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THE Celebration (Festen),
a 1998 film by Danish director Thomas Vinterberg, recounts a story of
suffering, disclosure, and response, illustrating in 106 minutes the transformation
that can result when long-hidden stories about family violence are told.
The Celebration joins several other recent films about family secrets
and violence, such as Mike Leigh's Secrets
and Lies and Barbra Streisand's Prince
of Tides. These films show concrete ways in which remembering,
recounting, and having someone listen and believe can transform families.
Yet they also provoke questions about justice, forgiveness, and the role
of individuals, families, and communities in responding to violence, inviting
viewers to reflect on the possibility of creating new family systems that
embrace equality and defend the rights of children.
Whether seen
in popular media or on the daily news, violence is prevalent and can seem
intractable. How do we avoid a sense of hopelessness when frequently assaulted
with stories of school shootings, the sexual abuse of children, and other
forms of victimization too numerous to mention? The Celebration
and other films like it propose both problems and resolutions, emphasizing
that family violence is complex and has no easy answers. The film offers
an uncompromising look at the events that unfold at a family reunion,
including the revelation of a secret and the guests’ responses to
that secret. Vinterberg's use of hand-held cameras and other documentary-like
techniques invites viewers into the family's intimate circle. We are challenged
to grapple with what is destroyed and what can be rebuilt when long-hidden
secrets finally come out.
Disclosure, Response, and Change
THE central event of The Celebration is a gathering to mark
the sixtieth birthday of the Klingenfeldt family patriarch, Helge. From
the beginning of the film it is clear that this family suffers under the
weight of untold secrets. Helge and his wife, Elsa, project a gracious
image for their guests, but we learn that their daughter Linda has recently
committed suicide and that the remaining children—Christian, Michael,
and Helene—have dysfunctional lives that are barely contained, if
at all, for the sake of appearances. At times the film progresses like
a sped-up series of psychotherapy sessions, revealing the aggression,
violent speech, and unhealthy sexual attitudes that pervade the family.
There is a coherence to the narrative, but at first it feels as though
significant parts of the story are ominously missing, leaving one wondering
what is really happening. Visual elements involving water, drowning, and
dreaming artfully repeat themselves, though these, too, suggest missing
pieces. Yet as the family's story is more fully disclosed—and more
onlookers come to believe it and share their own recollections—the
disparate pieces of which we have seen glimpses begin to make sense.
As guests gather and an elegant dinner is served, the eldest son, Christian,
rises ostensibly to toast his father. Instead, in a strangely calm manner
he announces that his father repeatedly raped him and his now-deceased
twin sister throughout their childhood.
Christian's family responds to this announcement by maligning him as "sick"
and "sad." His father first ignores, then ridicules him. His
mother demands a public apology, in response to which Christian says he
is "sorry" that she witnessed his father raping him: "Sorry
you had to see that. Sorry he told you to get out. Sorry you did so."
His brother and other guests throw him out of the house, beat him, and
tie him to a tree in the woods. Helge's own parents attempt to come to
his defense. The children’s grandfather shares a story of their father’s
exploits with women. Their grandmother chooses a chilling moment to sing
a song about a forest where "sorrows are stilled" and "peace
and rest . . . reign," while we see a hazy, ironic shot of Christian
alone in the woods, struggling to free himself from the tree to which
he has been tied. This "crucifixion" is Christian's punishment
for saying things his listeners cannot bear to hear.
There are intimations, however, that at least one person, Helene's African
American boyfriend, Gbatokai, has heard the truth in Christian's disclosure.
When Michael returns from tying his brother to a tree, Gbatokai raises
his glass in a defiant toast to the absent Christian. Gbatokai's insistent
focus on the truth in Christian's statements incites Michael to angrily
silence him, leading the table in a passionate round of Danish racist
songs. Unable to bear either the songs or the growing realization that
hidden secrets are now coming out, Helene runs, sick, from the room. When
she asks for some medicine, Pia, a maid at the estate, finds something
else in the pill bottle—Linda's hidden suicide note. Helene had found
it earlier, read it, and refusing to "believe" it, stuffed it
back into the vial. The re-surfaced truth, written down and verified,
becomes the medicine Helene needs. She returns to the table and rises
to take her turn to speak, reading the letter aloud to the guests (who
are, amazingly, still gathered in the dining room). Her father tries to
deny even this damning evidence, until his final, vigorous attempt to
discredit his children's story becomes his confession of guilt.
