Climax — The Satanic Boogie That Gaspar Noé Slipped Us in the Sangria

Gaspar Noé’s cinema has always been like a sucker punch to the gut: visceral, uncomfortable, and so dazzling it hurts. Climax is no exception. Released in 2018, this French—or rather Franco-Belgian affair, because money always comes from where you least expect it—is a 95-minute experiment that blends urban dance, psychological horror, and a sangria spiked with something far stronger than booze. Noé, that enfant terrible of European cinema, proves once again he’s the only director capable of turning a party into a collective exorcism without expensive special effects. Just a bunch of dancers, an abandoned boarding school, and a camera that never stops moving for a second. Spoiler: your head will throb. But in the good way, like when you leave a concert and the world spins too fast around you.

The premise is absurdly simple: twenty dancers gather in a forest-bound boarding school to rehearse a routine. The first half-hour is pure visual ecstasy—bodies in motion, sweat, electronic beats, and an energy so infectious it feels like you could catch it. Then someone—or something—poisons the sangria. And just like that, the party becomes a living hell. Noé doesn’t bother explaining who did it or why. To him, the why is irrelevant. What matters is the how: how these young, sweaty bodies react when the LSD (or whatever they’ve ingested) kicks in. And react they do. There’s screaming, weeping, sex, violence, more screaming, and above all, a whole lot of dancing. Because even as the world crumbles, the body keeps moving. It’s as if Noé is reminding us that, in the end, we’re all just animals trapped in cages of flesh and bone, dancing to the rhythm of our own demons.

The shoot of Climax was as chaotic as the film itself. Noé assembled a mix of professional and amateur dancers, many with no prior acting experience, and locked them in a boarding school for weeks. He gave them free rein to improvise, to scream, to cry, to fuck if they felt like it. Then he filmed them with a camera that seemed to have a life of its own, weaving through them like a drunken specter. Benoît Debie, the cinematographer, had already collaborated with Noé on Enter the Void and Irreversible, but here he takes his style to another level. The single takes in Climax aren’t just a technical flex—they’re a statement of intent. Noé doesn’t want you to feel comfortable. He wants you to feel like you’re inside that party, sweating, dizzy, wondering if what you’re seeing is real or just a bad trip. And damn if he doesn’t pull it off. There’s a moment when the camera spins 360 degrees around a group of dancers as Thomas Bangalter’s music (yes, that Thomas Bangalter, of Daft Punk) thunders through the speakers. It’s so hypnotic you almost forget you’re watching a film about a group of people who’ve been poisoned. Almost.

But Climax isn’t just a stylistic exercise. Or at least, not entirely. There’s something deeply human in the chaos Noé captures. These dancers aren’t professional actors performing a script; they’re real people losing control, and it shows. Sofia Boutella, the only recognizable face in the cast, is simply ferocious. Her character, Selva, is a force of nature—dancing like the floor is burning beneath her feet and screaming like the world owes her something. There’s a scene where she crawls across the floor, weeping, and it’s so raw it hurts. This isn’t acting; it’s survival. And that’s what makes Climax work: it’s not a film about a party gone to hell. It’s a film about what happens when human beings lose control. And in a world where we all wear masks, seeing someone rip theirs off—even in fiction—is equal parts terrifying and liberating.

Direction and Mise-en-scène: Chaos as Choreography

Gaspar Noé doesn’t direct films—he choreographs them. And in Climax, that choreography is pure anarchy. The movie is shot in a virtual single take (with a few hidden cuts, because even Noé has limits), and the camera moves like it’s possessed. Sometimes it follows a character, sometimes it lingers, watching the chaos from a distance, and other times it feels like it might fly right off the screen. It’s dizzying, yes, but also hypnotic. Noé doesn’t use the single take as a gimmick—he uses it as a tool to plunge you into the hell he’s created. And damn if he doesn’t succeed.

The production design is another triumph. The boarding school where the action unfolds is a claustrophobic space, filled with dark hallways and rooms that feel like cells. The lighting, courtesy of Debie, plays with reds and blues to create an atmosphere that shifts from dreamlike to nightmarish in seconds. There’s a scene where the dancers are in a strobe-lit room, and it’s like watching a ’90s music video directed by a demon. The score, meanwhile, is a mix of electronic, techno, and ambient sounds that reinforce the feeling of being trapped in a bad trip. Thomas Bangalter (yes, that Thomas Bangalter) composes a soundtrack that’s as essential to the film as the script or the performances. Without it, Climax would be an empty stylistic exercise. With it, it’s a full sensory experience.

