“Von Trier has always had a morbid sense of humor, and the gratifyingly bizarre juxtaposition of Skarsgård’s banal fishing and music anecdotes with Gainsbourg’s wild tales of hypersexuality may just be the pinnacle of his comedic oeuvre.” —Warren Zhang
“For me, love is just lust with jealousy added.”
Charlotte Gainsbourg (Do Not Disturb) uttered these words in the middle of Nymphomaniac: Volume I — sorry, “Nymph()maniac”: Volume I — but she might as well have had the words “author surrogate” flashing in neon letters above her head.
Yes, writer-director-ironic Nazi sympathizer Lars von Trier (Melancholia) has his fingerprints all over his much-anticipated sex epic. Nymphomaniac: Volume I certainly will not disappoint all those expecting a hypnotically lewd art film.
This is a movie in which masturbating on a train is the equivalent of a character bawling her eyes out. This is a movie that demands its viewers swallow lines such as “Would it be all right if I show the children the whoring bed?” alongside ruminations of the nature of human desire, in which the soundtrack freely hops from classical to pop-rock to Rammstein.
But most importantly, this is a movie that is quintessentially von Trier, from its post-ironic treatment of character and violence to the way religion somehow worms its way into rambling discussions about fly fishing and sex.
To put it lightly, Nymphomaniac: Volume I is a challenging work, not necessarily because of the willful obfuscation seen in some of von Trier’s earlier work but because of the sheer quantity and density of its ideas.
Even so, the film might just be von Trier’s most accessible to date. It’s entirely possible to just watch Nymphomaniac: Volume I as a perversely comedic flick. Gainsbourg stars as Joe, a sex addict left beaten up on the doorstep of the impossibly timid Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård, The Physician). While recovering in his house, Joe relates the story of her sexual awakening and subsequent graphic sexual exploration.
The sex scenes are the polar opposite of titillating (I doubt anyone could possibly be aroused by the parade of penises plunked in the middle of the film), but the central structure involving Skarsgård and Gainsbourg develops into a uniquely endearing oddball coupling.
Von Trier has always had a morbid sense of humor, and the gratifyingly bizarre juxtaposition of Skarsgård’s banal fishing and music anecdotes with Gainsbourg’s wild tales of hypersexuality may just be the pinnacle of his comedic oeuvre.
The big problem with Nymphomaniac: Volume I lies in its organization and presentation. Because the film takes on a fragmented structure, it lacks cohesion, feeling more like an extremely bizarre television season than a movie, which is made all the worse by the arbitrary ending.
Volume I just sort of ends, with nothing resolved and nothing unifying the disparate elements of the film. It feels as if Nymphomaniac is building toward some overarching resolution in Volume II, but it’s impossible to tell whether it will have any legitimate payoff.
Still, even if Nymphomaniac: Volume II is appallingly bad, Nymphomaniac: Volume I remains essential viewing for any cinephile willing to venture to more outre regions of cinema.
