There is a delightful sense of relief upon watching The Worst Person in the World, a Norwegian romantic comedy-drama that presents us with the ups-and-downs, the comes-and-goes of Julie in Oslo. Here, I will try to analyze some of the topics I found interesting, that resonate with me (and previous lectures)1. At some point, I might deviate too much from the movie, but I like to rant about these things…

Shame, guilt, and the devenir of life

It is interesting how the way things go is reflected in this movie, as here, even in the most oneiric sections of the narrative, it is clear that the characters are living their lives as their lives come to them. Nevertheless, it is even clearer (to the viewer) that they face the consequences of their actions (to different degrees).

The gap between responsibility and the way things ought to go is filled with silent shame, regret, guilt that allow the characters to move forward (at their own pace). I will try to explore some of these topics, as they entwine in this complex romantic drama.

Fool’s errand, fool’s errant

One of the beautiful aspects of the film lie on the intimate spaces generated by the lighting (though this aspect is further explored in the director’s next film Sentimental Value). In particular, there is some big subtext on each sunset and sunrise in Oslo: the weather, the green scenery, the gray sky—they all align with some struggle that our protagonist faces. They are not based on an unattainable fiction: these background are in concordance with what the protagonist feels, and those feelings are real. Note the clear contrast of this nature-aware, walkable-city ambient against the abashing psychedelic struggle we see in the protagonist’s trip due to hallucinogen mushrooms: it does not constitute a reaction to interpersonal relationships in terms of transaction (which is still, another valid struggle I will revisit), but more so a reaction—an absolute realization—and impotence from what it seems an absolute loneliness framed and scoped inside Oslo (and inside Julie’s relationship).

There is a clear sense of getting overwhelmed on some of the sunsets and sunrises presented to us along the movie—they preface the unavoidable loneliness of the circumstances. The framing of the main character’s reaction upon facing her reality strike us as we don’t need to hear what her inner world wants to voice: the city, the sunset, the sunrise is telling us “there is someone out there, yet you are lonely.” From the descent from the party to the city, to the fatidic sunrise: it is crushing the protagonist—how do we cope with this loneliness?

It is interesting that the story proposes several solutions. The first one is to indulge yourselves upon tentation—the issue here is that this cast a self-destructive connotation on our actions (and Julie suffers the consequences of it, or at least she feels them). The moral question is “are my feelings valid if my actions come from as an ‘unmeasured bodily response’?” Here, the problem lies on the antithesis of loneliness: we are reacting against loneliness, yet the solution to loneliness may not be instant connection; the rupture of an unstable connection could lead to more loneliness, i.e., avoidance for doing the hard “maintenance work”. A solution requires grounding, regardless of the nature of the connection. And we see it in our protagonists how avoidance has eroded (if not destroyed) some of her relationships—she has been in both ends of this erosion—and the lack of courage to be disliked has obliterated the authentic sense of self, because now we are not one to ourselves, but one for others, and therefore, we are no one.

A second solution is embracing the reality of other’s inabilities. What has to be done initially by the coprotagonists, ends up being inherited by the protagonist. Resignation plays a role in a later stage of the movie: we accept their lackings, over and over—we carry on. And this accepting is not required to be “integrating”, in the sense of allowing (or forcing) people into our lives. Sometimes, answers will resonate with us as an echo lost in time, as a very faint I-told-you-so.

A moral question arises from the self and to the self—how much do I have to give up? The movie presents us some interesting situations, as the parallel of the protagonist’s parenting expectations versus the final scene—what are the consequences of wanting one thing so stubbornly, and regretting it later in life? Can we welcome back so eagerly that what was once rejected and negated, into our lives again? We see that some people live in this paradox, 2 yet they seem free: maybe we may find comfort that the illusion they portray may not reflect their inner struggle; we may find joy that they moved on in life successfully; we may finally look inwards, and cherish what is long gone… And we carry on.

The heart does what the heart wants (and it will regret it)

The protagonist does not hold back when there is a (verbally) uncommunicated pain, and decides to deflect the true (and necessary) conflict with the agents that owe her accountability. First, we need to hash out this sense of debt. The protagonists—regardless of the nature of her feelings—has deep personal relationships: a partner, a mother, a father. Some of these relationships have an immutable, intransferrable properties attached to them: there are mutual responsibilities (duties and rights) that are framed in these relationships. Beware, these duties may change over time (for example, kids grow and become independent, parents get old and become dependent); communication is the only way to negotiate these duties, as we cannot live in what is expected—our expectations are not grounded, and they will snowball into the irrational. Julie has the right to communicate, to the same extent she has the duty to do so. Similarly, they have the right to hear Julie’s struggle, and to be able to communicate reciprocally: this is the price of being in a relationship. This is a key sticking point in this story, this is transgressed several times, to the misfortune of the different characters. Despite this tragic decision, the movie displays what could be described as the consequences of their (and our) own actions.

