Uncle Lars is up to no good again.
I’d caught wind of Von Trier’s
latest sex-heavy project as far back as early 2012. Even then, without having
read a thing about its plot, I knew it’s to be something explosive. The title
of course speaks volumes, but in the hands of the Danish nut-job, you just know
you’ll be in for a cracking good trip.
And then there’s the cast:
Charlotte Gainsbourg (who’s known for having pulled off some sick stuff in Von
Trier’s Anti-Christ), Willem Dafoe,
Christian Slater, Stellan Skarsgard, Jamie Bell (oh cripes, there goes Billy Elliot),
Uma Thurman, and last but not at all the very least, the infamous head-case
that’s Shia I-plagiarise-my-apologies LaBeouf. So there you have it: every
single one of them talented individuals, regardless of your opinions of them.
What in the world are they doing jumping into bed with Uncle Lars?
You just don’t say no to Uncle Lars
when he comes a-knocking. This is the devil-in-disguise who brought us scathing
social critiques such as Dancer in the
Dark (anyone who manages to get Björk
and Catherine Deneuve into the same movie and make them do some crazy dance
together is a GENIUS in my book) and Dogville
(oh Nicole Kidman, if only you’d stick to arthouse). Uncle Lars doesn’t go
light. When he has a point to make, he uses a wrecking ball (but not the lame
way Miley Talentless uses it) and brings down the house.
Nymph()maniac
Vol. 1 is about sex. Duh. But it doesn’t deal
with sex the way you think it should. Its approach is, yes, graphic to the
point of XXX (Shia LaBeouf seems to enjoy it), but anyone who thinks that’s
what gets Uncle Lars off is missing the point. What gets Uncle Lars' juices
flowing is in fact the main narrator Joe’s (Gainsbourg) interior landscape. Her
retelling of the nymphomaniac episodes has a Proustian whiff about
it: literate, multi-layered, shadowy, metaphor-laden. There’s the prevalent use
of analogies, which may seem irrelevant at first, but take on a dark significance
as she begins to wrap up a “chapter.”
The film is structured like an
episodic novel, clearly marked with chapter titles. When the viewer enters a
particular chapter, he enters a world with a distinctive mood and colour. The chapter
“Mrs H,” for instance, is sadistically comical, thanks to a jaw-dropping turn
by Uma Thurman, while “Delirium,” filmed entirely in black and white, returns
our narrator to her father’s deathbed, and is heartbreaking and disconcerting
in its frank portrayal of physical degeneration. Vol. 1 is two hours long, but feels half of that. You leave each “chapter”
bewildered. You hunger for more, hoping that what comes next will illuminate
the enigma that is Joe.
When the film ended, I sat there
with my mouth half-open, wondering if I’d just seen Von Trier’s best work. But I’d
had that feeling before with his previous efforts, and I’m sure, as Ol’ Blue
Eyes was fond of saying, the best is yet to come.
My cinema companion and I are
subjecting ourselves to the temptation of Vol.
2 next week.
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