Phillip and Erik are young, aspiring writers in Oslo. They finish their first manuscripts about the same time, and walk together to the postbox to mail them. They have second thoughts. Director Joachim Trier walks us through several scenarios about what becomes of these friends’ careers; then he shows what really happened to two (or does he?); and finally, he speculates about what comes next… And we get the sense that he sympathizes with Erik’s dilemma: “Do I really want to expose the world to this?”

All worthwhile art probably is the outcome of such hesitation, but most of what passes as entertainment isn’t so concerned with the question. Commercially successful art, of course, is the barometer of a related question: “Does the world really want to be exposed to this?” Erik and Phillip get put the through the wringer with both questions, and—thankfully—Trier’s film seems to answer both with an emphatic “Yes.”

How do we define Erik’s and Phillip’s world, beyond acknowledging that it’s Norwegian and arty? The worst thing that can happen to the writers and their closed community of artosterone-driven male chums is to end up with “no time to read” or “ever listen to music any more”—Lars and Morten concluding that women are the root of this worst of fates, chiding Erik endlessly about his devotion to his girlfriend. Naturally, almost everyone in this quintet—which also includes the clueless, quiet Geir—is a complete failure with relationships.

When Johanne, an assistant for Erik’s publisher, encounters the crew at the beach, she quickly concludes from the sniping, cutting banter that “it can’t be easy to have problems in this crowd.” Indeed. Though Phillip’s first book meets with critical and financial success, a psychiatric disorder destroys his oddly healthy relationship with his girlfriend Kari. Erik’s first manuscript is rejected; but when he later gets a book published, he decides his own girlfriend Lillian must go… and then his life starts to fall apart. When another of the boys gets a real, family-bound, bourgeois girlfriend, it’s perceived as a betrayal. Little mercy is shown to any of them.

If this sounds kind of like a soap opera, it is—in a way. It’s almost an arty, subtitled, male version of Sex and the City, with less nudity, and with punk music and literature substituted for fashion and fetish.

It’s also a much better constructed film than Sex and the City. Where the latter is composed of little more than brief episodes loosely connected by a transparent plot, Reprise actually has a viable central storyline: Erik’s and Phillip’s obsession with reclusive literary genius Sten Egil Dahl. The conclusion of Erik’s tragically funny character arc brings him to his idol’s doorstep in a way that you couldn’t possibly imagine. It’s painful, and it’s nearly gut-busting.

Besides the obvious value placed on friendship and forgiveness—as with Sex and the City—Reprise also offers an intelligent artistic and philosophical look at the dilemma behind its American counterpart: Is artistic magic even worth recapturing? Trier’s answer is interesting, and might even explain the runaway success of the film version of Sex and the City: Anything worth doing is worth doing a second time, and worth doing better. “The first time is never any good,” one of Trier’s characters opines. It’s an optimistic and progressive view of life.

Reprise, in spite of being an artsy testosterone-fest, is also incredibly kind to the opposite sex. Viktoria Winge and Rebekka Karijord—as Kari and Johanne, respectively—turn in absolutely compelling performances in supporting roles, working with interesting, multifaceted characters that never become mere foils for the boys (in stark contrast with the male characters of Sex and the City). It’s also worth praising first-time actors Anders Danielsen Lie and Espen Klouman-Høiner as Phillip and Erik—and singling out Trier for doing excellent work with his entire cast. Everything here is as first-rate as in John Carney’s much-praised Once, and with a similar vibe.

The problem will be getting past the film’s first twenty minutes. Trier’s style is so obstinately unique—and the subtitles so poorly displayed on the screen—that you may be tempted to ask for your money back before you manage to get hooked by Trier’s characters, story, and style. But resist the urge to walk out; give it just ten more minutes than you might be inclined to… I think the film will win you over—and keep you pondering over it for days, or even weeks.

Reprise is rated R for “for sexuality and language.” Well. Language—subtitled language—is of course a factor. But sexuality? If Sex and the City was R, this should be PG-13. And if Reprise is an R, then Sex and the City should be NC-17. I’d suggest the latter.

Courtesy of a local publicist, Greg attended a press screening of Reprise.