A key consequence of this constant uncommunicated expectation is the underlying deflection of discomfort and pain. And as a drug may produce an intense and quick relief, so does love do with us. The movie is centered around Julie’s relationships, and how frail they become when communication is not practiced correctly. We see several times how the search of instantaneous relief drives Julie into different relationships, how circumstance and frustration motivates her decisions. And they end up in regret, because the duty and the feelings lingers. Is there true acceptance when we chase our whims? Is this what I really want for myself? Reality is deceiving, and we have a loving heart—we pay the price of falling into temptation.

Self-vindication

What is the purpose of life itself, if it is not to serve to life wholly? If there is a topic that can finally bridge the gap between guilt, shame, and the calm cruelty of the world is our regency on our actions, and thus, vindication.

In the last few scenes of the movie, we are bombarded with life changes (that I ought not to describe fully for the sake of partial spoilersness). The loneliness that was once fought is now assimilated, and an unavoidable part of the reality. The plans and the improvised changes we had established, have all gone away. What is the thing that remains?

And the answer is integrity: we finally get ourselves for ourselves, and thus, we can truly be for the world. That is our relief, in the last scenes of the movie, because Julie has accepted the loss, the grief, and thus she is for herself, for the first time in the film. (Or at least we hope so, as she could hide it from us, the viewer.)

This is Gross’ purification3, that allows us to see that shame is no longer with us, and that guilt and grief may persevere, but we will heal. A sense of temporality has been established, and thus, in this finiteness, we have been saved.

The only thing that remains is a memory, the perception of one onto others. The words of Julie’s former partner can be dualized (resembling Camus’ argument): a part of you dies with me, and in a reverse way, a part of me lives in you. Thus, Julie now is not just Julie, but something more than a Julie. Identity does not fracture, we learn from life and experience: we use it to be better. So it goes.

Heraclitus’s river

As the constant succession of events that life is, The Worst Person in the World takes a glance into this constant unfolding of desires and familiar dynamics. We can identify some dynamic changes, as well as some underlying constants in this work.

Birth, death, and what is in between

Scattered through the movie, we can see glances of what life is. Family gatherings, random escapades with a lover, awkward conversations, etc.

One of the main stark differences are the contrasts of family prospects, birth, and stability versus the death of a loved one, a miscarriage, and the success of a former partner in their endeavors.

The movie deals with trauma, death, and grief; and it does it in a graceful portrayal and with well-defined sections of the movie allocated to different experiences. The prospects of death highlight one sour blessing: we have chances to do things better next time. Grief is not only upon the loss of what is loved, not only upon the loss of the potential, or the innocence, but grief from what was long familiar yet so painful for us, the barely-tolerable comfort of a distance that death has made infinitely large.

It is in grief where we appreciate what life is, what life can bring. And it does not need to be in service of someone, in the terms of an institution, or anything alike: it provides a chance to do something different as what we had is gone. In addition, we can ask ourselves: how do we remember those who departed. The answer is simple, we shall live for them—we must realize our potential. What is in between life and death is learning, and sometimes the reminders are painful.

The potential to be a river

The idealizations and the scenes that portray reflection shows us that reality escapes us. In the fantasy of the what-it-could-be, we adopt the role of a spectator. The movie exploits the fantasies of the future and the past.

Not only we suffer with the protagonist upon what seems a relatable sense of lack of agency and ownership over her own life, but we also start realizing—and even indulging into—the daydreaming escapades of the protagonist. We expect things to go better, because that is a (constant? Selfish?) desire for our own—at worst, a sense of entitlement to deserve better; at best, our human-born right to excel as a rational being. And thus, we look back, we look forward—we see things different: the narrative we have, the stance we have taken will taint our understanding.

There is a romanticization of the contemplative act because we want to feel better about our lives, yet, this is the very action that distracts us from being grounded and mindful. We start to see things in a different light, but if there is no significant change of the circumstances, we will crash with reality again.

Nostalgia and regret are a subtle part of this movie, that tie the topics of uncommunication and grief to the sense of security, but also with hope—now there is a fantasy that does not exist, but that I can try to construct in a different place, in a healthier way.

The picture of a river

Similarly, the idea of nostalgia and grief lead us to a grounded place. Now, it is our duty to realize our life: it shall not go away and slip in-between our fingers.

Time will distort, erode, and corrode the nature and initial state of things. It is our duty to remember them as they are, to our best extent. Consistency is an art that must be practiced, and remembrance is the gift we give to what we cherish. The eager eyes overlook what has been gone. Life changes constantly and we take what we can.

The silent rebellion that Julie does in her story is to remember them and to work on herself to improve herself. She has been changed, not only by this last glimpse of dying love, but by the birth of self-love and dignity. In order to preserve this—this recently born love—we must not forget: the work an individual has with themselves is to reconstruct and understand their circumstances, as well as to reaffirm themselves for who they are and who they want to be.

As Julie, who edits pictures for a living, we shall take pictures of our past, work on them, and find what is worth keeping. The Akerselva keeps its course.

