WORDS Eoin McCague

Nymphomaniac’s two volumes are the cinematic equivalent of a heavy metal symphony. Lars von Trier’s magnum opus is rude, funny, pretentious, self-indulgent and, of course, sexy. While never quite as salacious as we were promised, the film also never amounts to more than the sum of its numerous trysts. Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) is found bleeding and semi-conscious by Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard) in a dark alley and brought back to his apartment to recount her history. Admitting that ever since she “discovered her cunt” when she was two, she has been obsessed with pleasure. Gainsbourg and Skarsgard give fine performances, but they are not the only ones that pepper the four-hour running time. While much has been made of Shia LeBeouf’s move into pretentious performance art, that should not distract from his phenomenal work here. At first an annoying greaser who takes Joe’s virginity, by the end of Vol. I it becomes clear that von Trier has gifted LeBeouf his first ever three-dimensional character. Jamie Bell is pitch-perfectly obscure as a nameless S&M maestro. Nymphomaniac does nothing to sully von Trier’s reputation as an enfant terrible; in fact it solidifies his position at the top of the provocateur pile, with sex scenes that will encourage debate for years to come on the fine line between art and porn. For those looking for more than titillation, however, the episodic nature of Nymphomaniac will leave many disappointed. At times darkly funny, at times repulsive, but never quite as smart as it thinks, the film represents a missed opportunity.

Grade: II:II