Truth and Reconciliation
HELGE'S admission is a turning point—in the film and in the family.
In Freud's theory of repetition compulsion, individuals unconsciously
reenact actions and events, but in the "wrong" contexts, and
with increasing insistence. [1] Once the trigger event is understood and
synthesized, the compulsion to repeat recedes. There is a similar receding
of the increasingly desperate scuffles and violent efforts to silence
that we have seen in so many guises up until this point in the film.
Psychiatrist Judith Herman, in her 1992 Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath
of Violence—From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror, describes
the power of long-silenced stories: "Equally as powerful as the desire
to deny atrocities is the conviction that denial does not work. Folk wisdom
is filled with ghosts who refuse to rest in their graves until their stories
are told." [2] Christian's story refuses to rest, though the vigor
of others' disbelief threatens to overwhelm his disclosure. While Herman
states that "remembering and telling the truth about terrible events
are prerequisites both for the restoration of the social order and for
the healing of individual victims," there is no assurance that the
telling will not at first upset that order and be met with disbelief,
denial, and even violence. [3] Christian's disclosure both heals and upsets;
his persistent efforts to have his story be heard and accepted serve as
the catalyst for breaking down an old system of dysfunction. By insisting
on telling the truth (rather than, say, cutting all ties with his family
forever or playing along with the charade of family stability), his actions
provide a foundation for a new, strengthened family system.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the glimpse of truth Christian provides does not
bring immediate reconciliation. While the psychological health of the
Klingenfeldt children seems to improve after Helge admits what he has
done, that is not the end of it; the parents are pained and humiliated,
and, according to Michael, the family is "broken." As evidenced
in efforts such as the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission,
"truth telling" unavoidably raises the question of "Whose
truth?" A November 1997 article in The Economist about the
Truth Commission observes: "Painful and moving as these stories were—and
helpful as it may have been for the victims to tell them, their suffering
acknowledged at last—they posed more questions than answers."
[4] Similarly in The Celebration, while disclosure has set the
stage for individual healing and the restoration of safety and health
to the family, different versions of the story are "true" for
different individuals. Yet questions still remain. What should the family
do next? How should its members act? A flawed system has been dismantled,
but what should be put in its place?
Justice and Forgiveness
THE next morning the Klingenfeldts survey what has been dismantled and
begin to rebuild. As they gather for breakfast, we see each family member
acting in a new way. Instead of Christian's repeated speeches, the only
speaker in the morning is a contrite Helge. In contrast to the opening
scene of the film in which Michael needs room to give his brother a ride,
and has no problem violently forcing his children and wife out of the
car to walk to the estate, at breakfast he shows active concern for his
children's protection. He calls them away from Helge's lap before telling
his father to leave the room, a request with which Helge immediately complies.
Christian, who has been involved with Pia casually for a long time, but
has been ridiculed by his father for not being able to commit to a woman,
invites her to come to live with him in Paris. Elsa, who had been loyal
to the point of sacrificing her children's welfare, refuses Helge's invitation
to accompany him when he leaves the room.
The morning-after scene illustrates changes that in real families might
take months or years to implement. In the film we see an almost unbelievable
transformation that would require extreme patience and perseverance to
bring about in reality. As Helge walks out of the room under the gaze
of his wife and children, there is a sense that his knowledge of what
he has done—and his understanding of how he cannot change it—is
a severe punishment. While the children initially responded to Helge's
admission with anger and violence, now they seem to have lost their hunger
to make Helge pay. Whether it is because they see real improvement in
the family—or they are just exhausted from the fight—this calming
point in the film raises profound questions about the distinctions between
punishment and vengeance. Are Helge’s disclosure and acknowledgment
of guilt sufficient, or is further punishment necessary? Would the children
be justified in taking revenge on their father? Should they seek to humiliate
the man who humiliated them?
