Nymphomaniac: Volume II

Magnolia Pictures
Unrated.
Running time: 124 minutes.
Two stars out of four.

All the humor and humanity that made “Nymphomaniac: Volume I” such an unexpectedly rich and enjoyable experience are long gone in “Nymphomaniac: Volume II.” The Lars von Trier you know and love (or love to hate) is back: cynical, misanthropic, punishing.

The Danish writer-director intended both halves to be viewed as a whole — for “Nymphomaniac” to be shown as a single, four-hour experience. Since they’ve been released in the United States as a pair of two-hour films, the shift in tone that occurs as the lead character slips further into dark, degrading territory seems all the more jarring.

“Volume II” picks up right where “Volume I” left off: with sex-addict Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) recalling her eventual inability to achieve orgasm after such an illustrious history with so many men. The lean and slightly vacant Stacy Martin still plays her in flashbacks for a few early scenes, but Gainsbourg assumes the role for the majority of part two, which is an improvement. As in her previous films with von Trier — “Antichrist” and “Melancholia” — Gainsbourg once again gives it her all and goes to great lengths in the pursuit of her character’s self-loathing, self-destructive tendencies. The naturalism of her performance, even in the most extreme circumstances, can be startling.

Seligman (von Trier regular Stellan Skarsgard), the kindly bachelor who found her badly beaten in the alley outside his apartment at the start of “Volume I,” continues to care for her and listen to her wild tale — her explanation of what a “terrible person” she is, as she puts it. The flashbacks are longer this time, which depletes part two of much of the liveliness that marked its predecessor. Although “Volume II” goes to scarier and more extreme places, it also can feel like a slog.

Joe becomes the mother of a little boy named Marcel with on-again, off-again boyfriend Jerome (Shia LaBeouf), the man who unceremoniously deflowered her in “Volume I.” But this newfound sense of identity isn’t enough to satisfy her. Joe clearly isn’t cut out to be a parent, given her proclivities — not because they’re sexual in nature, but because she is an addict, and her addiction is all-consuming.

And so Joe begins sneaking out in the middle of the night, leaving her toddler son alone in his crib so that she can visit a cruelly sadistic dom named K (Jamie Bell) for bloody lashings. (But hey, she learns how to make her own cat o’ nine tails, so at least she has a new skill.) She keeps pushing it in the pursuit of achieving some sort of sensation. This section is the hardest to watch but it’s also the most compelling, with Bell playing against wholesome type with a performance that’s chilling in its detachment.

Joe remains unapologetic about being a nymphomaniac (the term she prefers over the more neutral and politically correct “sex addict”) and learns not only to accept but flourish in her feminine power. There’s a whole subplot about how Joe uses her voluminous knowledge of men to shake down clients on behalf of a sinister debt collector (Willem Dafoe), with the help of a fragile and needy orphan (the waiflike Mia Goth) she takes under her wing.

Twisted as it is, this theoretically should be a celebration of Joe’s evolution, of her independence. “Volume II” certainly remains unpredictable, even as her decisions catch up with her and turn costlier. But while you never know where von Trier is going — or what his point is — the results too often feel meandering and, ultimately, judgmental. One of the more intriguing tonal choices von Trier made with “Volume I” was his lack of judgment — the detached way he viewed Joe — the result of both his signature Dogme 95 aesthetic as well as his screenplay.

“Volume II” ends in a way that feels not only arbitrary and tacked on, wrapping up as swiftly as it does, but also oddly condemning. Characters turn on a dime and trust is betrayed with dire consequences, and in a manner that makes the previous three hours and 45 minutes or so seem strangely moot. After it was over, I couldn’t help wondering what the hell von Trier meant by the entire exercise. Sure, he can be baffling (see: the “Antichrist” fox infamously rasping “Chaos reigns!”) but it’s not as if he’s making any sort of coherent statement here about female sexuality or gender roles or even addiction.

In fact, the whole thing feels like a set-up for the song that plays over the closing credits, which is on-the-nose in a darkly amusing yet cruel way. Guess the joke’s on us after all.