There are films that age into classics, and then there are films that remain stubbornly, abrasively present tense. Thomas Vinterberg’s The Celebration (Festen), released in 1998 and at Upstate Midtown this week, belongs firmly in the latter category. Watching it now, nearly three decades on, it feels less like a historical artifact of the Dogme 95 movement than like an endurance test—one that dares you to look away and then punishes you for trying.
The setup is deceptively benign: a prosperous Danish family gathers at a country estate to celebrate the patriarch’s 60th birthday. There are speeches to be made, songs to be sung, traditions to be honored. Then the eldest son stands, raises a glass, and calmly announces that his father sexually abused him and his late twin sister throughout their childhood. It is not a meltdown or a drunken outburst. It is a statement. And then—this is the film’s most horrifying move—the dinner continues.
What makes The Celebration so relentless is not simply the trauma at its core, but the way Vinterberg stages the aftermath. There is no neat confrontation. Instead, the family and guests engage in a slow, agonizing ballet of denial, rationalization, and social triage. Was this appropriate to say? Is now the right moment? Can we finish the course and revisit this later? The film understands something deeply uncomfortable: that politeness can be a powerful accomplice.
Shot under Dogme 95 rules—handheld camera, natural light, no score—the film feels invasive in the best and worst ways. The camera jitters, hovers, lingers too long. There’s no aesthetic buffer, no tasteful distance. You are stuck in the room with these people, watching them work very hard to maintain the illusion of normalcy while something poisonous seeps into every interaction. Trauma here is not a single explosive event; it’s a pressure system.
The movie’s bleak humor only sharpens the knife. Guests debate decorum while abuse hangs in the air. Songs are sung with forced cheer. Staff members—outsiders to the family mythology—often appear more clear-eyed than the hosts themselves. Wealth, pedigree, and tradition don’t protect anyone; they simply provide better tools for pretending.
If The Celebration offers an object lesson, it is an abject one. This is, without question, a master class in what not to do at a family gathering. Do not prioritize comfort over truth. Do not mistake civility for morality. Do not assume that maintaining the schedule is the same thing as maintaining order. Vinterberg shows how quickly rituals become grotesque when they are stripped of honesty.
It is not an easy film to watch, nor a particularly kind one. But The Celebration remains devastatingly effective because it refuses relief. It understands that trauma doesn’t resolve on cue, and that families—like institutions—often reveal their true values when they are most determined to keep the party going.
So glad to see this revival reviewed here, and written about so well. The film fascinated me at its premiere. I had brought along a friend, who asked me accusingly when it ended, “Why did you take me to this?” A therapist asked me to explain why I liked it so much. I can’t remember my answer, other than it had to do with the reaction of the guests and family that “the show must go on.” It has nothing to do with personal experience, thank God.
It’s definitely not an easy film, and kudos to you Christina, for dragging a friend along!