Directed by Gaspar Noe
* * * *
To be completely objective and
unbiased with a film review is innately impossible, being such a subjective experience. That said, let it be known that I sincerely try.
Nonetheless, there is undoubtedly some bias going forward with this review for
one simple reason: I am a huge fan of Gaspar Noe, cinema’s favorite practitioner of
movie extremity. Though his debut I Stand
Alone features a protagonist unlikable enough to negatively impact an
otherwise solid film, every single film of his has failed to, well, fail me – yes,
I am even prepared to defend Love,
his erotic epic that seems to be universally dismissed as his worst film. But
now it is 2019, and Tucson has at last seen the release of his latest assault
on the senses, Climax. Naturally, a
new film from Noe will always sign me up, but the premise never really intrigued
me, so I walked in to Climax with a
hint of skepticism.
Well, my friends, I’m
absolutely ecstatic to report that Noe has done it again.
Climax starts out calm enough (for Noe, anyway): it is the winter
of 1996. A lengthy introduction of the film’s colorful array of characters is exhibited
via chunks of their audition tapes. We learn quickly that they are a dance
troupe as they continue on about what dance means to them, while getting an
idea on their personalities, quirks, and so on. Cut to an abandoned school,
where they have all gathered for an evening party, complete with dancing, the
pulsating beats of 90s trance-techno, and a bowl of sangria.
After an absolutely stunning dance
number to kick the festivities off, they split off to mingle, where many a talk
is had about relationships, sex, and gossip. These talks go on for a long, long time. Long enough to tip us off
that something’s not right. The talks become more erratic. The dancing becomes
more alien. People aren’t feeling well. They don’t just realize this, but they
realize why: the sangria bowl has been spiked with LSD. Not knowing who spiked
it and literally out of their heads, things turn very violent, very ugly, and
very weird. In spite of this, the party continues on.
From my observation, there are
two methods that result in the best of horror: slow-burn tension and sensory
overload of some kind, whether it be The
Blair Witch Project’s shaky-cam or the ear-splitting chainsaw of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I’m not
sure exactly how comfortable I am calling Climax
a horror film, but there’s no denying that the film I saw is one of the most
terrifying moviegoing experiences in recent memory, and one of the key ingredients
in its excellency is its mastery of both methods
previously mentioned.
There is no “act structure”
found in Climax. Abandoning the traditions
of moviemaking is nothing radical in 2019, nor a surprise for Noe, but this is
one of the greatest strengths of the film. It is instead a steady descent into
a drug-fueled downward spiral that the viewer is horrifically entranced toward,
rather than being guided by one plot point to the next. I’ve never tripped once
in my life up to this point, but I can imagine the feeling of descent into a
really bad trip being something like this.
Even as an avid Noe fan, I
will be the first to admit that pacing has never been his strong suit – Irreversible, Enter the Void, and Love are
all marred by troubled pacing in their final acts, but Noe has found notable
footing with Climax, especially
considering how many characters the film has to follow. But, like a casual
partygoer, Noe angelically traverses from one party to another, without the
viewer even really noticing they’ve transitioned. This is all the more
impressive considering the impromptu circumstances the film was made under,
with most everything we’re watching improvised on-set (in 15 days, no less).
When Climax isn’t scaring us half to death, it is mesmerizing us with
the incredible choreography and blocking from an exceptionally talented cast.
Much has been said about the opening dance number, and it’s worth the hype, but
many reviews dismiss the fact that these hypnotizing dances continue throughout
the entire movie, all bolstered by an expertly curated soundtrack – from 90s
rave tunes to disturbing electronic soundscapes, if the visual prowess of Climax is the main course, the sound and
music are the side dishes. At one point, the legendary outro to Aphex Twin’s “Windowlicker”
blasted through the speakers – I had to mentally bolt myself to my chair to
keep from breaking into dance in the middle of the theater.
The performances are also solid,
not just in the actors’ dance moves, but also in their acting capabilities. Following
one of these characters into a lone room without knowing what they’re cable of
was already terrifying, and the acting made everything all the more believable.
Notable is a moment when one girl has a convulsive fit that dual-functions as a
nod to Isabelle Adjani’s notorious subway miscarriage in Possession. Granted, what Adjani accomplished in ’81 can never be
recaptured, but Climax’s homage gets
a nod for effort.
There’s a number of
loss-of-innocence allegories I sensed throughout the film, but I will not get
into these. My Noe fanaticism may be propelling me to find themes that aren’t
really there, but the quality of the movie is more important than whatever existential
themes may or may not be present, and I assure you that Climax is top-notch, becoming one of the most uniquely terrifying moviegoing
experiences of recent memory. I went to a night club immediately after seeing the
movie. Bad idea: the overwhelming
sensory assault carried over long into the night, and the club I usually have
so much fun at immediately became quite uncomfortable. Climax came and to this very minute absolutely refuses to leave.
