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The Aesthetic of Misogyny: Lars von Trier and Feminism’s Long Delayed Reckoning

Introduction

In 1998, I presented a paper at the Nordic Institute for Women’s Studies and Gender Research (NIKK) in Oslo that critically examined Lars von Trier’s Breaking the Waves and The Idiots, arguing that his films revealed a troubling pattern of female suffering, sexual degradation, and patriarchal fantasy disguised as profundity. I expected discussion, perhaps even disagreement, but I was met with something colder—outright dismissal. The response to my argument was not engagement but silence, a refusal to entertain the idea that one of Europe’s most celebrated male auteurs might be indulging in something as unsophisticated as sexism. At the time, von Trier was widely regarded as a filmmaker of extraordinary sensitivity to women’s inner lives. His female protagonists—Bess in Breaking the Waves, Karen in The Idiots, Selma in Dancer in the Dark—were described by some as tragic heroines, sacrificing themselves for love or truth. The notion that von Trier might not be elevating these women, but rather constructing a cinematic world in which their suffering was aestheticized for the pleasure and self-justification of a male gaze, was simply not welcome in that room.


Over two decades later, the tide of feminist critique has shifted dramatically. In the wake of the #MeToo movement and the revelations of von Trier’s treatment of Björk during Dancer in the Dark, feminist scholars and critics have reconsidered his body of work with a more skeptical eye. What was once debated as ambiguity—was Breaking the Waves a feminist parable or a misogynistic fantasy?—now seems more clearly answerable. Von Trier’s filmography has consistently returned to the image of a woman’s suffering, her submission, her martyrdom, her punishment, and, at times, her revenge, in ways that no longer appear as merely thematic preoccupations but as symptomatic of a deeper pathology. The conversation that was shut down in Oslo in 1998 has since been taken up in force by feminist scholars worldwide. This essay traces that trajectory, demonstrating how the feminist reassessment of von Trier’s films has ultimately vindicated the very critique that was dismissed decades ago. Without triumphalism, but with the weight of history behind the argument, I return to the scene of that cold reception to show how time, discourse, and feminist criticism have caught up with what should have been obvious then.


Breaking the Waves (1996): Early Feminist Debates

Lars von Trier’s international breakthrough Breaking the Waves immediately split opinion among feminist critics. Some read the film’s tragic heroine, Bess, as an empowered figure – a woman whose extreme self-sacrifice is a conscious choice rather than passive victimhood. For example, critic Solano argued that Bess “possess[es] autonomy and power,” ultimately choosing to sacrifice herself for love on her own terms (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). In this view, Bess even becomes a sort of feminist icon: an agent of resistance against a rigid patriarchal church, valuing love and human devotion over dogma (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). Such interpretations saw von Trier’s “true love story” as potentially a bold feminist statement, emphasizing Bess’s agency and spiritual strength.


Yet from the start, other voices perceived Breaking the Waves very differently – as a chauvinistic provocation. These critics pointed out the disturbing pattern of Bess’s “unconditional devotion” being depicted through sexual degradation, violence, and madness. In their view, von Trier crafted Bess as a “sexual martyr” and fetishized her suffering, an approach that ultimately reinforces patriarchal power dynamics rather than subverting them (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). Feminist readings along these lines argued that the film’s excessive portrayal of a woman’s pain and hysteria only re-inscribed the idea of femininity as weakness and abjection (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). Indeed, as one scholar noted, Breaking the Waves has been a “tough nut to crack” – leaving audiences unsure if it’s a radical feminist parable or just evidence of the director’s own male chauvinism (The Postfeminist Masquerade and the Cynical Male Gaze: The Disavowal of Sexual Difference in Lars von Trier’s Breaking the Waves). In hindsight, it’s clear that feminist discourse in the late 1990s was divided and still feeling its way with von Trier’s work. Some commentators were initially slow to condemn the film’s misogynistic elements, opting to find complex or spiritual meaning in Bess’s portrayal, while others sounded early alarms about the pattern of female suffering being romanticized on screen.


