Lars and the Real Girl: On Authorial Ghosting in Nymphomaniac
A dark, grimy alley: snow falls melts, and drips onto the lid of a garbage can as the camera pans in complete silence. The camera fixates on a large, square hole, slowly zooms in, and consumes the world in darkness. Cut to Joe, battered, bruised, crumpled in a heap, unmoving in the middle of the alley. From complete silence, chaos erupts as rock music blares over Joe’s still form, the aural indicator of an uncaring world. If rock bottom is a place, it’s surely here. It is from here that Nymphomaniac unfolds.
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