"Provocateur" is a word frequently associated with the name, Lars Von Trier. And this word, I believe, holds the key to the question of why this male director, who I do not believe is an actual misogynist, might have made this four-hour movie entitled Nymphomaniac—a word that I had to say twice at the ticket booth, begrudgingly, I might add.
I had been quite ambivalent about this Danish director for years. His stories of suffering women—Breaking the Waves, Dancer in the Dark, and Dogville—struck me as being heavy-handed, overly melodramatic, exaggerated, manipulative, and therefore less than sincere. Still, there was something in these movies that left me an impression. A high level of craft, a purposeful intensity, a rare willingness to plunge all the way down? I don't know. But nobody would have questioned that this was one of the bravest directors around still churning out films. And there were also his earlier works, like Europa and Element of Crime, that were uniquely and astonishingly fantastic. Antichrist—the partly beautiful, generally awful, and stubbornly unforgettable 2009 horror film—only amplified my mixed feelings about Von Trier.
But then, there came the planet Melancholia, which swept me away. I had to go and watch Von Trier's next release. No matter what it was called.
To my surprise, Nymphomaniac Vol.1 turns out to be light and humorous. In retrospect, this should have been expected: look at how the movie title with "()" in place of an "0"; look at the poster with all the orgasmic faces of the cast. Yet, when it comes to Von Trier, one does not make common-sense assumptions.
It was also unexpected that the film is a collage with a Wes- Andersonesque quirkiness. A woman in her 40s, who is convinced she is "a bad person," relates a few episodes from her early sexual history to an elderly man (who finds her unconscious in the alleyway and offers hot tea and a place to rest). A miscellany of trivia, metaphors, and obscene clips are weaved into the fabric of the story as the two of them converse.
"Hopefully, it will be a very messy film. I'd like to make a film that has a lot of different diversions and strange ideas and little parts that have nothing to do with the storyline," the director said to The Independent about this film some time before its shooting began. Personally, I tend to regard such intentions a sign of laziness ("Constructing a well-structured, aerodynamically-shaped story takes too much time and energy, and it's not worth the effort.") or hubris ("I am a genius. Whatever I spit out randomly is a string of pearls."). Not that it is impossible to get a gem out of such an attempt.
What we get with Nymphomaniac Vol.1 (judged on its own) is a mild success. Some of the episodes introduced in the story are interesting (e.g., the bit with Uma Thurman as Mrs. H), while some are merely inconsequential (e.g., Joe proves herself good at parking). Some of the metaphors are appropriate but trite (e.g., fly-fishing), others interesting yet inept (e.g., polyphony). Many of the obligatory studs of obscenity are childish, although sufficiently unsettling. Most of the trivia is disappointingly basic and common, which is perhaps the weakest fiber in this fabric. In the end, this is a mildly amusing movie with permissibly loose structure that asks the viewer's forgiveness, which it sort of earns with its share of inventiveness and aesthetic eclecticism.
What was the most troubling about this film to me was the division I felt between the main character, Joe, and myself. Normally, when we watch a movie, we can understand the feelings and emotions of a character even when she is a very different person than we are. We may not completely identify with Norman Bates from Psycho, Aileen Wuornos from Monster, and even Grace from Dogville, but we can understand them at some level. Call it the speck of darkness (or naiveté in case of Grace) buried deep inside all of us that relates us to them. But I couldn't understand Joe other than by labeling her as a sex addict and explain everything on that label. A young girl who is crazed about sex while renouncing love did not feel real to me. The metaphor of polyphony as a harmony formed by three distinct melodies of three different lovers seemed an interesting conceit at first glance but fell flat upon some reflection. Most of all, the intense sexual arousal Joe experiences upon her father's death was nothing but bizarre, and it almost hurt my feeling to think that Lars Von Trier cheated the audience with such thoughtless, random sensationalism. Or is it that this is what he always does and it is simply foolish to think he has something true to offer? In spite of my suspicions, there was a sex therapist on The Daily Beast validating Joe's feelings and reactions based on a profile of female sex addicts, including the arousal at the deathbed. So I guess Von Trier did his research. Or some psychologists are just full of it.
In any case, it does not look like Nymphomaniac will turn out to be one of Von Trier's best works. My guess—based on the teaser and the strangely light tone of Vol. 1—is that Vol. 2 will be a hard-core assault on the viewer, Von Trier style. (I am thinking of the intensity of Breaking the Waves and Dancer in the Dark, but filled with graphic sex.) At this point, I am dreading it. I used to wonder if this man was a masochist who enjoys suffering along with his heroines. After Antichrist, I contemplated the possibility that he is a sadist who takes pleasure in torturing the audience. I can only wish Nymphomaniac Vol.2 contains some saving grace —a handful of supreme beauty that Von Trier sometimes does give to us.