Control

One of the main inflection points in the movie concerns trust and rescind control on the uncontrollable—a partner, a person, the past, the future. We have mentioned a bit how trauma has played a role into the development of some characters. We can also explore how they express their volition upon controlling what is not ours.

The limits of trust, expectations, and cheating

There is a chapter dedicated to the portrayal of a somewhat unusual cheating. Julie descends into Oslo, just to hijack one party and meet with Eivind. At the moment of the events, none of them knew each other’s name.

The whole chapter is based on the premise of establishing the boundaries of cheating. The issue lies on the empirical nature of this exploration—we are not witnessing two innocent souls debating a topic, but rather, two sinners pushing the lines and boundaries they don’t want to acknowledge. There is no intellectualization, no other parties contributing to this debate. There is a distancing from the main social event that gathers the people in the place (on top of Julie crashing on the party on her own).

And one may say they agree voluntarily to be in a relationship, thus, they chose to have the absolute duty with their partners. Thus, the name of the chapter, cheating—they create a link that persists through their current relationships. Julie thinks of this mysterious unnamed man; Eivind thinks of this spontaneous unnamed woman. They feed their desire, even when they have compromises. Thus, they are cheating.

In this beautiful portrayal of betrayal, one may recall again Aksel’s words and realize that, even in trust, there is deception, and that in comfort we may find disillusion.

I wasted so much time worrying about what could go wrong, but what did go wrong, was never the things I worried about.

Rebellious independence

On why the protagonists tries so hard to be independent, and the implicit control unto her.

Something that makes me keep this movie so present—putting aside the undertone of modern romantic commitment and how it has been eroded in our times—is how it reminisces the conflict between independence, rights, and duties.

In a society that has been yanked into instantaneity and has been pushed to modern times under the pretext of progress and development4, a culture of what is individual had the need to be reshaped. As modernity transgressed the boundaries of what is individual, each one of us had to reassert the boundaries—some of us, in this adaptation period of time, lost perspective of what a proportional response should look like.

Without delving into what would constitute such a valid reaction to these boundary transgressions, we have to talk about the consequences of it: individualism, a loss of perspective of interpersonal relationships, and a lingering sense of alert.

In this context, it is interesting to see Julie managing her relationships in the movie. We get to see an inner world and an omnipresent view of her world—there is a lot that goes uncommunicated. And one of the main questions is why it goes this way? One partial answer corresponds to the lackings and betrayals from Julie’s family towards her, and how this sense of betrayal constitutes a precedent to defend herself preemptively. On one hand, one has fear to repeat the cycle from a victim perspective. This forces her to not rely on the support of the people one would like to expect support. On the other hand, society has normalized the suck-it-up-and-deal-with-it response against threats—we have defaulted towards the opposite of connection or reparation.

On top of what goes unspoken, we see some abandonment of duties. And note here that duties are not only of others, but also for oneself. Julie does not feel like herself: there is a sense of lost agency, and this loss weighs on her, it wears her down. In this first error—not being true to herself—we walk directly towards the subsequent issues: not being able to be true for others. Thus, what could have been communications about the needs of each of the characters, healthy explorations into new unexplored aspects of life, becomes something to be rejected as it won’t be dealt with as a responsibility, but rather as a burden and therefore, a reason to leave.

And the underlying cultural push to hyperindependence drags us into a uniform direction. Like rocks on a river, getting dragged, polished, more uniform, without really understanding where we are going; the consequences of defending ourselves from what we don’t talk, from what it is not talked with us. And thus, yet again, honesty comes with communication and consistency. One may rebel and be independent, but there is no fight that can last a lifetime: there are better things to do with so much time.

On forgiveness

One of the most intense aspects of the end of the film pertains to the sense and meaning of life at the gates of death. What should we do when there is nothing else to do? We accept our fate.

This is a cornerstone moment on the movie, where acceptance, resignation, and awareness merge towards greater understanding, compassion, and communication between Julie and Aksel.

The certainty of what it will be makes the uncertain somewhat trivial: what is the point of wondering if we know how it will end. Instead of guessing and imposing our will, we can forgive, and let the other know that they can carry on. Life is too short to worry about the things that will go wrong, because life is life, and you are you—but now I am myself, and I am ultimately free.

The juxtaposition of forgiveness on deathbed with romantic closure unveils the hardships of being brutally honest with oneself. This is something we learn to live with, before it becomes the cancer that it is.

This is a very beautiful film I would recommend. I must say, if you like The Worst Person in the World, you will definitely like Sentimental Value.

Footnotes

  1. One time I was told my interpretation of a TV show did not align with their expectations (albeit the show resonated with me); be forewarned that this is just my take. ↩

  2. This reminds me of the first and third problemata of Fear and Trembling: the problem of the suspension of the ethical, and the problem of the disclosure of the ethical. ↩

  3. See A philosophy of shame. ↩

  4. This whole topic could be spin off into a whole (and long) critique to (one particular) modern society. ↩