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The Dogme movement was founded in 1995 by Danish directors Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg. They issued a manifesto (their word) calling filmmakers to a "Vow of Chastity." Any director making this vow would agree to abide by ten rules, which included "Shooting must be done on location," "The camera must be hand-held," and "Special lighting is not acceptable." The movement caused an immediate sensation in world cinema, and not only because von Trier is a master at self-promotion. It was an emphatic rejection of accepted ideas of what constituted a professional film, arguing instead that the real goal of moviemaking was to "force the truth" out of characters and settings. And anything that got in the way of that--artificial sets, huge crews, genre conventions--had to be eliminated.

Seven years later, the Dogme movement officially disbanded, arguing that the rules had calcified into a genre of its own. But even before that, it had become an easy target of film critics, who enjoyed mocking the religious connotation of von Trier's vision and deriding the films made under its banner. Admittedly, many of the Dogme films were amateurish, and the self-imposed rules inevitably led to grainy, ugly-looking movies. Lost in all the hype and criticism, though, was the liberating effect the movement had on directors who were able to re-capture the intensity and intimacy of neo-realist values.

One of those is Susanne Bier. Though she's been making movies since the early '90s, the Danish director's real breakthrough came three years ago with the devastating Open Hearts. Shot in Dogme style with natural sound and lighting, it focused on a series of characters whose lives are ripped apart when one of them is paralyzed in an accident.

Nikolaj Lie Kaas, who was particularly strong as the paralyzed man, also stars in Bier's latest movie, Brothers. He's Jannik, the younger of the titular characters and an irresponsible layabout who, as the movie begins, has just been released from prison. His older brother Michael (Ulrich Thomsen) is the exact opposite, a senior officer in the Danish military who's about to embark on a peacekeeping mission in Afghanistan. Michael also has a lovely wife (played by Connie Nielsen) and two young daughters, all of whom adore him. Before he's shipped out, his parents and Jannik join the family for what should be a happy farewell dinner. But Jannik resents being the black sheep of the family, and a confrontation with his judgmental father (a great small performance from Bent Mejding) leads to even harder feelings.

Though the film's intensity is already simmering, Bier ratchets it up even more when Michael's helicopter is shot down in Afghanistan. The funeral that follows is an incredible scene, shot in tight close-ups with the natural sound of funeral hymns adding to the emotion. A post-funeral confrontation between a repentant Jannik and his unsympathetic father is a startling example of the ways grief can manifest itself.

The rest of Brothers further explores the difficulty of coping with loss and remorse. Though that's a standard trope in many dramas, Bier dissects it with an unusually visceral approach. She recognizes that the raw emotion of mourning can quickly transform itself into hatred, sexual longing, or both. But she also has a beautiful way of cutting between scenes and storylines, giving the audience a chance to rest at times so we're not overwhelmed.

Bier's Dogme technique is particularly well suited for this kind of story. The documentary feel of the hand-held camera undercuts any melodrama that the situation might generate. The simple sets and lighting de-glamorize the narrative and the characters, emphasizing their similarities to our own lives and situations. And Bier's obvious connection with her actors leads to audacious performances that leave the audience breathless. A relative newcomer like Sarah Juel Warner (as the older of Michael's daughters) gives a ferocious yet natural portrayal under Bier's direction, while veterans Kaas, Thomsen, and Nielsen find a chemistry that serves as the foundation for the story.

As you might imagine, Brothers is not an easy film to watch. The emotions on the screen are almost too explicit, too difficult to take in. Scenes of off-screen violence have an unusual power. Even a simple conversation between a soldier and a fallen comrade's wife generates an incredible, almost uncomfortable, intensity. Nonetheless, it is this intimacy that reveals the painful core of loss and mourning, breaks down the barriers between filmmaker and audience, and forces the truth out of its story. The Dogme movement may have dissolved, but its lessons shouldn't be forgotten. Brothers is a marvelous example of what happens when you strip everything away and are left with just a story and actors. 

J. Robert Parks   5/16/2005