“Nymphomaniac: Vol. II feels like punishment for how weirdly entertaining Volume I was, the masochism to von Trier’s S&M freak show. Indeed, much of what made Volume I amusing… gets jettisoned in Volume II.” — Warren Zhang
If you worried the comedic escapades of Nymphomaniac: Vol. I suggested Lars von Trier (Melancholia) had lightened up, worry no more.
Nymphomaniac: Vol. II feels like punishment for how weirdly entertaining Volume I was, the masochism to von Trier’s S&M freak show. Indeed, much of what made Volume I amusing — the odd couple-chemistry between Stellan Skarsgård (The Physician) and Charlotte Gainsbourg (Do Not Disturb), Shia LeBeouf’s (Charlie Countryman) delectably slimy presence, the staccato rhythm of the vignettes and the constant stylistic departures — gets jettisoned in Volume II.
Instead, the movie settles down to tell a more conventional tale of sexual depravity. Gainsbourg continues recounting her sexual journey to Skarsgård, now jumping ahead several years. We get a cheeky reference to Antichrist (the only funny part of this film) while witnessing Gainsbourg’s BDSM dalliance with an unnervingly cold Jamie Bell (Filth) and eventual career in the debt collection racket.
Volume II’s three chapters (Volume I had five) all chart some sort of descent for Gainsbourg’s character. While Volume I was largely a freewheeling coming-of-age story, Volume II tracks the repercussions of Gainsbourg’s nymphomania — she vehemently dislikes the phrase “sex addict” — throughout the back half of her life.
In many ways, Volume II plays out as the second half of any drug addiction movie, in which the protagonist gets stuck chasing an ever-powerful high to the detriment of his/her well-being. Except Volume II traffics in some rather ludicrous plot development — the aforementioned debt collection career is brazenly bizarre — at the expense of dramatic credibility.
As a result, Volume II often feels like a letdown; the ending that never quite reaches the potential of the opening. Part of it is because Volume II is an altogether more impenetrable lump of writhing philosophical, pseudo-narrative id, but there’s also a sense the movie might have just gotten away from von Trier.
In tackling such an epic, digressive story, von Trier frequently short changes one aspect of the movie for another’s sake. Sometimes the drama and the characters take a backseat to a weirdly appropriate, but nonetheless disruptive, tangent about the Eastern and Western churches. Other times, Volume II remembers its porno roots and interjects an interracial threesome into the film.
The forthcoming director’s cut (yes, with even more explicit sex) might rectify some of these issues, as might repeat viewings. But as is, Nymphomaniac doesn’t quite come together as two halves of a single movie. Volume II never fleshes out Volume I’s multitude of thematic associations, nor does it bring Gainsbourg’s story to a particularly satisfying close.
Volume II is still worthwhile viewing, but it falls just tragically short of the masterpiece Volume I foretold.
