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Lars von Trier’s Sex Therapy: “Nymph( )maniac Vol. 1”

 
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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