Nymphomaniac: Volume I

March 28, 2014

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I was just discussing the overall misanthropy of Lars von Trier’s work with a colleague, who can’t quite stomach the Danish director’s apparent disdain for humanity. I really can’t argue with my colleague’s points, for if there’s any filmmaker bent on bitterly exposing us to our collective ills and inner demons, it’s von Trier. The difference is, some of us are more willing to explore those ills and demons than others, and von Trier is preternaturally gifted in thrusting them in our faces — harshly and viscerally, yet beautifully, too.

I thought of my colleague when watching “Nymphomaniac: Volume I,” the first half of von Trier’s epic two-part saga about Joe, the self-hating title character with a monumental carnal history. This opening chapter marks von Trier’s least misanthropic work to date. If anything, “Volume I,” for all its unbridled shock value (prepare for a lot of on-screen flesh), is a comedy most of all.

Played in adulthood by Charlotte Gainsbourg, Joe, bruised and battered, is rescued from an alleyway by Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård), a timid, asexual hermit who listens to Joe’s manifesto, and offers on-the-nose scientific theorizations that border on farce. Joe’s recollection of a tryst-filled train ride gets likened to fly-fishing, while the numerical nature of her first time (don’t ask) gets linked to the Fibonacci sequence. Von Trier is deliberately making light of the events to draw us in to Joe and Seligman’s platonic bond. And yet, if you know anything about the director, you’ve already deduced that this is bait in the trap.

In youth, Joe is portrayed by newcomer Stacy Martin, and her insatiable lust — it goes beyond desire, and certainly, pleasure — apparently shatters countless lives, including that of a wife and mother eerily embodied by Uma Thurman in one standout scene. Young Joe also begins a lifelong sexual connection to Jerôme (Shia LaBeouf), a man she encounters serendipitously—or fictionally, if you don’t believe grown Joe’s tale—throughout her life. For my colleague, Volume 1 is probably a welcome respite. For me, an appreciator of von Trier’s aptitude for grand, emotional devastation, it feels like foreplay.