Dear Wendy

Thomas Vinterberg (Festen) directs this splendid displaced western from a script by madcap fellow Dane Lars von Trier, and on paper at least, Dear Wendy sounds suspiciously like a hipper, teenage Dogville. Then again, on paper, one might easily mistake a dashed-off synopsis of Wild Strawberries for Are We There Yet? Certainly, thematically speaking, one can see von Trier’s fingerprints all over the movie; springboarding from where Bowling For Columbine and Elephant left off, Dear Wendy ponders such American conundrums as gun ownership, racial tensions and teen disaffection before reaching some predictably grim conclusions in a blistering Bonnie And Clyde Go To Waco finale.
Still, Vinterberg’s film is far more seductive and exhilarating than other similarly themed affairs or indeed, von Trier’s polemic. Set in a one-street mythic mining town where the weird harmonies of The Zombies’ vinyl output are the outside world’s sole cultural import, Dear Wendy is essentially a heartbreaking love story between a boy named Dick and his pearl-handled double-action revolver, Wendy. The lynchpin in a gang of outsider youths known as the Dandies, Dick (Jamie Bell, remarkable) is a gun-fetishist and devout pacifist with a taste for theatrical costume, poetry reading and forensic reports.
Adorned with ornate waistcoats and regency hats, he and his Dandies may be the coolest onscreen outfit since Alex parted company with his droogs, but there’s a terrific flaw in their logic. Guns, even their sweetly feminised pistols, are not pacifist by nature, and inevitably, a bloody tragedy awaits.
In von Trier's hands, such material would surely have been delivered in a manner reminiscent of being stripped and beaten senseless with a rolled up copy of The Morning Star, but Vinterberg's gorgeously inventive visual style and an unnerving sense of exuberance save the day. Like listening to Funhouse on a loop, it feels as if you're swept up in the anarchy just by being there, and yes, it totally rocks.