Welcome to the House That Jack Bored
There are two kinds of people in this world: those who think Lars von Trier is a misunderstood genius pushing the boundaries of cinema, and those who think he’s a guy who never met an editor brave enough to say “no.” The House That Jack Built (2018) is his latest monument to self-indulgence — a movie that asks the bold question: what if a serial killer narrated his murders like a drunk philosophy major who just discovered Wikipedia?
It’s a film so pretentious it makes American Psycho look like Sharknado.
The Premise: Serial Killer, But Make It a Dissertation
The story (and I use that word loosely) follows Jack, played by Matt Dillon, a serial killer who recounts his murders to Verge (Bruno Ganz), a stand-in for Virgil from Dante’s Inferno. Together, they journey through Jack’s greatest hits — five meticulously overlong murder vignettes, each drenched in pseudo-intellectual rambling and imagery so on-the-nose it could bruise.
Jack, a failed architect and successful sociopath, describes his killings as art, which, coincidentally, is exactly how Lars von Trier describes his movies to horrified festival audiences. Over the course of 12 years, Jack murders women, children, and the audience’s will to live, all while explaining why he’s a tortured artist misunderstood by the cruel world of law enforcement and common sense.
Matt Dillon: Method Acting His Way Into a Breakdown
Let’s give credit where it’s due: Matt Dillon is excellent here. He’s charismatic, creepy, and genuinely unsettling — like a serial killer who reads Nietzsche for Dummies. Dillon plays Jack as if Patrick Bateman had a podcast called “Murder and Chill.” You can tell he’s giving 110%, which is unfortunate, because the film itself gives maybe 17%.
His performance is so committed it feels wasted on a movie that spends half its runtime showing taxidermied corpses arranged like a Pinterest board from Hell. Dillon tries to inject humanity into a film that’s too busy lecturing us on the nature of evil to notice he’s doing great work.
Bruno Ganz: The Therapist From Hell (Literally)
Bruno Ganz, as Verge, plays the only person less impressed with Jack’s nonsense than the audience. He spends the entire movie listening to Jack’s monologues with the energy of a man regretting his life choices — which, given he’s literally guiding a serial killer through the circles of Hell, feels appropriate.
Their dialogue sounds like the world’s worst podcast: “Welcome back to Murder & Metaphysics, where I, Verge, pretend to care while Jack compares dismemberment to Rembrandt.” You half-expect an ad break for Squarespace in the middle of their infernal road trip.
Lars von Trier: The Real Serial Killer Is Pacing
Von Trier’s direction is unmistakable: long takes, philosophical voiceovers, and an obsession with human suffering so intense it feels like performance art. But here, his usual bleak brilliance curdles into parody. The House That Jack Builtfeels like he read Dante’s Inferno, watched Dexter, and thought, “Yes, but what if I made it longer and added stock footage of Hitler?”
Yes, you read that right — von Trier includes actual footage of Hitler. Because when in doubt, go full edgelord. It’s as if the film is trying to say, “Sure, my protagonist is a murderer, but have you considered he’s also a misunderstood artist? Also, here’s some Nazis for metaphorical seasoning.”
This is not so much storytelling as it is a cinematic dare. Von Trier seems less interested in telling a narrative than in daring you to keep watching. “Oh, you thought the child murder scene was too much? Strap in, we’re building a house out of corpses next!”
It’s like the director whispered, “How much can I get away with before the Cannes audience throws something?” The answer, apparently, is “about two and a half hours.”
Symbolism So Heavy-Handed It Leaves Bruises
Subtlety has never been von Trier’s strong suit, but The House That Jack Built makes Antichrist look restrained. Every murder is a metaphor, every metaphor is explained, and every explanation is followed by another ten minutes of philosophical babble just to make sure you get it.
Jack isn’t just a murderer, you see — he’s an artist. His victims? Canvases. His crimes? Sculptures of the soul. It’s the kind of logic that would get you kicked out of both art school and therapy.
Von Trier clearly thinks he’s making a statement about the connection between creation and destruction, but it lands closer to “Netflix true crime doc as narrated by Friedrich Nietzsche’s ghost.”
And then there’s the ending — a literal descent into Hell, complete with lava, corpses, and an absurd attempt to climb out of damnation that looks like a bad Indiana Jones parody filmed in someone’s garage. It’s deep, if your definition of “deep” is “requires scuba gear to survive the pretension.”
Uma Thurman Deserved Hazard Pay
Uma Thurman shows up early as Jack’s first victim — a talkative woman whose biggest mistake was underestimating how annoying Jack (and the script) would be. Their entire scene is a masterclass in discomfort: she mocks him, he kills her, and von Trier pats himself on the back for “challenging gender dynamics.”
Thurman’s performance is sharp and sardonic, but it’s undercut by the film’s smugness. You can practically feel von Trier smirking behind the camera, whispering, “Yes, women talk too much — but it’s satire, so it’s fine.” Spoiler: it’s not fine.
Violence as Art (and as Endurance Test)
Let’s talk about the violence. The House That Jack Built is grotesque, graphic, and intentionally upsetting — which would be fine if it had something meaningful to say. Instead, it feels like von Trier shouting, “Look how brave I am!” while bludgeoning the audience with scenes that are neither scary nor enlightening, just exhausting.
At one point, Jack makes a wallet out of a woman’s breast. At another, he murders two children and arranges their corpses into a grotesque family portrait. The film presents these moments with the detached fascination of a museum exhibit curated by Satan’s intern.
The problem isn’t that it’s shocking — it’s that it’s empty. The violence doesn’t illuminate Jack’s psyche so much as it highlights von Trier’s ego. It’s shock for the sake of self-congratulation, wrapped in Latin references and jazz music.
The Cinematography: Beautiful Suffering, Now in 4K
Here’s the frustrating part: the movie looks gorgeous. Cinematographer Manuel Alberto Claro captures every murder with painterly precision, turning brutality into grotesque beauty. The lighting, the compositions, the symmetry — it’s all immaculate.
It’s like watching a National Geographic documentary directed by Satan. You want to look away, but the visuals won’t let you. It’s proof that even when von Trier’s storytelling collapses under its own pretentious weight, his eye for imagery remains unparalleled.
Final Thoughts: Hell Is Other People, Especially Lars von Trier
By the time Jack falls into Hell — literally — you realize that’s exactly where this movie belongs. It’s a pretentious, punishing, brilliantly acted mess that confuses cruelty for insight and nihilism for depth.
Yes, The House That Jack Built is ambitious. It’s provocative. It’s also two and a half hours of being trapped in a philosophy class taught by Hannibal Lecter with a GoPro.
Some will call it art. Others will call it self-parody. I call it a cry for help that costs €8.7 million.
Lars von Trier has always thrived on controversy, but here, he’s built not a house — but a labyrinth of mirrors where the only reflection is his own smug grin.
Final Rating: ★★☆☆☆
(Two out of five severed heads — one for Matt Dillon’s effort, one for the cinematography, and none for the director’s sanity.)