Dancer in the Dark (2000): Martyrdom and Real-Life Revelations

Von Trier’s next female-centered tragedy, Dancer in the Dark, continued this pattern of the self-sacrificing heroine – and likewise drew mixed feminist reactions. The film’s protagonist Selma (played by singer Björk) is a blind, working-class immigrant who endures injustice and violence: she kills a man in desperation and ultimately faces execution. Like Bess, Selma is an “innocent” woman who offers herself up to save someone she loves (in this case, her son’s future sight) (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?). At the time of its release, many critics admired the film’s emotional power and Björk’s performance (which won Best Actress at Cannes). Any overt feminist critique of Dancer in the Dark’s content was relatively muted in 2000 – with some viewers again seeing a lamentable social indictment rather than misogyny. Selma’s suffering was often discussed in terms of class, disability, and the cruelties of the American justice system, rather than as a gendered trope. In this sense, feminist scholars were not quick to single out Dancer as misogynistic, perhaps viewing Selma’s victimization as a broader humanist tragedy in line with von Trier’s “Golden Heart” trilogy of selfless women (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?).


However, with time a more critical feminist lens was applied – especially as behind-the-scenes information emerged. Years later, Björk herself revealed the abusive dynamic she experienced while working with von Trier. In 2017, amidst the #MeToo movement, Björk accused a “Danish director” (widely understood to be von Trier) of sexually harassing her during Dancer in the Dark’s production (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny). She stated that the incidents made her realize “it is a universal thing that a director can touch and harass his actresses at will and the institution of film allows it” (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny). Von Trier denied the allegations, and his collaborators had mixed responses – actress Charlotte Gainsbourg noted, “maybe he’s capable of that. But he didn’t do it with me,” simultaneously defending her own experience while acknowledging Björk’s might have been different (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny). These revelations cast Dancer in the Dark in a new light for many feminists. What some had initially viewed as simply a melodramatic martyr story was now harder to separate from the director’s personal treatment of women. Björk’s testimony prompted a reassessment: the on-screen torment of Selma could no longer be so easily divorced from a pattern of a male auteur exerting disturbing control over his female leads. In retrospect, feminist critics saw Dancer’s narrative of a woman’s ruination as part of von Trier’s broader fixation on female suffering – a fixation now linked not just to artistic choice, but to troubling power dynamics off-screen as well.


Dogville (2003): Empowerment or Exploitation?

With Dogville, von Trier both continued and evolved his approach to female protagonists, prompting another shift in feminist discourse. The film puts Grace (Nicole Kidman) through an ordeal of escalating abuse: a fugitive in a small town, she is first accepted, then slowly enslaved by the villagers. Over the course of the story, Grace is forced into hard labor, sexually assaulted by multiple men, and even chained like an animal as her attempt to escape is thwarted (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?). This relentless victimization in Dogville led some critics to observe a now-familiar pattern – as one journalist dryly noted, “for much of Dogville’s three-hour running time Nicole Kidman is beaten, chained and raped,” just as Emily Watson’s Bess had been brutalized in Breaking the Waves (Breaking the Waves – The Wee Review | Scotland's arts and culture ...) (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). To these observers, it seemed von Trier was still crafting narratives that dwell on the torment of women, potentially for shock value or artistic martyrdom. Feminist commentators continued to question why the director’s central stories so often hinged on the degradation of a female character.

Dogville, however, delivers a dramatic twist that sparked new debate: in the final act, Grace refuses to forgive her oppressors and instead exacts violent revenge. Seizing a sudden opportunity, she calls in brutal retribution – having the townspeople executed (she even personally kills the man who had abused her the most). This climactic reversal prompted some to interpret Grace’s arc as an empowerment narrative in disguise. Notably, von Trier himself described Dogville as the moment his heroines “stopped being sacrificial lambs and started fighting their oppressors” (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?). Indeed, unlike Bess or Selma, Grace does not go meekly to a tragic end; she turns the tables, however grimly. Some feminist critics found this development intriguing: was von Trier responding to earlier critiques by granting a female character agency to avenge herself? Grace’s Old-Testament-style justice could be read as a dark form of empowerment, asserting that a woman pushed to the brink can choose not to forgive unforgivable cruelty.