But the most impressive thing about Noé’s direction is how he makes chaos feel choreographed. The dancers move like they’re possessed, but their movements aren’t random. There’s a rhythm, a cadence, even in the most desperate moments. It’s as if Noé took the essence of horror cinema and mixed it with the energy of a techno rave. The result is something unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

Performances: Dance Until You Drop Dead

The cast of Climax is mostly made up of real dancers, not actors. And that’s not a bad thing—quite the opposite. Their reactions are so authentic it’s hard to believe they aren’t actually tripping. Sofia Boutella is the exception, and her presence elevates the film. She doesn’t just dance like her life depends on it; she acts with an intensity that leaves you breathless. There’s a scene where her character, Selva, crawls across the floor, sobbing, and it’s so raw it hurts. This isn’t acting—it’s survival.

The rest of the cast shines in a more instinctive way. Souheila Yacoub, for instance, has a scene where she screams like her soul is being torn out, and it’s so visceral you’ll want to cover your ears. Kiddy Smile brings a touch of dark humor with his character, Daddy, a dancer who seems to be enjoying the chaos more than anyone. Then there’s Romain Guillermic, whose character, David, is the only one who seems to keep his sanity amid the madness. His performance is more restrained, but no less impactful.

What’s most interesting about the cast is that, since they’re not professional actors, their reactions are unpredictable. There’s no script when the LSD (or whatever they’ve taken) kicks in. And that’s what makes Climax so fascinating: it’s not a film about actors playing roles. It’s a film about people losing control. And in a world where we all wear masks, seeing someone rip theirs off—even in fiction—is equal parts terrifying and liberating.

The best

• The cinematography by Benoît Debie: A spectacle of light, shadow, and camera movements that leave you breathless. Debie turns chaos into art, and every frame is a masterpiece of psychological horror.

Sofia Boutella’s performance: Dancing like the floor’s on fire and acting like the world’s ending. Boutella is the heart of Climax*, and her presence takes the film to another level.

The soundtrack by Thomas Bangalter: Electronic, techno, and ambient sounds that reinforce the feeling of being trapped in a bad trip. Without it, Climax* would be an empty stylistic exercise.

• The single take: Noé doesn’t use it as a gimmick—he uses it to plunge you into the hell he’s created. And damn if he doesn’t pull it off.

• The choreographed chaos: The dancers move like they’re possessed, but there’s a rhythm, a cadence, even in the most desperate moments. It’s horror cinema meets the energy of a techno rave.

The worst

• The lack of character development: With twenty dancers on screen, it’s impossible for everyone to have depth. Some characters are little more than cannon fodder for the chaos.

• The uneven pacing: The first half-hour is pure energy, but then the film stalls in places. Noé could’ve trimmed ten minutes without losing anything essential.

• The simplistic premise: A party gone to hell because of spiked sangria. It’s a horror cliché, and Noé doesn’t bother giving it more depth.

• The abrupt ending: The film ends like Noé’s camera ran out of battery. No resolution, just chaos and then darkness. Some viewers will be left with a bitter aftertaste.

Style over substance: Climax* lives and dies by its aesthetic. If the visual style doesn’t hook you, there’s not much else to cling to.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida

Climax is one of those films that leaves you exhausted, like you’ve just stumbled out of a 6 a.m. rave with a body full of sweat and a brain fried to a crisp. Gaspar Noé has crafted a 95-minute lysergic hellscape that’s as hypnotic as it is horrifying. It’s not a film for everyone—in fact, it’s a film for almost no one—but if you surrender to its choreographed chaos, you’ll find a cinematic experience unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It’s not perfect, but then again, what is? At least Climax has the decency to be honest: it’s a bad trip, but one worth taking. Just don’t watch it hungover. 💀
tweets_alternativos:

• "@GasparNoe_ es el único director que puede convertir una fiesta en un exorcismo colectivo. #Climax es pura adrenalina visual. ¿Alguien más salió del cine con ganas de vomitar (de emoción)?"
• "@sofiaboutella baila como si el suelo ardiera y @GasparNoe_ filma como si el infierno tuviera coreografía. #Climax es el mejor mal viaje del cine moderno."
• "@WildBunch_ ¿Cómo se os ocurrió financiar esto? Ah, sí: porque sabéis que el caos vende. #Climax es el tipo de película que te hace amar el cine… y odiar a la humanidad."

🩺

Ficha de Daños Colaterales en Sala

Certificado de impacto psicofísico emitido por Silvia Mordaz

🛡️ Supervivencia Épica

🥱 Bostezómetro

Ni un solo parpadeo voluntario. El asiento, inusualmente cómodo.

⏱️ Miradas de Pánico al Reloj

Ni una sola mirada al móvil.

😬 Índice de Cringe Ajeno 2/10

☕ Prescripción Terapéutica

Ninguna: la adrenalina cinematográfica es suficiente.

💥 Punto de Descarrilamiento

"No aplica. La obra se sostiene sola."