Nymph()maniac: Volume 2
Dir. Lars Von Trier
3.5 out of 5
My thoughts on Nymph()maniac: Volume 1 can be found here.
Contrary to the recent history of epic-length films broken into installments, Nymph()maniac: Volume 2 really does have two discrete halves - in other words, it's more Kill Bill than The Hobbit. And while the opener was no Sunday drive, Vol. 2 is unmistakably a Von Trier film, a dark chronicle of pain and suffering and occasional pathos that serves as a fitting companion piece to the more sensuous Vol. 1. After a few brief scenes picking up the pieces of Vol. 1's semi-cliffhanger, the flashback timeline catches up to a point where Joe - the woman recounting her sexual autobiography to Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard), the bookish Samaritan who discovered her beaten and bruised in an alley in Vol. 1 - is now played by Charlotte Gainsbourg. The casting switch coincides with wholesale changes in Joe's life, including a child fathered by her bad penny-lover Jerome (Shia LaBeouf) and the loss of her ability to achieve sexual satisfaction.
The latter obviously presents certain challenges for a nymphomaniac, which allows Von Trier to explore his obsession with the extremes of human behavior. Joe begins dabbling in riskier forms of sex in her effort to recapture the thrill, trying everything from random encounters with non-English speakers (the theory being that sex without verbal communication presents a certain level of danger) to submitting herself to a sadomasochist (Jamie Bell) who doesn't believe in the concept of a safe word. (In a development that will surprise no one familiar with his work, Von Trier quickly picks up on the analogous nature of pain and pleasure.)
It must be stressed, however, that this is even less lurid or erotic than Vol. 1, which already had its share of raw, unsparing moments. Von Trier seems more determined than ever to remove his subject matter from a titillating context, employing a drab visual style that emphasizes late 20th-century aesthetic decay in its crumbling council housing, copious fluorescent lighting, and the characters' increasingly frumpy wardrobes.
More than just a controversy magnet or an exercise in miserabilia, Nymph()maniac is Von Trier's bid to recontextualize sex in as many ways as possible. In Joe he has a character who explores a definition of the sexual impulse beyond an expression of love and intimacy or a biological urge to the point where, in her world, it's simply a reflexive response: a viewpoint that comes into play when Joe launches a mid-life career as an expert interrogator/debt collector for an upmarket dirty work specialist (Willem Dafoe).
The film's late push to make Joe's sexual experience "useful" allows Von Trier to take potshots at his favorite target - therapy - and leads the metaphorical interplay between Joe and Seligman, one of the more unexpected pleasures of Vol. 1, into more didactic territory. Seligman's final monologue feels a bit too tidy and academic after nearly four hours of the Von Trier's emotional battery, but it's followed by a final twist so improbably wild and over the top it either ruins or saves the film, depending on how much you prefer to see Seligman as the filmmaker's surrogate. Whatever the case, Nymph()maniac is a fully realized, fully adult emotional journey that speaks seriously and sympathetically to the wanton and the chaste alike.
Nymph()maniac: Volume 1
Dir. Lars Von Trier
4 out of 5
How does Danish provocateur Lars Von Trier get away with even half the stuff in his self-proclaimed "Depression Trilogy"? Is it because he means what he says, or is it because we know he's just trying to get a rise out of us? Is Von Trier's current ideal A) investing every taboo and transgression with deep personal feeling, a la Melancholia, or B) trying to unbalance us and our preconceived notions of movies labeled as "art films," just because he can, as in Antichrist?
After watching Nymph()maniac: Volume 1, I get the feeling that best answer is C) a little bit of both. Von Trier's ambitious two-part NC-17 opus is the biography of Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg), a self-diagnosed sex addict. She begins the film lying bloodied in an alley when she's discovered by Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard), a kindly old gentleman with an encyclopedia's worth of esoteric knowledge about his many hobbies. Joe pretty much knows about just one thing - sex - and proceeds to tell bits and pieces of her life story to her perpetually fascinated rescuer.
In the hands of another filmmaker, these vignettes might be told with the same abandon she displays in arranging her life around random sexual encounters. Von Trier, however, takes a highly structured approach, setting up a breadcrumb trail of conversational triggers from a fly fishing lure on Seligman's wall to a dog-eared copy of Edgar Allen Poe stories on his bedside table. It's as contrived as can be, turning every chapter of Joe's tale into a labored comparison of lust and lures, literature, or late Baroque composers. Yet Nymph()maniac is also mesmerizing because of the push and pull between its explicit subject matter and its exceedingly arch tone, not to mention a framing device that recalls My Dinner With Andre more than Penthouse Forum. (Seligman's dorky interjections are truly the secret ingredient of Von Trier's strange brew.)
The film's dispassionate attitude toward intercourse keeps a short leash on puerile thoughts, but it's also an important part of Joe's character. Nymph()manic: Part 1 is focused entirely on her experiences as a young woman, as played by newcomer Stacy Martin. Her wan, unsmiling performance complements the movie's chilly and mechanical vibe. It's telling that the lone emotional outburst - which belongs to a deliciously sarcastic Uma Thurman as the cuckolded wife of one of Joe's lovers - is a great scene that nonetheless feels like it belongs in a different movie.
Nymph()maniac: Volume 1 is a mannered erotic contraption, its regimentation mirrored in Joe's sexual partners, particularly the bad penny Jerome (Shia LeBeouf), who by himself tends to shepherd Joe onto her next "level" of experience or, as part of a trio of men, helps provide a sexual wholeness that she likens to a musical polyphony. Of course, Von Trier has no issues tearing down what he takes so long to build. He also relishes his reputation as an enfant terrible - blaring a Rammstein song, cutting together an endless montage of phalli - to the point where it threatens to push the film into the realm of arthouse schlock. It's entirely possible that the movie's second half will go farther down that path, but for now let's appreciate its author's willful and enthralling brand of cinema: a kind that potentially repels some audiences but certainly leaves no doubt about who is in control.