Yet this interpretation was far from universally positive. Other feminists were unsettled by the implications of Dogville’s ending. Grace’s resort to murderous violence left a bitter aftertaste – a “Pyrrhic victory” that, as critic Judy Berman put it, carries “disturbing implications” about human nature and society (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?). Rather than a straightforward feminist triumph, the finale struck some as von Trier doubling down on cynicism. The audience is left to ponder whether Grace’s only options were saintly suffering or becoming as cruel as her abusers – a bleak dichotomy. Thus, feminist discourse around Dogville was conflicted. On one hand, the film marked a turning point that hinted von Trier had heard accusations of misogyny and given his female lead a form of agency. On the other hand, many felt that Dogville still objectified its heroine through lengthy scenes of abuse, and that her ultimate empowerment was compromised by its savage nature. Was von Trier critiquing the social systems that destroy women (the film can be seen as an allegory of collective guilt and victim-blaming), or was he indulging in the spectacle of a woman’s suffering until it could be pushed no further? Feminist critics in the early 2000s wrestled with these questions, and the film’s ambiguous moral left von Trier’s gender politics as controversial as ever.


Antichrist (2009): Backlash and the “Misogyny” Bombshell

If Dogville’s reception was debated, Antichrist blew the debate wide open. This 2009 film – a horror-tinged psychodrama about a grieving couple in the woods – became infamous for its graphic violence and disturbing depiction of gender. In Antichrist, the female character (played by Charlotte Gainsbourg and pointedly named only “She”) descends into guilt-ridden madness after the death of her child, inflicting gruesome violence on herself and her husband. The film’s most notorious scene involves “She” mutilating her own genitals – an image that for many critics crossed into outright misogyny. Feminist outrage at Antichrist was immediate and loud. Viewers and reviewers condemned the movie as a grotesque portrayal of women as evil, hysterical, and violent by nature. British critic Christopher Tookey railed that “the man who made this horrible, misogynistic film needs to see a shrink” (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com), and at the Cannes premiere Antichrist was met with a mix of boos and shocks. In fact, Cannes jurors took the unprecedented step of giving von Trier a special “anti-prize” to rebuke the film’s misogyny (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). For the first time, a broad consensus seemed to emerge in the press: Antichrist wasn’t just pushing boundaries – it had crossed a line in its hatred or fear of women.


Von Trier’s own antics only amplified this impression. He provocatively hired a so-called “misogyny consultant” during production, tasking this advisor with providing historical and cultural justifications for the idea that “women are evil” (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). That detail, once publicized, became a lightning rod in feminist discourse. It suggested that von Trier was consciously weaving misogynistic ideology into the film – or at least slyly thumbing his nose at anticipated criticism. Either way, it was not well received by feminist scholars and critics. Many took Antichrist as confirmation of their worst suspicions about the director. After years of watching von Trier’s female leads suffer, here was a film that seemingly deified that suffering and turned it into monstrous hatred. The character of “She” is associated with witchcraft, lust, and irrational violence – essentially a catalogue of patriarchal nightmares about womanhood. To feminists, Antichrist appeared to validate age-old misogynist tropes (from medieval “evil woman” lore to Freudian hysteria) rather than critique them. It’s no surprise that words like “misogynistic,” “torture-porn,” and “sick” dominated the discourse around the film.


It must be noted that not everyone agreed on a one-dimensional reading of Antichrist. A few contrarian critics – including some women – tried to find subversive layers or self-awareness in the film. For instance, one interpretation floated in The Guardian mused that perhaps von Trier had crafted Antichrist as “an exercise in alternative theology” rather than simple woman-hating, given the film’s heavy religious imagery and grief allegory (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). Others wondered if the extreme depiction of misogyny was meant to shock audiences into confronting misogynistic ideas (rather than endorsing them). But such defenses were decidedly in the minority. The prevailing feminist response in 2009 was that von Trier’s provocations had gone too far. With Antichrist, his reputation among feminist writers hit a new low. What had earlier been debated or downplayed – the misogynistic undercurrents in his art – were now laid bare in the harshest light. In feminist discourse, Antichrist became a byword for von Trier’s misogyny, a turning point that made even his past films look more suspect in hindsight.


Melancholia (2011): A Reprieve and Reassessment

After the Antichrist firestorm, von Trier’s next film Melancholia was met with cautious relief by many critics – including some feminists. In stark contrast to its predecessor, Melancholia contains no overt violence against women, no sexual brutality, and no villainizing of its female characters. Instead, it is a contemplative drama about depression and the end of the world, told largely through the perspective of a young bride, Justine (Kirsten Dunst). Melancholia’s depiction of Justine drew considerable praise for its empathy and complexity. Reviewers noted that von Trier (who has publicly struggled with depression) poured genuine understanding into this character. The result, as one commentator observed, is “one of cinema’s most empathetic, multifaceted portrayals of a female character by a male filmmaker” (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?). Unlike the archetypal “martyr” or “madwoman” of his earlier films, Justine is not defined by abuse or saintly submission; she is defined by her inner life – her intelligence, her pain, and her refusal to perform happiness for the sake of others (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?). Importantly, Melancholia doesn’t frame Justine’s despair as a specifically feminine weakness, but as a human response to a profoundly disordered world. Many saw this as evidence that von Trier could treat a female protagonist with nuance and respect, without subjecting her to a sadistic narrative.


