Until The Light Takes Us

Black metal inspires confliction. So does “Until The Light Takes Us,” a documentary about Norwegian black metal, in which filmmakers Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewel go directly to the figureheads of the sound, the style and the controversy of what is arguably heavy metal’s most extreme derivation.

Developed in Norway during the late 1980s and early ’90s, black metal was a reaction to what its progenitors saw as a sterilization of commercial death metal. They opted instead for low-grade recording and poor equipment, which gave the early recordings of bands like Mayhem and Darkthrone a brittle, cold and grim feeling — necrosound, as it would come to be known.

The monochromatic moods, harsh timbres and broad, sweeping melodies made an impact, not only on metalheads, but have inspired bands as far away from metal as alt-country songwriter Ryan Adams, indie-rock stars Interpol and folk singer Marissa Nadler (whose haunting voice graces the claimed-to-be-final recording of American black-metal recluse Xasthur).

But the ideologies espoused by some of the genre’s pioneers — which run a hateful gamut of nationalism, xenophobia, homophobia, racism and anti-Christian sentiments  — make it a tougher pill to swallow than even its standoffish sonic approach would suggest. In the ’90s, the original Norwegian scene imploded with a series of deaths (both suicides and murders), church arsons and prison sentences.

To both the advantage and disadvantage of “Until The Light Takes Us,” Aites and Ewel dodge editorializing as if it would kill them. Rather, they merely let the cameras roll as figureheads — including the film’s de facto stars, Gylve “Fenriz” Nagell of Darthrone and Varg Vikernes of Burzum (interviewed in prison before his release earlier this year) — explain their music and their motivations as best they know how. We hear Vikernes explain his hatred of American and Christian usurpation of Nordic heritage, laced with currents of anti-Semitism. The camera merely listens; the filmmakers offer neither challenge nor approval. We hear Jan Axel “Hellhammer” Blomberg, ex-drummer of Mayhem, extol the murder of a homosexual committed by Bard “Faust” Eithun, the drummer of peer-band Emperor. Again, the camera offers no reaction.

Nagell, by contrast, denies any involvement, claiming at one point that as Vikernes’ thoughts drifted toward politics, his own moved farther into music, creating a rift between them. But he never directly condemns his contemporaries’ actions, either.

The filmmakers’ objectivity is a gift to their ability to let viewers reach their own conclusions, but focuses more on the personalities than the music. The pathology of a character such as Vikernes makes for good drama, but he wouldn’t be nearly so notorious if his black-metal movement hadn’t resulted in an interesting sound.

And since the sound left Norway, the music itself has been adopted and morphed into new and vastly more interesting contexts — something the documentary fails to recognize. The focus remains solely on the subset of Norwegian bands directly active during the periods of greatest controversy.

In the world outside the humorless documentary, many of black metal’s aesthetic traits, like those of other metal subgenres, are often treated as punchlines, both by detractors and admirers. The often-cartoonish facepainting and unyielding obsession with all things dark, grim or evil quickly gathers the feeling of juvenile and superficial attempts at shock value or of an adolescent pissing contest — one that was taken to violent extremes in Norway.

Musically, though, the genre has been adopted to varying degrees by a number of interesting artists. The aforementioned Xasthur’s solitary, depressive take on the genre is a grayscale panorama, in which subtle shadings can offer immense dimension.

Pacific Northwestern trio Wolves In The Throne Room counter Xasthur’s insularity by adopting the genre’s most expansive and triumphant sounds for their naturalistic Thoreau-meets-Slayer epics. Their vision of black metal evokes the wet, foggy chill of a dark redwood forest, but refuses to wallow in the darkness, and instead embraces the majesty of nature’s magnitude with sprawling 15-minute-plus meditations.

The similarly meditative Chicago outfit Locrian injects black metal’s trebly, buzzing guitars and hoarse vocals throughout their lengthy pieces — which also incorporate pensive drones and dynamic noise to build redemptive and mostly instrumental epics. But several times on this year’s superlative “Territories,” the trio goes at black metal full-bore. At one such instance, “Procession of Ancestral Brutalism,” the result is an exhilarating 11-minute upwell of patient, but potent, sonic force.

This works much like Horseback’s appropriation of the genre — which I wrote about last month — in creating a sense of struggle and triumph through challenging sounds and dramatic, expansive melodies. For Horseback, the harsh timbres and dark tones serve as an auditory metaphor for the struggle of self-actualization on the excellent album, “The Invisible Mountain.”

But no matter how many exciting, fresh, even uplifting contexts the sound might move into, it’s haunted by its origins. I’m forced to wonder if a sound can ever be forgiven for the sins of its fathers, and to question the relationship between art and artist. Trying to appreciate Burzum despite Varg Vikernes’ murder conviction and bigotry is similar to trying to appreciate Mel Gibson’s work as an actor and director despite his bigotry, or Roman Polanski’s work despite his pedophilia. Some will embrace the art and artist, some the art, but not the artist, and others will shun both entirely. I’m not sure there’s a right answer to these questions. I’m conflicted.

And so, apparently, is “Until The Light Takes Us.”