Dancer in the Dark

film, so why cling to this one annoying restriction? The constant jittering ruins suspension of disbelief, pulling us out of the story when we should be immersed in Selma's tragedy. Second, and more damning, there's no redeeming value to the bleak outcome. What have we learned? This is Greek tragedy without the moral lesson—the protagonist dies, and we're left with nothing but emptiness. Catharsis requires meaning, and "Dancer in the Dark" offers none. As a musical, it fares no better. Musicals, even dark ones, require some happiness, continuity, or saving grace. The genre demands transcendence, a moment where song lifts us beyond suffering. Here, there is none. That said, Björk does a tremendous job with what she's given, and casting Joel Grey in the final courtroom musical number was absolutely brilliant, a meta-theatrical stroke that acknowledges the genre's history while subverting it. But brilliance in moments doesn't rescue a fundamentally flawed film. "Dancer in the Dark" is an admirable failure.

plant and saves every cent she can. She has a small group of friends, mainly just “Kathy” (Deneuve) and “Jeff” (Peter Stormare) who would like to develop their relationship despite her obvious, though always polite, reluctance. It might be that she could have achieved her goal but for a violent altercation with “Bill” (David Morse) that sees her facing a criminal trial. Now we know what happened, and I suspect we would all be shouting the best course of action from the auditorium, but will “Selma” listen to anyone? Why? Well she has a rather unique psychological recourse when the going gets tough. She imagines that the scenario is to feature in a piece of musical theatre - and, of course, we know that the joyous lyrics and perfectly choreographed dancing will always provide for an happy ending. What chance here, though? Aside from her singing prowess, Björk also presents us with a character that is simultaneously confident and vulnerable at the same time. “Selma” is shy yet outgoing, she has a determination to see her son gets his treatment at all costs, but still has time to dream of being “Maria” (as in Julie Andrews). Now I didn't love the jarring, hand-held, photography; there is a curious frostiness to the look of the film - despite the glowing efforts from the underused Deveuve and I can’t pretend that I fully grasped quite why the dispute with “Bill” followed the path it did, but I still found I cared for this young woman and about what happened to her as her declining sight seemed to become symbolic of something more, something quite sad. It does take it’s time, but there is some humour wrapped up in this frequently quite dark analysis of not just human spirit and resilience but of 1960s small town America. Perhaps singing “My Favourite Things” does work?