Because of this, Melancholia enjoyed a markedly different reception in feminist circles. The film largely avoided accusations of misogyny. In fact, some feminist critics who had been harsh on Antichrist acknowledged that Melancholia felt refreshingly free of woman-hating overtones (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?). If anything, the movie’s focus on a woman’s mental state – without punishing her for it – earned cautious admiration. Justine’s famous line in the film, “Earth is evil, we don’t need to grieve for it,” is delivered not as hysteria but as cold insight, and in the story it’s the panicked men (Justine’s husband, her brother-in-law) who falter emotionally when apocalypse arrives, whereas Justine remains calm. Such elements invited feminist readings that Melancholia subtly inverts gender stereotypes of emotional “strength.” The absence of a victimization narrative was a relief: no one rapes or tortures Justine; she isn’t “redeemed” by death or marriage; she simply is, on her own terms, at the world’s end.


This relatively positive reception led some to reassess von Trier’s body of work. Could it be that his treatment of women was more nuanced than the blanket “misogynist” label suggested? Some pointed out that von Trier’s female characters, as flawed or suffering as they are, are often the most fully realized figures in his films – more so than the men. It’s the women (Bess, Selma, Grace, Justine, etc.) who drive the narratives and elicit audience empathy. Fans and a few scholars argued that von Trier was, in a perverse way, centering women’s stories in a film landscape that often sidelines them. As one defense put it, his films “present women as sympathetic characters” and the oppressions they endure as “disgraceful and consequential” – which, the argument goes, means the films are actually condemning misogyny, not condoning it (10 Reasons Why Lars Von Trier Might Actually be a Feminist – Taste of Cinema – Movie Reviews and Classic Movie Lists) (10 Reasons Why Lars Von Trier Might Actually be a Feminist – Taste of Cinema – Movie Reviews and Classic Movie Lists). This line of reasoning likened von Trier to a mirror: showing ugly misogynistic behavior (of societies, of male characters) in order to critique it. Melancholia gave some weight to this view, since the film has elements that critique patriarchal family expectations (for instance, Justine bristles at the pressures of the wedding and a career imposed by male figures).


Still, the respite was temporary. Even as Melancholia earned him goodwill, von Trier’s reputation within feminist discourse remained tentative. His very next project would re-open old wounds, suggesting that Melancholia was less a new direction than a brief detour in his complicated engagement with female characters.


Nymphomaniac (2013): Renewed Debates on Female Sexuality

When von Trier released Nymphomaniac Vol. I and II in late 2013, feminist critics once again found themselves divided – and in some cases, already exhausted with the director’s provocations. Nymphomaniac follows the life story of Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg), a self-described nymphomaniac recounting her lifelong journey of sexual exploits, trauma, and desire. Given its explicit content and in-your-face title, the film was controversial from the moment it was announced. Some detractors practically made up their minds “the moment they heard the title,” assuming that Nymphomaniac would be yet another exercise in female objectification or degradation (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?). Indeed, even before seeing it, many in the feminist blogosphere braced for the worst – anticipating a shallow male fantasy masquerading as a deep exploration of female lust.