In a passage about "The
Right Method of Treating Criminals," `Abdu'l-Bahá warns
against vengeance and delineates the purpose of punishment: "The
communities must punish the oppressor, the murderer, the malefactor, so
as to warn and restrain others from committing like crimes." [5]
He distinguishes between the responsibilities of a society and those of
individuals. Society's role is to protect and punish; the role of individuals
is to forgive. If society is not functioning in a protective and corrective
role, and there are no consequences for acts of aggression, the social
order is not functioning on just terms, and individuals may be left feeling
at a loss about what to do and how to respond. `Abdu'l-Bahá continues,
saying that
the constitution
of the communities depends upon justice, not upon forgiveness. Then
what Christ meant by forgiveness and pardon is not that, when nations
attack you, burn your homes, plunder your goods, assault your wives,
children and relatives, and violate your honor, you should be submissive
in the presence of these tyrannical foes and allow them to perform all
their cruelties and oppressions. No, the words of Christ refer to the
conduct of two individuals toward each other: if one person assaults
another, the injured one should forgive him. But the communities must
protect the rights of man. [6]
There are
plentiful examples of those who seek to take vengeance, but this is not
what The Celebration seems to advocate as a solution. Instead,
it suggests that the effort and potential discomfort involved in seeking
to learn the truth and live with the consequences is worthwhile because
the results seem beneficial to the family. Before Christian's disclosure,
the Klingenfeldts had a pattern in place of how to interact with each
other, yet it was infected with violence and dysfunction. Now a new system
is emerging, but all must work to strengthen and sustain it.
Dogme 95 and Bearing Witness
THE RAW, almost crude technical style of The Celebration echoes
its unflinching content. Its director Vinterberg is one of the cofounders
(along with Lars von Trier) of Dogme 95, a director's manifesto designed
to counter affected and overwrought tendencies in modern film production.
Renouncing techniques such as tripods, artificial lighting, and props
beyond what exist on location, the Dogme
95 filmmaking rules (or "vows of chastity") experiment with
a less processed approach to storytelling, stressing spontaneity and the
inner lives of the characters.
One of the vows states, "my supreme goal is to force the truth out
of my characters and settings; I swear to do so by all the means available
and at the cost of any good taste and any aesthetic considerations."
Vinterberg has said that Dogme 95 was his attempt to reach the "naked
film" underneath, which he says has been "dying in the embrace
of cosmetics." In the case of The Celebration the removal
of filmmaking artifice makes way for us to witness the breakdown of human
artifice in the story's characters. When Christian first makes his announcement,
there is no background music, no slow, dramatic zoom on his face—just
his voice, the guests' silence, and the clink of forks and glasses. We
get an unencumbered sense of his fear and relief and of the guests' shock
and disbelief. Nothing detracts from what Christian is saying; it is almost
as if his disclosure was caught on video by a guest.
While the film does not seek to influence through artifice, it does employ
devices that encourage a feeling of empathy with the characters and draw
viewers into the story. Helene finds Linda's suicide note by playing a
game they played as children, "getting warmer," whereby a series
of clues brings one closer to the hidden object. We are asked throughout
The Celebration to play a similar game. As more details are revealed,
we start to piece together the family’s story. The film's unadorned
production style further connects viewer with plot. This intimate connection
places us inside the story and encourages reflection on the same questions
with which the characters struggle.
The Relationship of Changes in the Family to
Changes in the World
FILMS such as The Celebration contribute to an increasingly audible
dialogue on the need for transformation in the current moral and psychological
climate of the family. They posit new ways of looking at traumatic events
within families without either sensationalizing them or seeking to tidy
the complexity of the responses. The use of media to catalyze reflection
and dialogue on these subjects seems particularly important at a time
when violence—particularly against women and children—can seem
ubiquitous and solutions inscrutable.
Christian’s persevering efforts to find a solution to his family's
heretofore inscrutable problem yield results during the course of the
film. Though his family attempts to discredit and actually harm him, by
the end his truth is verified, and the culture of the family has changed.
Once seen as possible within the context of the family, which `Abdu'l-Bahá
calls "a nation in miniature," it begins to seem more probable
that change can happen in the world. [7] Yet to bring it about requires
effort.
The Universal House of Justice, in its 1985 statement on world peace,
sets forth the idea that as individuals and as communities, we have a
choice about the path to peace. Peace is inevitable, but we can come to
it through an "act of consultative will," or we can come to
it through having to experience "unimaginable horrors." [8]
Bearing witness to the unimaginable horrors one family goes through in
The Celebration leaves one with a feeling of having been warned.
Yet the questions that arise and new patterns of thought and action that
emerge in the film encourage reflection on personal choices and collective
systems that can lead past the tangle of denial and humiliation toward
peace.
Copyright © 2001 by Caren Rosenthal and Leili Towfigh
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