I write down a list of fears, urged on by William Defoe as I watch Antichrist. I ignore the fact I am attempting to distract myself from giving the film my full attention. I rarely have expectations. It's a rule or rather, just a strange trait I have? Perhaps it's learnt...(it's most definitely learnt, but it's become my nature. If I get asked for instance "was Venice/the opera/the end of the world what you thought it would be?" my answer is always the same "I didn't expect anything" Life is safer that way, less shocking, less humiliating, less underwhelming.
But Antichrist. I'd read about it. And in reading something reached out and grabbed me and whispered that it would be too harsh, too painful, That slip into madness- too close. Too honest.
Well, ever the self destructive pixie, I placed it in my rental list on lovefilm. and one morning it arrived. daring me to watch it. daring me to pick at scabs. I kept it for a month. I sent it back. Unwatched.
It beat me in a staring contest. Fucking film.
I said to myself, I don't have to watch it, ever. Why do I need to see something like that?
So.tonight, there it was. nestled in between The Last Exorcism and Rosemary's Baby...
Mark Kermode opened the door for me. I could turn over whenever I wanted...no pressure.no build up.
I write down a list of fears. I know I'm using it to distract myself as I also spend at least 20 minutes drawing a rather dapper cat wearing a tuxedo and brogues... It's funny, how terrifyingly easy that slip into madness can be. It's funny how If I had watched it, having not experienced the violence or madness that I have it would probably have affected me as I was so afraid it would. Funny because all it gave me in the end was a kind of soft knowing sadness. How brutal we can be as humans when we are in pain.
So, my Antichrist fear...turned out to be rather an anticlimax it seems.
But underneath the surface. I can feel it's slow burn working away. leading me to examine closer what made me so afraid to watch it in the first place.