Upon release, Nymphomaniac did ignite intense discussion, though the reactions were more nuanced than a simple pan. To many feminist commentators, the film presented a frustrating paradox. On one hand, Joe is arguably the most sexually forthright, unabashed female protagonist von Trier has ever written. The story confronts female sexual agency head-on: Joe pursues pleasure on her own terms, rejects the notion of love as a necessity, and speaks openly about lust, taboos, and her refusal to feel shame for her desires. Superficially, this could have been a liberating, sex-positive narrative – a rarity for a female character. However, von Trier’s treatment of Joe’s sexuality struck a sour note for a lot of viewers. As the New Republic quipped, Nymphomaniac ultimately felt like a “man’s conventional, sexist view of female sexuality” rather than a progressive one (Lars Von Trier's Nymphomaniac Is a Conventional, Sexist Film: Review | The New Republic) (Lars Von Trier's Nymphomaniac Is a Conventional, Sexist Film: Review | The New Republic). Critics pointed out that Joe’s journey is laden with self-loathing, punishment, and misery. She refers to herself as “wrong” and “evil”; her most intense erotic encounters border on self-harm; she loses her family and nearly her life as a result of her sexual compulsions. In the end (spoiler alert), the seemingly sympathetic man who listens to her story betrays her, attempting to rape her – reinforcing her view that sex has ruined her chances for normal human kindness. For many, this confirmed that von Trier cannot imagine a woman’s sexuality except through a lens of pain and degradation. One feminist reviewer noted that Joe’s patterns of “enjoying sex and despising her sexuality” are depressingly familiar: rather than showing a woman joyfully empowered by sex, Nymphomaniac gives us a heroine who “hates herself” and must be either punished or redeemed – a cliché as old as patriarchal culture itself (Lars Von Trier's Nymphomaniac Is a Conventional, Sexist Film: Review | The New Republic). “A truly novel film,” this critic argued, would have featured a woman who embraces her sexuality without anguish; Nymphomaniac, by contrast, felt to them like the same old misogynistic story under a glossy arthouse veneer (Lars Von Trier's Nymphomaniac Is a Conventional, Sexist Film: Review | The New Republic).


Yet, other critics (including some self-identified feminists) found Nymphomaniac more thought-provoking and less clear-cut in its message. They observed that the film is littered with meta-commentary and allusions, almost inviting debate about whether von Trier is indulging in exploitation or actually commenting on exploitation. For instance, the character Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård), who listens to Joe’s tale, often interrupts with academic digressions – comparing her sexual experiences to fly fishing, Bach’s music, or Fibonacci numbers. The absurdity of these comparisons suggests that von Trier is aware of – even mocking – how society intellectualizes or judges female sexuality. Some viewers took this as a sign that the film is satirizing the very idea of fitting a woman’s raw sexual story into neat, male-defined narratives. Additionally, the final twist (Joe shooting her would-be rapist) can be read as a moment of feminist rage or self-defense, akin to Grace’s vengeance in Dogville. It’s a bleak ending, but it refuses to let the woman be a silent victim. In this reading, Nymphomaniac’s grim conclusion is a condemnation of the male listener’s entitlement – he believes Joe’s sexual history means she’s available to him, and he’s punished for that belief. Some critics argued that throughout Nymphomaniac, von Trier is actually indicting the culture of misogyny that warps Joe’s life (Review: Nymphomaniac: Vol. I - The Santa Barbara Independent). Rather than portraying Joe as “fallen” by nature, the film could be seen as showing how society labels and destroys a woman who doesn’t conform to norms. A writer for the Santa Barbara Independent, for example, noted that while von Trier’s scenarios “could sometimes seem misogynistic,” they often “actually indict the culture of misogyny” itself (Review: Nymphomaniac: Vol. I - The Santa Barbara Independent). In other words, Joe’s suffering and self-reproach are interpreted as products of a misogynistic world – one the film lays bare – rather than evidence that the director hates his protagonist.


In feminist discourse, this debate over Nymphomaniac was vigorous. The film “started up the debate again” about von Trier’s treatment of women, as one observer put it in early 2014 (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). Some longtime feminist film scholars who had been critical since the Breaking the Waves days felt vindicated that von Trier still hadn’t changed his stripes. Others who had perhaps been more forgiving after Melancholia now doubled down on criticism, arguing that Nymphomaniac proved the director’s fetish for female suffering was alive and well – merely repackaged in explicit sexual form. Conversely, a minority defended the film as a bold confrontation with uncomfortable truths about sex and gender. This split in reactions showed that even after 15+ years of scrutiny, von Trier could still polarize feminist thinkers. If nothing else, Nymphomaniac reinforced that any benefit of the doubt he had earned with Melancholia was short-lived. The old question – is he a profound ally exposing misogyny, or just a provocateur reveling in it? – remained hotly contested.


