A very upset Uma Thurman in Nymphomaniac: Volume 1 (Christian Geisnaes)

Lars von Trier is a strange case. He’s built himself a lasting reputation as a contrarian badass with a punky, gothic edge—the metalhead of the art-house scene. Only the boldest of cinephiles dare grapple with the dangerous ideas and graphic presentation of a von Trier. Only the brave go where he goes. And the aerophobic Dane only goes to other European countries, where he almost yearly makes grandiose and outlandish proclamations, usually during Cannes and other such forums, furthering his self-made mystique. But in fact, his work is far more geared for brainiacs than it is for rockers. In somewhat relief to his reputation, he’s a meticulous intellectual with an idiosyncratic edge—in reality he’s the proto-Freudian of the art house. The nerdiest of cinephiles jive on his ideas.

With few exceptions, von Trier’s films are plodding think-pieces that weigh heavily on the head as they present their mostly pessimistic, existential theses over typically longish running times. His packaging recently (black, macabre imagery and heavy metal-infused) reinforces the reputation, while the films themselves are pushing ever further into noodly philosophical territory. This is not a complaint at all. In fact, I wish more filmmakers nowadays had von Trier’s brains—I’m just pointing out the irony. Mr. von Trier himself probably revels in the academic Trojan horses he presents to the legions of fan boys who eagerly await whatever cinephilic devastation he’ll drop next.

The first part of Nymphomaniac—which resembles a twisted, cautionary, completely outrageous Aesop fable in its moral didacticism and metaphoric comments—continues the pattern. Charlotte Gainsbourg and Stellan Skarsgard are two lonely urbanites who find each other on a dreary evening. Joe (Gainsbourg) recounts every lurid detail of her young life as a sexual adventuress as her new friend offers innocent (and hilarious) armchair philosophy on the reasons for her many deeds and misdeeds. Stacy Martin plays the young Joe superbly. A predictably (for von Trier) great cast fills the remaining roles, including Christian Slater as Joe’s ailing father, Uma Thurman as the scorned wife of a family man Joe seduces, and Shia LaBeouf as Jerôme, a semi-redeemable cad who takes Joe’s virginity and, years later after she has learned a thing or two, begins a more involved romance with her.

This one is a little more fun than, say, Antichrist or Melancholia, and is best seen in a theater with a large audience of like-minded cine-geeks ready to chuckle at the frequent moments of uncomfortable humor. Volume One is much more episodic than anything of von Trier’s in recent memory, yet it ends on a teaser and somehow promises that the story will come full circle in the second half. I’m somehow reminded of Charles Dickens releasing his books in serial installments, and I wonder if there were comparable authors in the 19th century releasing the same kind of outrageous work, successfully getting away with elevating the cultural dialogue while somehow convincing folks they were just turning up the volume on dangerous ideas and seeing what happened.

Go for the tits (and ass, and lots and lots of penises), but stay for the ideas—as usual. This is a blisteringly graphic sex movie, but one that tells such an outrageous tale it’s impossible not to find parallels with daily life, and impossible not to begin reading every moment as a metaphor for a larger story being told. And if you also pull back the curtain on this director and understand his films to be more than the mere hardcore spectacles they’re recently billed to be, you’ll be pleasantly surprised at the humor in this one. But don’t bring a date.