the pith out of the thing, you could could immerse yourself in Monteverdi and Purcell operas, plays by Shakespeare and Maeterlinck and perhaps some stories by Villiers de l'Isle Adam. Meanwhile, the more lazy among you you could treat yourself to the Cliff's Notes version, in this case, the grotesque unreeling saga of Tom Cruise and his robot bride, which this movie foreshadows in a way that is thoroughly creepy ( indeed, IAAL suggests that these relationships lived for the sake of the public eye with its attendant cash value will be the template for all future human interaction. )
Sadly, all that preparation will be futile if you don't want, with all your heart, for your nightmare to end. Without some curiosity about your relation to your creator, some skepticism regarding technology and science, and the will to overcome the fear of death that eventually drives most people into the perverse soul-destroying transactions this movie illustrates with such timeless romantic flair, It's All About Love will be gobbledygook to you. And so will your life, by the way.
