Nymphomaniac 2014

The film opens in a shadowy, rain-drenched quiet where a relentless mechanical thump fills the darkness. What seems to be a roadside ritual is actually the sound of machinery hammered by downpours, leading to a quiet, unsettling image—a motionless hand resting on a pavement. A distant, almost soothing wind and rain give way to a surge of heavy metal on the soundtrack as we enter a living space where a man—Stellan Skarsgård—wraps a scarf around his neck and steps into the world outside. He buys bait at a tackle shop, returns home, and stumbles upon a battered, unconscious woman on the ground. The woman is Charlotte Gainsbourg and she is badly beaten. He rouses her, promises to fetch help, but she resists, insisting that if he calls an ambulance or the police she will leave before he can return. He notes her injuries, offers tea, and, against her wishes, invites her inside.

In the dim light of the room, their uneasy truce begins. He suggests washing her clothes; she protests, asking him not to wash the coat. He asks what happened; she speaks of her own culpability—“it’s my fault because I’m a bad human being”—and she slowly opens up, revealing a need to talk about it. He invites her to tell her story, and she accedes, noticing a fly caught on a wall-mounted fishhook and using it as a narrative touchstone. He speaks of fly-fishing as a metaphor: the fly is light, the line heavy, and the lure must be matched to the fish’s hunger. She asks about his own fishing, and he admits he doesn’t catch much anymore. He shares a childhood memory from a “Complete Angler” book—romantic, almost sacred to him—before inviting her to begin at the start of her own story.

In this telling, the film pivots into a dramatic, multi-layered confession. The woman recounts her earliest experiences and how she discovers the “bait” in the adult world. The story pivots to a painful, intimate history: a two-year-old girl discovering her body, a young girl with a mother who is distant, and a father who shapes the child’s imagination with stories and science. The man listens, interjecting with gentle questions, while the woman traces how a sense of sin—taken not as a doctrine but as a personal burden—shapes her view of herself. In her telling, she makes it clear that she did not claim all of humanity to be sinful; she speaks of her own temptations and the way in which she has learned to read the world through the lens of longing and consequence.

As the story unfolds, the child grows into a girl who absorbs stories from her father, a doctor whose tales enchant her even as they hint at danger. The father’s stories about the ash tree—its beauty and its winter-dark buds—become a recurring motif that the woman recalls with a blend of affection and estrangement. The present-day man notes that the fly on the wall is called a nymph, the larval stage of a greater creature, and he uses their discussion to pivot toward the idea of education—an education that is not formal but experiential, a way of understanding desire, power, and consequence.

The narrative then shifts to the character we come to know as Joe, the adult version of the girl, played by Stacy Martin. In this section, Joe is seen as she and her friend B—played by Sophie Kennedy Clark—embark on a journey that begins with a ritualized contest: who can seduce the most men on a train, in a bid to win a tangible prize. The two move through the compartments with a practiced, almost strategic ease—counting, calculating, and learning the rhythms of attraction. The storyteller notes the river’s changing currents, the way fish gather, tease, and bite; the metaphor becomes a map of human behavior: timing, visibility, and the art of choosing when to strike.

In this chapter, the film is unflinching about adult encounters, yet it remains careful about how it presents them. Joe’s early sexual awakenings unfold in a sequence of candid, but non-graphic, moments that establish the power she wields and the costs she pays. Among these memories is a pivotal first sexual encounter with a young man—an event that is later reframed in terms of the broader arc of her life. The train sequence also puts into relief Joe’s growing sense that desire can be both a tool and a burden, capable of untying knots and creating new ones. A key moment in this section is a conversation where a married man becomes entangled in a moment of shared risk and consequence, a moment that Joe later discusses with a calm, clinical clarity that juxtaposes against the storm of her feelings.

On the journey through memory, a number of figures emerge through the archive of Joe’s life. The adult Shia LaBeouf appears as Jerôme, a man from Joe’s past who begins as a quiet, uncomfortable, almost predatory presence but gradually becomes a focal point of longing and conflict. The transition from a respectful memory to a complicated attraction is rendered in a way that mixes humor and tension, and it is here that the film begins to widen its lens beyond mere sexual appetite toward questions of love, obligation, and memory. When Joe enters the office world, she encounters Jerôme again, this time in a professional setting where the power dynamics shift and the boundary between personal history and present day work becomes central to her experience. A tense elevator scene and a tour through Jerôme’s private space become symbolic waypoints in their evolving relationship.

