Force Majeure presents a situation between a married couple that forces us to reflect on how our own response to the same situation might be similar or different. Swedish Director Ruben Ostlund demonstrates great control with a deft sense of humor that bursts forth to perfectly offset the many tense moments of conflict. Philosophical speculation and laugh-out-loud intervals may seem like strange bedfellows but in this Cannes Jury Prize winner, it works magnificently.
Tomas (Johannes Bah Kuhnke) and Ebba (Lisa Loven Kongsli) embark on a family ski trip with their adolescent kids in tow. Cinematographer Fredrik Wenzel conveys the tranquility of the scene with get verve. Ostlund throws in ironic sonic flourishes that portend an eeriness suggesting the calm might be temporary. Then, in a flash, a natural event occurs that ostensibly seems matter-of-fact. As the day turns into night, a decision made by Tomas takes on an increasingly momentous status. While their kids express worry that their parents might be heading for divorce, the problem grows and grows. Another couple who they’ve acquainted offer compassionate support. Yet their very involvement also tangles them up in the quagmire. Speculation is rampant. No relationship is safe given the extraordinary challenge presented. (Here’s a hint: it has to do with the protection of the female by the male, or precisely, the lack of it.)
Much has been made about couples entering into Force Majeure’s force field at their own risk. One reviewer has suggested seeing it alone so as not to jeopardize your relationship and I’m not so sure he was entirely tongue-in-cheek. What is clear is this is clearly a film whose vision offers an almost unparalleled uniqueness. While its ending may baffle some and anger others, it, too, seems especially singular in its irony-on-irony ability to spoof itself into an even more unsettling emotional terrain. Its instant and recurring tone changes providing exhilarating strength, Force Majeure seems like a patently rigorous Michael Haneke film juxtaposed with the deadpan glee of Jim Jarmusch’s Stranger Than Paradise. That is to say, near-perfect.