Late 2010s: #MeToo and the Reassessment of Von Trier’s Legacy

By the end of the 2010s, feminist engagement with Lars von Trier’s work encompassed not just textual analysis of his films, but also an appraisal of his off-screen behavior and industry reputation. The #MeToo movement in 2017 was a crucial turning point. As mentioned, Björk’s public accusations against von Trier (though she avoided naming him explicitly) brought new attention to how female actors were treated in his productions (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny). In an era newly sensitive to power imbalances and harassment in Hollywood (and global cinema), von Trier’s established pattern of putting actresses through on-screen ordeals took on a more troubling cast. Feminist critics began to draw direct lines between the themes of his films and the methods of the man. For instance, Björk’s claim that the director had overstepped physical boundaries on set lent credence to the idea that von Trier’s fascination with dominating, punishing, or “testing” women wasn’t confined to fiction. It’s telling that Björk described a systemic problem where a director “can touch and harass his actresses at will” under the protection of the film industry (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny). For many, von Trier became an emblem of that toxic dynamic – a celebrated auteur whose avant-garde reputation perhaps shielded him from scrutiny for too long.


Within feminist discourse, there was a sense that earlier critiques, which might have been dismissed as prudish or misreading his art, were now being validated. Those who had been “blind” or slow to see misogyny in the films could hardly ignore the testimony of a woman who had lived one of those films from the inside. As one article pointed out in the wake of these revelations, any “surprise” at hearing of von Trier’s abusive behavior was misplaced – after all, his industry is male-dominated and his art openly centered on the debasement of women (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny) (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny). In other words, the signs were there all along. This led to a bit of soul-searching: had cinephiles (including feminist scholars) given von Trier a pass early on because of the arthouse prestige attached to his work? Some concluded yes – that the cinematic artistry of films like Breaking the Waves or the pop-star glamour of Dancer in the Dark initially distracted from, or even glamorized, the underlying misogynistic patterns. Now, with hindsight, those patterns look stark.


Von Trier’s own public persona did him no favors in this period either. Infamous for provocation, he had long made outrageous remarks (for example, joking about sympathizing with Hitler during a 2011 press conference, which, while not gender-related, contributed to an image of a provocateur who lacked filters or sensitivity). In interviews, he sometimes seemed to wink at the idea of his misogyny. He reportedly claimed that his female characters were actually his alter-egos, containing much of himself, and that he “likes to be the man everyone hates” (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny). Such comments, intended or not, came off as a taunt – as if he relished the controversy. By the late 2010s, many feminists had lost patience with this routine. What might have once been interpreted as von Trier’s dark humor or self-awareness started to feel to critics like deflection or even gaslighting. As one commentator put it, “female protagonists do not a feminist film make” (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny). The fact that von Trier often places women at the center of his movies no longer earned him credit in feminist circles; instead, it raised suspicion about why he was so fixated on stories of female pain.


Even von Trier’s supporters at this stage tended to acknowledge the problematic aspects of his work, while arguing for a more nuanced interpretation. For example, the 2020 monograph Woman in Lars von Trier’s Cinema: 1996–2014 by critic Ahmed Elbeshlawy wrestles with these very contradictions. Elbeshlawy suggests that some of von Trier’s films subvert traditional male gaze tropes – noting, for instance, that the use of a blind heroine in Dancer in the Dark cleverly “subverts the fetishistic and voyeuristic tendencies” that typically objectify women on screen (Woman in Lars von Trier’s Cinema: 1996-2014 by Ahmed Elbeshlawy - MAI: Feminism & Visual Culture). He and others have posited that von Trier’s emphasis on female suffering is not meant to revel in it, but to explore existential and ethical questions in a “degendered” way (Woman in Lars von Trier’s Cinema: 1996-2014 by Ahmed Elbeshlawy - MAI: Feminism & Visual Culture). In the case of Melancholia, for example, Elbeshlawy argues that focusing narrowly on gender politics misses the film’s true focus on depression and oblivion as human (not exclusively female) experiences (Woman in Lars von Trier’s Cinema: 1996-2014 by Ahmed Elbeshlawy - MAI: Feminism & Visual Culture). This kind of scholarship indicates that even after years of heated debate, there remains room for re-reading von Trier’s work through different theoretical lenses – sometimes in ways surprisingly sympathetic to the director. Such analyses, however, often strike a theoretical tone that can feel disconnected from the raw discomfort many viewers feel watching von Trier’s women suffer on screen.


