REVIEW: Nymphomaniac (2013, Dir. Lars von Trier)

Love him or hate him, Danish auteur, Lars von Trier is one of a kind. He knows his schtick and he puts it out there one way or another. You've got to take von Trier on his own terms. Whether you like those terms or not, that's entirely up to you. His latest, Nymphomaniac is a five and a half hour fuck you to his detractors, be they those who accuse him of misogyny, anti-Semitism or good old fashioned art house pretentiousness. He shovels all of that in along with generous helpings of rebuttal then swirls it all around with gleeful abandon.

Nothing says, "I am what I am" better than a 330 minute porno-comedy treatise on sex, religion, organ music and fly fishing.

That may seem like a trite label for von Trier's audacious epic (or epics in our case, seeing as Nymphomanic hit local screens in its slightly abridged, two part, four hour version) but if you approach his film on clearly delineated levels, it is its sense of humour, its ridiculously irreverent philosophical posturing and its tongue in cheek artsiness that are by far the most resonant.

Nymphomaniac's narrative container collects together nine chapters in the life of Joe, the film's self-confessed nymphomaniac (played with exceptional detachment by Charlotte Gainsbourg and with calculated precociousness by newcomer Stacy Martin), as she recounts them to her erudite saviour and self-confessed asexual, Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård). Part absolution, part narrative trickery, Joe's life story becomes a trigger for some ludicrously over-reaching comparisons between her clitoris-numbing sexual escapades and Seligman's head-locked worldliness. The three of them, Joe, Seligman and von Trier (who is a very present force on-screen) forgo real human connection in favour of delving into the titular affliction's more philosophical attributes, and they come up with some real doozies.

Skarsgård and Gainsbourg are electrifying focal points for the film, if a little distant. If there is a more human side to Nymphomaniac, it is left to the film's cameo-esque supporting cast to bring them to the fore. When they do, they definitely constitute some of the film's most satisfying points. Uma Thurman's Mrs. H, who confronts Joe, kids in tow, after her husband leaves her is unsettlingly hilarious, and Jamie Bell somehow finds something touching in his role as Joe's expressionless dominator.

With a cast this large, you'd expect a weak spot or two, it is just a shame that Nymphomaniac's weakest, Shia LaBeouf, is such a central player. As Jerôme, Joe's most substantial love affair, LaBeouf is a presence as amorphous as his accent. While he's not without his charms, Jerôme
never truly feels wedded to the film; his development as a character skittishly apes the film's trajectory and LaBeouf, despite trying all too furiously, can't make the role his own. At least not in a way that serves the overall film.

While some of that misstepping can be laid at LaBeouf's feet, it is von Trier's subjective narration that  really trips the film up. Nymphomaniac is long enough and sprawling enough to have more than its fair share of inspired moments but its overarching conceit eventually runs away from von Trier and in trying to (rather forcibly) pull it all back together he sells out some of his film's most beguiling traits, Skarsgård's detached observation point being the most unfortunate example.

Nymphomaniac is the work of a talented director digging his heels in. Its audacity ensures that it won't be ignored but while it is a singular vision and one that will inspire both awe and derision, I doubt it will polarise audiences the way his earlier films have. It is far too self mocking for that. For my part, I thought this would be a love it or hate it affair, but I ended up falling well and truly in the middle.

Much to love. Much to endure. Overall, worth the effort but probably won't draw me back in for a second helping.

★★★☆

Trailer: