At what point does exploitation eventually become art? As someone who likes to indulge in cult cinema often, I tend to ask myself this on a regular basis. There is a certain level of creativity and charm that comes from cult films, however once this corner of cinema bends to the will of the exploitation film, then it becomes polarizing and questionable as to how far that charm is willing to travel. No longer are we to consider the surreal dreamstates of Lynch and Brass, or even the creature-feature exploits of eighties science-fiction horror, as uncanny and beautiful, but instead we are faced with the oversaturated nuance of certain niches bathed in unsubtle representation. The most popular of these films fall under the guise of the grindhouse feature, however there are certain cases where the exploitation film becomes too artistic for its own good and instead attempts to approach the filmmaking process with a sense of honesty, though entirely too grotesque to watch. This is where extremism comes in: a genre born in the bowels of postmodern French cinema, hell-bent on its ability to shock viewers while also attaining a kind of cinematic relevance. Typically, French extremism is discovered through single films alone, however there is one director who has somehow become a staple of the genre much to the disdain of his audience.

If there is anything that I have learned from watching the films of Gaspar Noe, it is that you do not watch his movies for the plot. If you do, prepare to be reviled by the nightmare on the screen that you are about to witness because Noe’s work is extremism to its fullest degree: his films are unflinchingly brutal in their realism, depicting the latent evil that presumably lurks inside the hearts of every man and while not explicitly horror, his films make as many attempts to create a sense of unease within the audience that is unrivaled by any other director. What do I mean by this exactly? In his most popular film, Irreversible, there is a scene where Monica Bellucci’s character is raped for nine minutes before being brutally beaten by her perpetrator in a Metropolitan tunnel. All one single shot with no cutaway and no soundtrack; merely the archaic sound of the act being performed and the even more unsettling image of a person walking down the tunnel, out of focus, only to turn around and leave the scene (to this day I’m still wondering whether that was a real actor, or a person who just happened to wonder into the shot). Having read all that, you’re probably wondering why anybody anywhere would want to discuss a film of this nature, let alone any other film in the director’s filmography. The thing is though, Noe considers himself a renaissance man of sorts, and—to this end—he considers his work beyond mere offensiveness for offensiveness’ sake. It’s apparent that there is a method to his exploitation and his cinematography reflects this in each of his features. So much so that I cannot help but consider his work with a kind of cinematic mentality. It is my hope to relinquish myself of this need to finally discuss Noe’s work and what makes his style so affluent, outside of its gross writing and extremist flair.

I have often heard Noe’s films described as being psychedelic and surreal, and I will agree that there are plenty of instances where his films attempt a kind of hypnoticism: the ending reel stutter of Irreversible and the overhead dancing shots of his latest feature, Climax, offer a kind of illusory effect that gives the audience a sense of displacement, however the camerawork is usually more cerebral and abstract than it is random. This makes Noe’s films appear experiential in their approach, almost to a voyeuristic degree. Consider Climax: a film that is so in in debt to the influence of Dario Argento’s Suspiria that a vhs copy of the film actually makes a cameo in the film’s opening. Even if it hadn’t, the tone is pretty similar: the film involves a dance academy in an abandoned building plagued by beautiful technicolored lighting and slow devolutions into insanity along with minor acts of disturbing imagery. What Climax does differently in its approach is that it attempts to include the viewer as a character by incorporating exceptionally long tracking shots that follow characters from room to room—one of which lasts a full forty-two minutes—giving the impression that we are following them as a person might follow someone through a building. Shot transitions are edited with a split-second frame of pure black before leading into the next shot, simulating a blinking effect; allowing the camera to take on an ocular presence, almost literally. This same kind of effect is used in his romance (I use this term very loosely), Love. Both films exhibit the outsider experience; watching the narratives devolve before us as a person, as a human, as opposed to an audience watching a movie. Sometimes we are fully transported into the center of the action as in Climax: the entire dance crew is drugged with LSD from laced sangria, slowly losing their composure and eventually dissolving into animosity. As the nightmare progresses, the colors begin to falter and the camera movements grow more abstract, to a point where the camera is left to view the carnage upside down. Similarly, the transition between the characters’ lucidity and lunacy is gradual, until the horror of their situation is made evident and their minds begin to deteriorate.

Noe wants us to be included in the story, but he also wants us to feel uncomfortable about ourselves as sober viewers of the events on the screen. This is probably obvious by now, however the underlying guilt evokes within us a kind of empathy, if not a kind of vile catharsis as well. Much like Climax, Irreversible is an experiential film: the events of the movie are set in reverse, but the narrative is fairly straightforward… at least, presumably. The events of the night might appear muddied to the characters due to the experimental cinematography, which forces the camera to swivel back and forth in a lazy, almost drunken, fashion. Again, there is purpose to this: the main character, Marcus, begins using drugs at a party and thus, we have no choice but to assume that the camera is acting in the same way as our characters. This also causes the imagery to become slightly obscured so that scenes like a man getting his face brutally smashed-in by a fire extinguisher are still gruesome, but not exceptionally uncanny (the lighting of this scene also helps in the hidden aspect of this scene). Still, how does one feel about this scene? Not good, right? How does one feel about a scene where a woman is ruthlessly assaulted for nine minutes? Probably not good. Yet, the audience continues to watch. Why? Let us consider Roger Ebert’s response to the film’s backward narrative for some kind of answer: “The film doesn’t build up to violence and sex as its payoff, as pornography would. It begins with its two violent scenes, showing us the very worst immediately and then tracking back into lives that are about to be forever altered.” This makes the film appear nihilistic, and yet as Ebert continues to examine, this is kind of the point:

“To know the future would not be a blessing but a curse. Life would be unlivable without the innocence of our ignorance. […] The rapist is savagely punished before he commits his crime. At the same time, and this is significant, Marcus is the violent monster of the opening scenes, and the crime has not yet been seen; it is double ironic later that Marcus assaulted the wrong man.”[1]

Indeed, when we begin the film, we bar very little empathy for Marcus and Pierre as they work their way through the city to hunt down Alex’s rapist, La Tenia (literally, The Tapeworm), because we don’t exactly know anything that is even occurring in the film prior to these events. We don’t know that Marcus is high on drugs, so scenes where he beats a cab driver and interrogates one of La Tenia’s clients feels domineering and violent, by nature. Without prior knowledge of the assault and of the party, there comes no sense of catharsis or vengeance until later (albeit a lost vengeance seeing as how the perpetrator was never actually caught). Does this make the presumed vengeance better? Not necessarily, but it does help the audience sympathize greater with Marcus’ behavior in the beginning and it helps us invest in the devotion that he shares with Alex when the film eventually ends on their blossoming relationship, instead of the unraveling of their love at a party, followed by an assault that eventually leads Marcus into a homophobic, drug-fueled tirade through the city.

In a similar fashion, Love introduces us to Murphy who is a completely self-serving asshole to his girlfriend, Omi; who bares a child with him. As the film cuts from the past to the present, it is implied that Murphy was originally in a relationship with a woman named Electra, and that while the two were dating, they were looking to spice things up by including Omi as part of their bedroom activities. Murphy goes behind Electra’s back one day and sleeps with Omi, unintentionally impregnating her. While the film is cutting back and forth, there is this implication that the pregnancy is what causes Electra to leave Murphy, however the jumps in narrative assume that before this revelation, Murphy and Electra have been experiencing a great deal of toxicity involving heavy drug use and desperately violent sexual intercourse. The film eventually ends with the first meeting of the two characters as they find themselves attracted to one another’s personalities and appreciations, promising that they will continue to love one another and that they will never desert each other. Clearly, this is the most tender moment of the film and it is the only moment that one could accurately identify as love, though it is also important that the film end on this scene to give context to Murphy’s character. No wonder he’s such a bitter, self-centered prick: he had a promising relationship with a woman that he connected with on a personal level, but Noe also decided on him existing as a flawed character and thus, through his addictive tendencies, Murphy effectively ruins his promise of a future with Electra by sleeping with Omi. At least, this is what we’re lead to believe. However, considering the unhealthy arguments between Murphy and Electra during the film’s middle stage, it almost feels as if the relationship was doomed to fall apart no matter what happened. I also found it relevant that during scenes with more than one character, it is Murphy who is almost always standing with his back towards the camera, as if to symbolically turn his back on the world and on the people who have the ability to make his life better. In this way, Love is a tragedy of one man’s egocentric approach towards relationships and sentimentality. Ironic, given that Murphy’s biggest dream in life was to make a film that expresses sentimental sexuality.

Is there a possibility that these concepts could’ve been expressed without the extremity of their portrayal? It’s possible, though as I’ve stated before, Noe is not exactly interested in making his audience feel good about what they are baring witness to because it would be inhuman of anyone to watch his films with a sense of comfort: he is fully aware that we as a species are capable of such savagery and decides to face these ideas in a direct and philosophical fashion. This is what sets his work apart from others in his class and it is surprisingly in this way that his works become some of the most human exploitation movies in existence, outside of their psychedelic styles. With only five films to his credit, it’s a guarantee that he will continue to experiment and will continue to shock his viewers in many intrinsically beautiful ways. As it stands, however, I hope to god that this is the only time where I have to discuss Gaspar Noe’s works in any way.

[1]Ebert, Roger. “Irreversible”. rogerebert.com. March, 2003. Web