She Is Real Because She Has Bangs

I recently watched the The Worst Person in the World (2021). For months, my friends had been raving, weeping, and singing its praises. I had watched the trailer at least three times and was pulled in by its soft, pleasing, Norwegian aesthetics. It sells itself as the story of a young woman navigating romance, long-term relationships, and finding her footing as she weaves between careers and identities. I had been told it was “fucked up good.” It had won a Palme d’Or!

I am a firm believer in the rom-com. I am a firm believer in the Gerwig-esque woman-child, and the coming-of-age-is-a-lifelong-process type of film. I am weary of women-driven narratives not being taken seriously. I worship at the altar of Nora Ephron. So finally, in September, seven months after its release, I cozied up and put on The Worst Person in the World.

The film opens with Julie (Renate Reinsve), a young student whose haircut and color are ever-evolving as she cycles through partners and careers before meeting comic book creator Aksel (Anders Danielsen Lie), who is about ten years her senior. As they fall into the routine of a long-term relationship, Julie grows increasingly dissatisfied with the life she leads while Aksel is ready to settle down.

It is easy to be seduced by the manic-pixie beauty of this film. Shot on 35mm, it feels wistful and breezy, for some of the film’s most intense scenes, it provides a sense of removal, the audience is focused on the aesthetics. As the story plays out across dreamy Oslo, I was engrossed by the sunsets, bookstores, and dinner parties captured with a glowy, slow romanticism. Edison bulb lighting and Scandinavian minimalism ooze out of every frame.

The actors are stunning but touchable, attainable. I laughed and cried and held my breath as I followed Julie through four years of her life which rang true to me as a young woman. With her big brown eyes and effortless, ungreasy bangs, Renate Reinsve felt like that really cool barista you have a quick flirt with each morning. Anders Danielsen Lie felt like an old friend, the one that got away, with his big ears and perfectly messy hair. When I finished the movie, I was warm and fuzzy.  

But Worst Person was not directed by Nora Ephron or Agnes Varda, or Greta Gerwig. It was directed by a guy named Joachim Trier.

The more I thought about the character of Julie, the more hollow she felt. I had fallen victim to the idea of Julie (her funky earrings! Her oversized button-downs!), but there wasn't really a Julie there. I thought back to the movie, and to my disenchantment, I could not name a single personality trait; I could not describe her in any detail. She was a fuzzy image of a young woman, a pretty picture of romance, heartache, and aspiration, but nothing to grasp.  

Does every romance need to also be a feminist careerist piece? Does every character need to be a fully fleshed-out realized person? Maybe not, but The Worst Person in the World sets out to be a film about a young woman with substance. It has all the makings of an indie flick that is trying to say something. There are significant references to #metoo and climate change, as well as questions of fidelity and femininity littered throughout. Julie spends the movie vaguely finding her artistic voice, writing articles about oral sex, and developing her photography career; she trips on shrooms! Unfortunately, she remains a manic pixie dream girl, some dude’s idea of a woman, of her plight (the movie was written by two men). Julie remains the barista you see each morning, you’re never actually going to get drinks with her and learn her life’s story, but she’s so approachable, so cool you’ll feel like you have.

Being young is complex. Your twenties are characterized by the choices you make. It is easy to feel like each choice cements your identity, charts your future. This is why it is so gratifying to watch Julie blow it all up when she is scared or restless— again and again. Ultimately, however, The Worst Person in the World is a 2-D rendering of what it is to be young today. Julie’s desires feel arbitrary, her questions of whether or not she wants to be a mother feel contrived and fall flat, her love of photography is motivated by nothing, in particular, and her affairs are titillating but not all that substantive.  

While Trier clearly had grander ambitions and the film presents itself as a deeper story than it actually is. The love I initially felt for this movie was projection, which is not necessarily a bad thing. Julie could be anyone I wanted her to be. I could be Julie. I’ve changed my hair, I’ve changed my major, I’ve felt unsure in relationships, I’ve worn a jumpsuit. The flatness of these characters combined with the film’s infatuation with beauty, possibility, and good lighting, all punctuated by a concluding scene, fade to black, Art Garfunkel’s Waters of March filled me with a shallow but welcome sense of hope. The Worst Person in the World is a topical balm. 

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