“Nymphomaniac: Volume II”
Directed by Lars von Trier
Magnolia Pictures
3/5 Paws
Danish provocateur Lars von Trier has consistently been the subject of controversy because of his divisive body of work. However, his newest feature, “Nymphomaniac,” is arguably his most daring yet, a four-hour long sexual odyssey (split into two volumes and released separately in the U.S.) that features both a cast of famous faces and hardcore, unsimulated sex scenes.
In a dimly lit room with tattered walls and old books, Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) recounts her sexual progression from a virginal, coquettish schoolgirl to a woman whose very existence is spent engaging in meaningless and increasingly violent sexual encounters. She discusses this progression with Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård), a stuffy, yet sincere intellectual who is Joe’s diametric opposite. An asexual, he is a man of letters, far more consumed by the compositions of Richard Wagner and the writings of Ludwig Wittgenstein than his own sexuality. His philosophical digressions, inserted in between Joe’s many flashbacks, shed light on Joe’s existence, yet appear to be the sort of “insights” commonly found in hopelessly pretentious student films.
With “Nymphomaniac” stripped of these often exhaustive philosophical tangents, it clearly suffers from several failings, most notably that it appears to be the work of an artist airing his own sexual fantasies, while masquerading them as something deeper, something more dialectic.
The film’s first volume is its strongest – a gripping, reflexive meditation on Joe’s sexual coming-of-age. However, the second volume devolves into “The Story of O” territory as Joe introduces brutality into her sex life. At this point, it takes a turn for the worse, becoming less darkly humorous and more disturbingly psychosexual.
Joe’s degradation, exemplified by her eventual abandonment of her family on Christmas simply to be whipped, is depicted unflinchingly. This is not to say the subject matter should be treated differently. The sex scenes are executed exactly as they should be – cold, uninviting and altogether depressing. However, the sheer brutality that the scenes are marked by renders them nearly unwatchable and the fetishistic lens through which these scenes are projected is like almost no film in recent memory with a mainstream cast.
If the film does succeed in some way, it is because von Trier does not portray his central female character as merely a sexual deviant whose largely self-ascribed downfall can give the audience some twisted sense of pleasure. Despite her many failings, Joe does matter to us. Her tragic flaw, as she states, is that she has, “always demanded more from the sunset.” This resolution to always expect more from the world, more in the way of life and pleasure, explains her addiction to sex. When she begins to lose the ability to feel sexual gratification, Joe seeks out new and extreme situations that will supplement her inability to get physical pleasure.
If viewers expect an ending that will satisfy their desire to know what becomes of Joe, they will be sadly disappointed. The sudden, almost unbelievable conclusion provides an inadequate resolution to the story. It seems forced and incongruous, as if von Trier could not devise a proper denouement and chose the easiest and least satisfying route possible.
The age-old debate regarding what is art and what is pornography is undoubtedly a topic at the center of the film’s controversy. However, “Nymphomaniac: Volume II,” with its philosophical digressions and its soundtrack composed largely of classical music, is quite clearly not pornographic if one defines pornography as mass-produced work made only to sexually arouse. It is art, but not particularly great art.
Though ambitious and, in moments, brilliant, “Nymphomaniac” is no masterwork. Its tiresome intellectualism, coupled with its weak second volume, renders the film an interesting, yet largely flawed production.