In the same year A Star is Born showed us the romantic side of heaven and hell that can come from sudden fame, Vox Lux shows us a deeply disturbing portrait of the relationship we have, culturally, with celebrity.
We begin in 1999 as two teenage sisters survive a school shooting. The film puts us right in the massacre, making the horrific scene more intimate than I think we've ever seen. Having survived, the two sisters write and perform a song at a candlelit remembrance service that becomes a sort of healing balm, an anthem for a mourning nation. A "hit", as Willem Dafoe's storybook-style narration tells us. It's no coincidence that this opening sequence takes place in the same year of the Columbine shooting, or that writer/director Brady Corbet is among the generation who grew up in its aftermath.
Vox Lux, meaning "voice light", refers to Celeste, one of the surviving sisters and newfound stars. The film may be described as many things, but it seems to be primarily her coming of age story, one that seems fated by, if not the stars themselves, her own rising stardom in a U.S. obsessed with tragedy and glamour. The second chapter, after the school shooting, follows Celeste as she's picked up by a grumpy manager (Jude Law), grooming her for fame and pushing her artistry to pop heights. It's a mad rush for us as well as Celeste, and as her career bursts into the spotlight she faces personal fallout with her friends and family. This chapter screeches to a halt on September 11, 2001, another tragedy that we don't see Celeste take advantage of, but it seems likely that this catapults her to greater fame if only by a grieving nation's need for her.
She even says at one point why she loves pop music: “I don’t want people to have to think too hard. I just want them to feel good.” Corbet would probably disagree, making each shot calculated and each beat impossibly complex. He hired Sia to compose the songs in Vox Lux, and while the songs themselves are kind of fun, we never hear a full tune, and its synth-pop funk comes across as grating and technical, not at all like the emotional ballad Celeste started with. It's a dangerous move for Corbet to make, and one that seems almost determined to displease the audience rather than endear them.
And then Natalie Portman appears in full-on goth punk as the adult Celeste, drinking wine from paper cups, cussing her face off, and snorting terrible substances before banging her manager. Her appearance and stage character seem inspired by any pop artist of the day, notably Lady Gaga or Madonna, and her voice takes a backseat to her jarring physicality. She fully embodies a damaged woman, using her artifice as a weapon to guard her PTSD and living a jaded, dysfunctional life, scarred from the spotlight.
Her story begins when terrorists shoot up a resort in Croatia wearing masks from one of her music videos. She's on the verge of a homecoming concert, and at a press conference she uses her snappy, crude wit first admirably before making a stunning comment apparently inviting the terrorists to her own concert. While her manager debates canceling the show, the audience can scarcely suspect another tragedy, much like the attack on the Ariana Grande concert in Manchester. It's a bizarre moment that reminds us how often pop culture blends with politics and, yes, terrorism in an unholy mixture of excess, fear, religiosity, and violence. The formerly religious Celeste is all but crucified as the messianic leader of a society trying to heal its pain through beauty, bright lights, and a booming bass. The people love her, but their expectations of her lead to her self-induced torture because she isn't herself allowed to heal; the narrator mentions at one point that she might have made a Faustian bargain, and it's no facetious suggestion.
It's an awesome film, challenging and infuriating, tragic and hilarious in equal measure. Not what I expected -- not even really what I wanted -- but a dazzling work that will leave you reeling and magnificently unsatisfied.
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