Joachim Trier’s The Worst Person in the World is a poignant and often humorous exploration of modern existential angst, perfectly encapsulated by the user’s opening question: “Are we living in the worst of eras?” The film delves into the life of Julie, a young woman adrift in a sea of choices, a narrative that resonates deeply with the contemporary experience of a generation born into a deluge of data, where everything seems attainable through shortcuts, and the array of possibilities is dazzling yet overwhelming. This abundance, however, comes with a widely criticized downside: a profound loss of depth, an inability to fully experience and commit to anything, leading to fragmented attention spans and a struggle to focus on what truly matters.
Julie, the titular “worst person in the world,” is a character designed to provoke and reflect. She is aimless, contradictory, and often helpless, lacking a clear roadmap for her life and wavering in her relationships. Her journey is marked by a constant search for identity, a struggle to reconcile her desires with societal expectations, and an inherent difficulty in making and sticking to decisions. In the end, she finds herself solitary, still searching for a place to land, a sense of belonging that perpetually eludes her. Yet, the film masterfully challenges the audience to question whether this sense of drift is truly a flaw or a natural consequence of unprecedented freedom.
The user’s insightful interpretation suggests that for a woman untethered from traditional constraints—religious, societal, or otherwise—a woman with full agency over her body, her sexuality, and her relationships, this sense of drift is not necessarily loneliness. Instead, it is the very texture of reality when one confronts the sheer, exhilarating, and terrifying freedom of choice regarding reproduction, economy, and power. It is the experience of life’s inherent contradictions, the frantic back-and-forth, the turbulence of simply being. Julie’s indecisiveness is not a moral failing but a reflection of a world that offers too many paths, making commitment a daunting, almost impossible, task.
Trier employs a unique narrative structure, dividing Julie’s story into twelve chapters, a prologue, and an epilogue, each offering a glimpse into her evolving psyche and her often-chaotic relationships. This episodic approach mirrors the fragmented nature of modern life, where experiences are often fleeting and connections tenuous. The film’s visual style, particularly the iconic freeze-frame sequence where Julie runs through a frozen Oslo, captures a moment of pure, unadulterated freedom and rebellion against the constraints of time and expectation. It’s a powerful metaphor for her desire to escape the linear progression of life, to pause and reconsider her choices, even if only for a moment.
Julie’s relationships with Aksel, an older, established comic book artist, and Eivind, a free-spirited barista, highlight her internal conflicts. Aksel represents stability, intellectual connection, and a certain artistic gravitas, but also a sense of being defined by another’s world. Eivind offers spontaneity, youthful passion, and a more immediate, less complicated connection, yet also a different kind of uncertainty. Julie’s inability to fully commit to either, her constant questioning of her own desires, is a deeply human struggle. She never quite knows what she wants, and by the time she figures it out, she is often left with a trail of regrets, a poignant reminder of the road not taken.
The film’s brilliance lies in its refusal to judge Julie. Instead, it invites empathy, recognizing that the “worst person in the world” is also, in many ways, the most ordinary person in the world. Her struggles are universal: the search for purpose, the fear of commitment, the longing for connection, and the inevitable disappointments that come with navigating life. The film is real to the point of cruelty, unflinching in its portrayal of human flaws and vulnerabilities. Yet, as the user beautifully concludes, looking at it from the other side of that cruelty, human beings are strangely endearing. Julie, in all her messy, contradictory glory, becomes a symbol of our collective search for meaning in an increasingly complex world, a testament to the enduring, often awkward, beauty of being human.