I had been quite ambivalent about this Danish director for years. His stories of suffering women—Breaking the Waves, Dancer in the Dark, and Dogville—struck me as being heavy-handed, overly melodramatic, exaggerated, manipulative, and therefore less than sincere. Still, there was something in these movies that left me an impression. A high level of craft, a purposeful intensity, a rare willingness to plunge all the way down? I don't know. But nobody would have questioned that this was one of the bravest directors around still churning out films. And there were also his earlier works, like Europa and Element of Crime, that were uniquely and astonishingly fantastic. Antichrist—the partly beautiful, generally awful, and stubbornly unforgettable 2009 horror film—only amplified my mixed feelings about Von Trier.
But then, there came the planet Melancholia, which swept me away. I had to go and watch Von Trier's next release. No matter what it was called.
To my surprise, Nymphomaniac Vol.1 turns out to be light and humorous. In retrospect, this should have been expected: look at how the movie title with "()" in place of an "0"; look at the poster with all the orgasmic faces of the cast. Yet, when it comes to Von Trier, one does not make common-sense assumptions.
It was also unexpected that the film is a collage with a Wes- Andersonesque quirkiness. A woman in her 40s, who is convinced she is "a bad person," relates a few episodes from her early sexual history to an elderly man (who finds her unconscious in the alleyway and offers hot tea and a place to rest). A miscellany of trivia, metaphors, and obscene clips are weaved into the fabric of the story as the two of them converse.
"Hopefully, it will be a very messy film. I'd like to make a film that has a lot of different diversions and strange ideas and little parts that have nothing to do with the storyline," the director said to The Independent about this film some time before its shooting began. Personally, I tend to regard such intentions a sign of laziness ("Constructing a well-structured, aerodynamically-shaped story takes too much time and energy, and it's not worth the effort.") or hubris ("I am a genius. Whatever I spit out randomly is a string of pearls."). Not that it is impossible to get a gem out of such an attempt.
What we get with Nymphomaniac Vol.1 (judged on its own) is a mild success. Some of the episodes introduced in the story are interesting (e.g., the bit with Uma Thurman as Mrs. H), while some are merely inconsequential (e.g., Joe proves herself good at parking). Some of the metaphors are appropriate but trite (e.g., fly-fishing), others interesting yet inept (e.g., polyphony). Many of the obligatory studs of obscenity are childish, although sufficiently unsettling. Most of the trivia is disappointingly basic and common, which is perhaps the weakest fiber in this fabric. In the end, this is a mildly amusing movie with permissibly loose structure that asks the viewer's forgiveness, which it sort of earns with its share of inventiveness and aesthetic eclecticism.
What was the most troubling about this film to me was the division I felt between the main character, Joe, and myself. Normally, when we watch a movie, we can understand the feelings and emotions of a character even when she is a very different person than we are. We may not completely identify with Norman Bates from Psycho, Aileen Wuornos from Monster, and even Grace from Dogville, but we can understand them at some level. Call it the speck of darkness (or naiveté in case of Grace) buried deep inside all of us that relates us to them. But I couldn't understand Joe other than by labeling her as a sex addict and explain everything on that label. A young girl who is crazed about sex while renouncing love did not feel real to me. The metaphor of polyphony as a harmony formed by three distinct melodies of three different lovers seemed an interesting conceit at first glance but fell flat upon some reflection. Most of all, the intense sexual arousal Joe experiences upon her father's death was nothing but bizarre, and it almost hurt my feeling to think that Lars Von Trier cheated the audience with such thoughtless, random sensationalism. Or is it that this is what he always does and it is simply foolish to think he has something true to offer? In spite of my suspicions, there was a sex therapist on The Daily Beast validating Joe's feelings and reactions based on a profile of female sex addicts, including the arousal at the deathbed. So I guess Von Trier did his research. Or some psychologists are just full of it.
In any case, it does not look like Nymphomaniac will turn out to be one of Von Trier's best works. My guess—based on the teaser and the strangely light tone of Vol. 1—is that Vol. 2 will be a hard-core assault on the viewer, Von Trier style. (I am thinking of the intensity of Breaking the Waves and Dancer in the Dark, but filled with graphic sex.) At this point, I am dreading it. I used to wonder if this man was a masochist who enjoys suffering along with his heroines. After Antichrist, I contemplated the possibility that he is a sadist who takes pleasure in torturing the audience. I can only wish Nymphomaniac Vol.2 contains some saving grace —a handful of supreme beauty that Von Trier sometimes does give to us.
Tell Your Friends