Berlinale 2016: The Commune Review

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When contemplating over what makes Danish filmmakers Thomas Vinterberg (Festen, The Hunt) and Tobias Lindholm (A Hijacking, A War) such special, contemporary auteurs, it’s their deep commitment to realism, and ability to explore such bleak themes in a strikingly absorbing manner. So having teamed up for The Commune – with Vinterberg at the helm and Lindholm on screenwriting duties – you would anticipate something truly noteworthy, but what transpires is a tepid, occasionally droll comedy-drama that vies to be surrealist in its comedic tendencies, but then unfairly demands the emotional investment of the viewer when heading down a dark path in the latter stages, having not quite earned the right to do so.

Set in the 1970s, we meet the married couple Erik (Ulrich Thomsen) and Anna (Trine Dyrholm) along with their teenage daughter Freja (Martha Sofie Wallstrom Hansen), who after 25 years together, decide that to spice up their lives they’re to open up a commune, at the grandiose abode of the former’s recently deceased father. Inviting friends to stay, such as the charismatic Ole (Lars Ranthe), who will burn your belongings if they finds them lying around, the pair also interview locals for the remaining spots, eventually ending up with nine guests.

With civilised conversations around the dinner table, this domesticated household is not free livin’ environment you may have expected it to be, with no sex parties and drug experiments (or sex experiments and drug parties – whatever floats your boat). They’re sensible adults with significant professions – but it’s in the workplace where Erik meets Emma (Helene Reingaard Neumann), as the teacher enters in to an illicit affair with the young woman. When Anna finds out she initially appears to be okay with it, believing they can still resurrect and reignite their marriage, but with Erik unwilling to call it a day with Emma, it starts to get the better of his beleaguered, suffering wife.

The Commune shines a candid, barbed (yet somewhat fair) light on a fantasy so many people will have; to live amongst friends in a big house. We’ve all discussed it in our youths “when we’re older we’ll make sure we all houses next to each other on the same street…”, as you want to cling desperately on to that sense of community that you fear will be lost with adulthood. But it transpires that, sometimes, being on your own, with more personal space is a far more desirable way to live, and it’s that notion Vinterberg explores within this film.

Though the director manages to do so without injecting any palpable dramatic tension into proceedings, as you struggle to feel involved in the character’s lives, perhaps given that there are too many of them, or that they simply aren’t well-rounded enough, which leads to a lack of empathy and is detrimental to our experience. You find yourself rooting for conflict, for more arguments around the dinner table. So whole it may be somewhat interesting to see a refreshingly subversive take on the 70’s commune – which comes with so many bohemian expectations – watching people get along doesn’t exactly make for compelling cinema.

That said, Dyrholm turns in such a wonderfully nuanced display, as the only character we do feel we can relate to and invest in. She’s an exceptional actress and the only one associated to this project who you don’t feel has let you down. Because given the sheer credentials of those behind this endeavour, you can’t be blamed for expecting something so much more, instead leaving the cinema feeling disheartened and underwhelmed.