As of the present, Lars von Trier occupies a complicated place in feminist discourse. His films from the late 1990s through the 2010s have undergone cycles of acclaim, critique, re-interpretation, and condemnation. In the late ’90s, some feminists and critics were indeed slow to call out what now seem like glaring misogynistic elements – partly because von Trier’s storytelling allowed for ambiguous interpretations, and partly because the director was adept at cloaking provocation in art-film respectability. Over time, however, the accumulation of evidence (both on screen and behind the scenes) made those elements harder and harder to ignore. Key turning points – the Dogville era shift, the Antichrist backlash, the Nymphomaniac debates, and the #MeToo revelations – each prompted waves of reassessment. With each controversy, more critics have come around to the view that misogyny isn’t just an incidental byproduct of von Trier’s style, but perhaps a core concern that needs to be grappled with.


That said, the discourse is not monolithic. There are still divergent threads – from those who label him an unredeemable misogynist who builds his auteurist brand on the abuse of women, to those who find complexity and even elements of critique or feminist insight within his work. For instance, some note that in every von Trier film cited here, the woman is actually the character who commands our attention and sympathy; the men are often weak, cruel, or secondary. This inversion of the typical Hollywood dynamic (where women are sidekicks or love interests) is something even a few feminists have cautiously praised. Von Trier’s admirers argue that he portrays women as multidimensional beings – flawed, passionate, devout, destructive, resilient – in a way few male directors dare to, and that he forces audiences to empathize with them because of their suffering, not with the (usually male) perpetrators. In their view, calling him simply “a misogynist” overlooks the satirical and self-critical streak in his filmmaking (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com). They suggest that von Trier intentionally blurs the line between condemning women’s oppression and appearing to perpetuate it, precisely to spark reflection and debate in the viewer.


Ultimately, the trajectory of feminist critique of Lars von Trier’s cinema is one of increasing skepticism and critical rigor. Early enthusiasm for the boldness of his female-led narratives gave way to deeper questioning of what those narratives do to their women characters – and what they might do to women in the audience. The once-acclaimed “female protagonists” came to be reexamined not just as characters, but as constructions by a male auteur operating in a male-dominated industry. Today, von Trier’s name in feminist film discourse often comes with an asterisk and an invitation to debate. He is at once lauded for centering women and lambasted for the ways he does so. His reputation has undeniably shifted towards infamy on issues of gender: where he was once celebrated for artistic daring, he is now as likely to be cited as a cautionary example of the fine line between depicting misogyny and perpetuating it.

In summary, from the late 1990s to the present, feminist engagement with Lars von Trier’s films has evolved from hesitant intrigue to pointed critique. If some scholars and critics were initially slow to recognize the misogynistic currents in his work, that hesitation has long since vanished. Each major film – Breaking the Waves, Dancer in the Dark, Dogville, Antichrist, Melancholia, Nymphomaniac – has prompted its own cycle of feminist analysis, with certain milestones (like Antichrist’s release or the #MeToo movement) dramatically reshaping the conversation. What emerges is a portrait of an artist who both compels and repels: a filmmaker whose imaginative prowess in crafting female characters is matched by his seemingly compulsive need to subject them to suffering. Feminist critiques over the years have unflinchingly highlighted this pattern, ensuring that any appreciation of von Trier’s artistry is now tempered by an awareness of its troubling aspects. In effect, the feminist discourse has caught up with von Trier – no longer blind to the misogyny that may lie beneath the surface of his celebrated images, but actively dissecting it, challenging it, and debating its meaning. The conversation is ongoing, proving that von Trier’s work remains, for better or worse, a catalyst for examining how women are represented in cinema and how audiences (and directors themselves) grapple with the thin line between empathy and exploitation.


Revisiting 1998: The Slow Reckoning with Von Trier’s Misogyny

Looking back at the reception of my 1998 presentation, it is striking how resistant even feminist scholars were to hearing what now seems unavoidable: Lars von Trier’s films, rather than offering complex feminist narratives, consistently return to the spectacle of a woman’s ruin. Whether she is a saintly sufferer (Breaking the Waves), a doomed working-class mother (Dancer in the Dark), an abused outsider (Dogville), or an unhinged, self-mutilating “witch” (Antichrist), the women in von Trier’s films are created only to endure suffering. At the time, the discomfort my critique provoked stemmed from von Trier’s status as an auteur—his work was too critically lauded, too formally sophisticated, too “artistic” to be reduced to something as crude as misogyny. This was the error of late-90s feminist film criticism: an unwillingness to call out problematic depictions of women when they arrived dressed in arthouse aesthetics rather than in the overt exploitative packaging of Hollywood.


