Until the Light Takes Us: Review By B. Alan Orange

Until the Light Takes Us is not an easy film to ease into and digest. Directors Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell assume the viewer has some knowledge of the Black Metal scene they are chronicling. It's a slow, turgid drip into this cold world. Languid and mysterious, you have to listen closely and intently to derive anything out of it's burnt husk. It's a conciliatory climb. Though somewhat remote, it keeps luring you back into its fold. The story being told burrows deep under the skin like an infestation of chiggers. Its narrative laps at you like a choppy wave, never giving into the conformity of its filmic structuring. You'll need to invest some time into this beefy slab of raw intensity. Which means viewing it two or three times before you'll fully understand its arrogant, yet nimble stance on humanity.

Some will argue that this is bad filmmaking. But is it? Aites and Audrey are chronicling Norway's black metal history from the late 80s until now. The music itself is harsh, frigid, and unfriendly. It's not entirely approachable. Yet, the more you listen to certain songs, and study the musicology of its origins, the more it draws you into its wicked ways. The more you understand it, and can dissect it, the easier it is to absorb. With freeform editing, and scenes that glide into nothingness, then clank back to life with abrupt stops along an ancillary timeline, this doc*mentary has been built from the ground up like an operatic number perfectly at home within this genre of ear deafening music. Its not an immediately likable film because its subject matter is equally shuttered.

Named after Burzum's "Hvis lyset tar oss", a seminial Norwegian Black Metal album from the early Nineties, Until the Light Takes Us looks at this cliquish scene from both the viewpoint of its creator Varg Vikernes, as well as his contemporary Gylve Nagell. They work together, through various interviews, in piecing this cruel world together. It's a less than cohesive oral history that will lose you quickly if you don't keep at it. With its soothing ebbs and stringent flow, these tales are likely to lull you into a state of peaceful oblivion. Right before ripping you out of a near subconscious state with a teasingly provocative account made up of horrendous events. It is slowly revealed that Varg Vikernes has killed a rival band member. Locked away in Norway's less than strict judicial system, he seems unaffected by his past acts of treason.

Known as Count Grishnackh, Vikernes is considered one of Norwegian Black Metal's forefathers. He's known by his peers as one of the most notorious metal musicians of all time. And with good reasoning. Convicted of murder, he is also a suspected arsonist and a far-right political activist. His involvement with a series of church burnings is explored in detail, and an important understanding comes to rest up against this fiery landscape. It's easy for any uninformed outsider to suspect Satanism has played a part in Vikernes horrifying backstory. But that's not the case. Count Grishnackh is a heathen and a follower of Odinism. He makes this distinction with a scholarly aura that preaches against consumerism and the instability of pop culture, never realizing his own penchant for adding fuel to that exact fire. He's a snob. And his spirit lingers above his own words like an omnipresent ghost.

Vikernes never apologizes for his actions. He speaks matter-of-factly about his notorious history, as if it were his destiny, and his privilege, to cause such atrocious acts against the humanistic norms of this otherwise peaceful country. He is a cold soul. And his story is as blistering as the icy byways of Oslo. He paints his murdered Mayhem band mate Oystein "Euronymous" Aarseth as an equally appalling individual. In his eyes, Euronymous was out to get him. He thought this white-faced, black-lipped beast was going to gut him and hang him from the rafters. So he retaliated, stabbing the man too death. Vikernes tells his side of the story like a dockworker describing an uneventful day on the job. He sneers at this man he has killed, creating an ostentatious aura of high school drama around the whole incident. Its ten years later, and his cruel actions don't seem to have affected him at all. Intercut with real time footage of the burning churches, we learn how another one of their band mates, Per Yngve "Dead" Ohlin lived up to his nickname by blowing his brains out all over his bedroom carpet. Vikernes fluffs the story in his favor, pointing out that Euronymous was such a cold-hearted bastard that, instead of calling the cops upon discovery of Per Yngve's bloody mess of a destroyed face, he took out his camera and shot photos for his next album cover. In the same breath, he nonchalantly, almost gleefully, explains that he supplied Ohlin with the shotgun bullets. (Yes, we do see the album cover in question, and its quite grizzly.)

Gylve "Fenriz" Nagell, of Darkthorne, is the main opposing voice here. He's as well known and, to use the word cautiously, liked in the Black Metal music scene as Vikernes. He's a little less nihilistic in his word view, but there is an unmistakable dourness to him that can't quite be described with words. When we first meet him, he is getting fined for bringing tear gas onto a commuter train. He hates that the Black Metal scene has been turned into a joke. But, like Vikernes, he doesn't seem at all affected by the sorted history of it all. He's gone on to deeper, darker places with his music. And you can see true abhorrence in his eyes during a phone interview with a journalist who claims he's not as "pitch black" as he used to be. All of his new music is about suicide. How much more emotionally decrepit can one get? It's rendered quite humorous when he goes to hang up the phone. The journalist tells him thank you, then cheerily says, "Have a nice day!" Gylve mockingly, yet lovingly responds in kind, but you can see it in his eyes. He doesn't suffer fools lightly. And he hates that he has become a tool in this corrupt pop-cult system.

There are many moments like this peppered throughout the intertwined narrative. We get luminaries in the black metal field chatting about their demise as a culture. We get Vikernes chatting about the crispness of cornflakes, knowing that the monologue is ridiculous. We also get film director Harmony Korine dressed in Black Metal face, tap dancing in orange pants, with a bright yellow fright wig on top of his head. On his sleeves are the words "KKK" and "Nigg*r". It's a performance art piece, but its hard to dissect its meaning. His voice track runs over the image, discussing in what seems an honest voice, his love for Count Grishnackh and this particular genre of music.

Until the Light Takes Us is not a movie for everyone. And it doesn't abide by general doc*mentarian rules. It's a harsh climate to wonder through. Directors Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell wobbly editing style directly reflects that notion. Upon first viewing, I would have given it two stars. After my third viewing, I want to claim it a work of extraordinary significance and beauty. It's an important exploration of this subgenre of music, and if you are so inclined to take the time, you'll definitely derive something worthwhile out of it. Whoop-doo!

(All of B. Alan Orange's reviews are based on the Boo! or Whoop-doo! evaluation system.)