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It is a highly controversial story that tells of a group of French dancers who decided to meet in a remote empty school building for their training on a winter night. Perhaps tonight will be the nightly blacks where the night shift turns into a hallucinatory nightmare when they learn from the Sangria mixed with LSD and perhaps it will be a disastrous music.
Climax isn't so much about the inevitability of chaos, but about the sadness of watching something beautiful fall apart. And it is never less than electrifying.
Climax is an orgy of youthful enthusiasm, beautifully humanistic repugnance, compellingly animalistic repulsion, dazzlingly choreographed exhilaration and assuredly controlled grace; all soaked in hallucinogen-spiked sangria.
Consumed by the urge to shock, he lays on so much gratuitous nonsense in his lead-up to the hyperkinetic climax that the actors themselves seem unconvinced by what they're called upon to do and the whole thing collapses into absurdity and tedium.
Climax is a self-indulgent exercise in misery, and an impersonal one because it is so heavily governed by its filmic techniques. The Emperor has no clothes while tripping on LSD.
Noe has made a film that's seductive in its rhythms and bold visualization of his young dancers' sometimes beautiful, other times brutal somatic expressiveness.
Typically, the results are not nearly as originally dreaded, because no matter how far Noé's films can go off the rails -- some of us are still not over the final few minutes of Enter the Void -- they are always at the very least interesting to consume.
"Climax" works, at least when it's willing to be a human drama. But then it sinks in that you're watching "Fame" directed by the Marquis de Sade with a Steadicam.