But history has a way of clarifying what was once murky. By the time Antichrist was released in 2009, the feminist discourse around von Trier had taken a decisive turn. The film’s graphic violence against its female protagonist, its invocation of medieval misogynistic tropes, and its director’s self-conscious provocation (employing a so-called “misogyny consultant”) pushed even those once hesitant to label von Trier’s work as misogynistic into open critique. By 2017, when Björk publicly revealed von Trier’s abusive behavior during the filming of Dancer in the Dark, there was little room left for ambiguity. It was no longer just a question of what was on screen, but what happened behind it: von Trier’s control over his female leads extended beyond narrative structures and into lived realities. The distinction between cinematic violence and actual power imbalances collapsed.


This trajectory of reassessment—from Breaking the Waves being debated as a possible feminist masterpiece to Antichrist being denounced at Cannes to #MeToo making von Trier’s methods an open question of ethics—demonstrates not only how feminist critique has developed, but also how it was needed from the very beginning. That my 1998 argument was met with indifference is no longer surprising; feminist scholars were still operating in a framework that sought to “rescue” von Trier from the charge of sexism rather than examine what his films were plainly doing. Today, the debate has evolved past the need for hesitation. The patterns are clear, the evidence overwhelming.


Ultimately, the trajectory of feminist critique of Lars von Trier’s cinema is one of increasing skepticism and critical rigor. Early enthusiasm for the boldness of his female-led narratives gave way to deeper questioning of what those narratives do to their women characters—and what they might do to women in the audience. The once-acclaimed “female protagonists” came to be reexamined not just as characters, but as constructions by a male auteur operating in a male-dominated industry. Today, von Trier’s name in feminist film discourse often comes with an asterisk and an invitation to debate. He is at once lauded for centering women and lambasted for the ways he does so. His reputation has undeniably shifted towards infamy on issues of gender: where he was once celebrated for artistic daring, he is now as likely to be cited as a cautionary example of the fine line between depicting misogyny and perpetuating it.


If anything, the question today is not whether von Trier’s films contain misogynistic elements—this is widely accepted—but rather what to do with them. Can a film be both misogynistic and brilliant? Can a director be a master stylist and a serial abuser of his female leads? Can art be appreciated while recognizing its ethical failures? These questions remain open, and they are not exclusive to von Trier. But what should no longer be open for debate is the fundamental premise that feminist critics—those of us who saw the patterns early—were right to call them out. To say “I was right in 1998” is not to claim a personal victory, but to acknowledge a broader cultural failure. The warnings were there, but they took twenty years to be heard. That lag time, that period of willful blindness, is not an aberration—it is the rule. Feminist critique, when it challenges the beloved, the respected, and the critically exalted, is always met first with resistance. It is only later that it is acknowledged as necessary.


If von Trier’s legacy has demonstrated anything, it is that feminist critique cannot afford to be deferential, cautious, or delayed by the prestige of its target. The refusal to name misogyny when it is most insidious—veiled in artistic merit, intellectualized, or excused as provocation—does not make it disappear; it allows it to entrench itself further. The failure to challenge misogynistic narratives, whether in cinema or politics, does more than distort cultural discourse—it creates the conditions in which figures like Trump can ascend unchecked, legitimizing misogyny as spectacle, entertainment, and ultimately, governance. The work of calling out structural violence against women—whether in 1998, 2009, or now—must always be done in the moment, no matter how cold the reception. Because when history catches up, the cost of silence is already too high.


Sources:

(The Postfeminist Masquerade and the Cynical Male Gaze: The Disavowal of Sexual Difference in Lars von Trier’s Breaking the Waves) (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com) (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com) (Female protagonists do not a feminist film make: how Lars von Trier let slip his misogyny) (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?) (Lars von Trier: Misogynist? | Cinema Scandinavia has moved to www.cinemascandinavia.com) (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?) (Lars von Trier Doesn’t Hate Women. So Why Won’t the Myth of His Misogyny Die?) (Lars Von Trier's Nymphomaniac Is a Conventional, Sexist Film: Review | The New Republic)

 
 
 

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