The film’s frame narrative continues to host a meditation on love, attachment, and the price of desire. When Jerôme becomes a recurring figure in Joe’s life, the sense of history—how the past informs the present—reaches a new depth. A sequence in which Joe begins to explore her feelings more openly, even as she navigates power, control, and gendered expectations, shows how her identity is shaped by both the men who cross her path and the inner critics she has internalized. A later encounter in which Joe’s professional life intersects with her personal history—when she provocatively asserts her independence in the face of Jerôme’s assumed authority—highlights a turning point: the need to define herself not by the men she encounters but by the boundaries she sets and the autonomy she forges.

In a later chapter, Joe’s life becomes a mosaic of long relationships and more casual, combustible encounters, and the woman is forced to face the consequences of living with a life defined by hunger and repetition. The “Mrs. H” chapter centers on a complicated ménage with a woman who becomes a mirror for loss, memory, and the stubbornness of desire. Uma Thurman appears as Mrs. H, a wife who enters Joe’s life with a quiet, unnerving presence and leaves behind a cascade of emotional ripples that challenge Joe to confront what it means to destroy and to be destroyed in return. The scene with Mrs. H is less a showdown than a confrontation with the limits of control—how the past leaks into the present, and how the body can be both shelter and wound.

The narrative then shifts into a darker, more meditative register: Delirium. A stark, black-and-white sequence takes us into the hospital wards where Joe’s father, a doctor, is confronted with illness, fear, and the fragility of life. The sequence is intimate and harrowing, filled with intimate acts that aim to fill a void and an enduring sense of loneliness that lingers even after death. Christian Slater, who portrays Joe’s father, returns to the screen in these scenes, offering a counterpoint to Joe’s own self-fashioning. The doctor’s perspective—devoted, exhausted, resilient—frames Joe’s later reflections on mortality, guilt, and the complicated ways people cope with loss. The doctor’s bedside presence, the emotional tremor of delirium tremens, and the chasm between memory and reality all feed into Joe’s ongoing inquiry into who she is when she is most exposed.

Throughout these interwoven chapters, the film uses music as a living counterpoint to narrative. Seligman, a patient, piercing intellectual figure, introduces Joe to Bach and the concept of polyphony—the idea that multiple independent melodies can coexist harmoniously. He crafts a parallel between the polyphonic organ’s three voices and Joe’s own life: the bass of one lover, the melody of another, and a third voice that completes the relational chord. The conversation about a cantus firmus—an anchored melodic line—becomes a way to describe Joe’s own approach to love, memory, and the art of living with one’s desires. The film even places a bold, carefully staged quotation from their dialogue, inviting the viewer to consider poetry and mathematics as ways of understanding human behavior.

As the narrative reaches its fifth movement, Joe divides her life into three core relationships—the three voices that compose her “Little Organ School.” The bass, denoted by a man with a red car, is predictable, devoted, and patient, a steady rhythm that gives structure to her days. The second voice, a more predatory, Jaguar-like presence, tests boundaries and challenges her control. The third, a close confidant and partner, becomes a catalyst for a deeper, more intimate fusion—the moment when desire becomes a shared, almost sacred space. The parallel montage pairs Joe in her intimate scenes with the organ’s pedals and pipes, visually weaving sex, music, and memory into a single, complex fabric. The moment when Joe finally consummates a significant relationship with Jerôme is rendered as a climactic, multi-voiced sequence that culminates in a quiet, overwhelming vulnerability. The trio of lovers—F, Jerôme, and G—are represented in a three-way split-screen, mirroring the three voices on the organ, before the scene cuts away with a sense of suspended consequence.

The end of this installment sits at a raw, unresolved edge. Joe, exhausted and overwhelmed, confesses that she cannot feel the same intensity as before and asks for the possibility of feeling again. The confession is intimate, incomplete, and deeply human, ending on an open note: to be continued. The closing credits tease forthcoming glimpses of what lies ahead in Nymphomaniac: Vol. II, leaving the viewer with a dual pull of curiosity and unease about where Joe’s story will travel next.

Fill all my holes.

Love is blind. The erotic is about saying yes; love, in contrast, can distort or demand more than a person can bear.