Louder Than Bombs

 Nothing so quiet could ever hit you so loudly—“Louder Than bombs” has a softness in its sincerity that will deafen you. It’s subtle, it’s conspicuous, it’s simple, it’s intricate. Jochem Trier has captured grief and pain and rage with all the melody of a symphony—with all the cacophony of a car crash.

 The film tells the story of a family dealing with death. Prolific photographer Isabelle Reed (Isabelle Hupert) has been dead for years, but an upcoming article by one of her colleagues will reveal little known circumstances of her death. The article looms over her husband’s head (Gabriel Byrne), his youngest son Conrad (David Druid) doesn’t know the truth: her accident wasn’t an accident, but suicide. When he comes home to help comb through the leftovers of Isabelle’s work, her oldest son Jonah (Jessie Eisenberg) also must deal with his brother’s innocence, as well as problems of his own like his wife, his baby and a run in with an old lover (Rachel Brosnahan).

If there’s a singular message to be found in this film it’s one of empathy. Throughout its course the movie takes the viewer through the lives of the living and the deceased, and though it dances with genre tropes, it refuses to fall into a niche. It’s not just the coming of age story of a reclusive high school boy. It’s not just the drama of a man trying to tame his inner demons for fidelity’s sake. It’s not another heartwarming story of an estranged family coming together during a crisis—it’s an exploration of love in all its tragic eloquence.

What’s exceptional about the film is the conspicuous way it tugs at your emotions, while refusing to cross over to melodrama. On the contrary, while every element of the film hits you without subterfuge, each part is broken into such manageable and subtle phrases that it never seems trite.

It’s broken into an anthology, really, a collection of circumstance that varies in time, characters and sentiment.  By doing this Trier is able to not only create a barrier between the poignant and the theatrical, but also expertly manipulates your opinion without your knowing it. He does such an effective job at this that, at first viewing, one might think the movie avoids assigning blame altogether. However an observant movie goer might realize that fault doesn’t necessarily imply culpability.

It appears that a real effort has been made to present the story in all its complexities and from each of its angles. The distortion and disorder of time also serves this end, symbolizing the ephemeral nature of truth and reality—we often see a scene from one perspective just before seeing it from another.

In the first scenes with Conrad he acts withdrawn, suspicious and even aggressive, so much so that sympathy for Gene comes instinctually. But soon after the same scene unravels from Conrad’s perspective and we understand him in a very different and much more intimate way. You can’t help but feel for him.

The same sort of structure occurs in the exploration of Isabelle’s death. We see similar imagined scenes of her death, all beautifully tragic, each desperate in their search for the truth. By the end of the movie, these interpretations actually make you question the extent of the intention behind Isabelle’s suicide; it even points to the idea that truth is a more transient concept than we’d like it to be.

Reality acts as a character itself, refusing to be static. Trier ties the motif into that of truth, in that neither are ever sure things. The whole cast experiences moments with Isabelle that never clearly exist in the past or present. Often we see Gene arguing, or even confessing his unconditional love for her, but it’s impossible to distinguish if these are previous conversations or in his head.

Conrad, too, represents a questioning of authenticity, and while it initially seems that his sorcery-like motions are only the product of a reclusive nerd too wrapped up in role playing games, we soon wonder. The intricate weave of truths and facts sheds little light onto which is which and Trier leaves us unsure of why Conrad’s “magic” couldn't just be magic.

Anyone who believes “Louder Than Bombs” has no climax fails to understand story telling at its core. Trier doesn’t follow traditional rise and fall structure, sure, but instead illustrates life more accurately. Elevation and free fall happen frequently and in gentle waves rather than a full frontal assault. The repeated percussion of small barrages penetrates in a much more personal way than any single atomic bomb ever could.

Director: Joachim Trier; Writers: Joachim Trier, Eskil Vogt; Actors: Isabelle Hupert, Gabriel Byrne, Jessie Eisenberg, Rachel Brosnahan, David Druid; Producer: Naima Abed