Climax (2019) ★★

Gaspar Noé’s latest will prove a relatively safe gateway into Noé cinema. Not as vertigo-inducing as “Enter the Void” and not as violent (at least visually) as “Irreversible.” For the average viewer though, there are these elements in excess.

“Climax” opens with a still shot focused on a 1980’s television surrounded by books and films. Present company include “The Possession,” “Suspiria,” writings of Friedrich Neitzsche, a French book detailing the history and methodology of suicide called “Suicide, mode d’emploi” along with many others who’s names were unfamiliar to me. Perhaps if I had learned French, I may have been more acutely aware of what I was getting into. As the television turns on, we’re introduced to the film’s cast in it’s entirety via talking head interviews. Young people from all walks of life are asked about their fears, aspirations, what they would do if they couldn’t dance, and importantly, what they would do for this opportunity. *Hint; it’s “anything.”* After the interviews, the dancers are gathered at a retreat center somewhere in a very, very cold part of France. This is the third and final night of a weekend of rehearsing before they embark on a multi-country dance tour. After one final run-through they decide to blow off some steam with a night of partying. While no one is looking, someone drugs the communal sangria with an unidentified psychedelic drug. As people start to realize what’s happened, logic is shoved out the window (or maybe gymnasium door) and what plays out is less of a “whodunnit” than a nightmare of an acid trip. Noé pulls out *almost* all of the stops in the ensuing hour giving us a truly horrifying experience of what this dance troupe goes through. After all, this film claims to be “based on a true story.” I’ll admit that I completely forgot about that little disclaimer no more than twenty minutes into the film because what happens watches more like a fever dream plucked directly out of Noé’s warped subconscious.

There is certainly an argument to be made for the craft at play. Noé and cinematographer Benoît Debie achieve some truly beautiful moments. The entire first dance scene is one long take that lasts nearly five minutes and encompasses one of the most incredible group dance choreographies I’ve ever seen, which was made even more enjoyable when I learned that only the foundation of the number was choreographed. The camerawork is hardly noticeable in that time which allows the audience to get to know these characters through their dancing alone. As an instrumental version of French DJ Cerrone’s “Supernature” pumps through the sound system, each character showcases his/her own style; variations on voguing, krumping, contortion, and countless others. As the song progresses, the camera creeps onto the ceiling and we watch the dancer's personas emerge even more fully in several solos. The bodies of the dancers form around whoever is in the center like one interconnected organism- fingers on the outside firing neurological commands of movement to the center dancer to dizzying effect.

Unfortunately what begins as a skillfully executed carnival of hedonism, complete with neon lights, dancing, and sexual tension devolves quickly into a hollow exercise in nihilism. The worst parts of this movie are given far too much screen time (the conversation between two men detailing forced anal sex is particularly uncomfortable) and even the best parts drag on too long. The uncompromising vision and gorgeous cinematography are so completely eclipsed by a lack of any real meaning by the end. (Yes. I get it. Humans can turn bad on a dime but if I hear “but…. Lord of the Flies!” one more time, I’m going to lose it). Each element that drew me into the first half of this film had me exhausted by the second. As we begin to explore the corridors and back rooms of this compound, hellish neon reds and vomit greens make the entire place feel like a twisted Christmas. Behind the doors of rooms throughout the facility are unwanted presents- a dancer frantically scrubbing blood off of her naked body in the shower. A young boy’s cries for this mother as he struggles to figure out why he’s locked up in the dark. A pregnant girl writhing on the ground after being viciously kicked in the stomach. All of this, combined with an unrelenting soundtrack of discotheque and screaming had me feeling claustrophobic in a screening attended by five people. I just couldn’t wait for it to end. Some may attribute that feeling to effectiveness on Noé’s part but for me, I was just OVER IT. Toward the end I continually found myself asking “Why am I watching this?” I had long abandoned the notion that I would take any deep meaning from this film but even the camerawork, the lighting, the death-- the spectacle of it all had lost it’s shock value. I couldn’t find a reason that this was even being presented to me any longer.

If you’re someone who has been curious about diving into the work of Gaspar Noe, start elsewhere. Despite his excessive approach, many of his films do at least have something worth saying and as much as I wanted to, I can’t count “Climax” among them.

Reviewed by Max Minardi. Full review on Fresh Hop Cinema Episode 119.