THE movie. No return. Full death of life. The next mischief from art director Gaspar Noé, who's still fighting all alone against the world. The camera shifts here and there, it's going crazy and so are we... As if it were rising in space after HAL9000 cutting its umbilical cord, it reinstallates our way of seeing... This is no dream roller coaster but a trip to Hell. That 250 spectators left the room during its preview is no news, the true breaking news is 20 people having lost consciousness. The dark invaded their eyes. Their lungs. Cinema like a coffin. They had to pump oxygene into them.

However, only when the camera stops does your mind start to spin. Along the nine minutes of violence on Monica Bellucci. The images aren't the one guilt. Nine minutes of unbearable sounds. The slaps on her ass. Violence techno-style. Nine minutes of screams through the palm of his hand - an octopus.  And her palm stretched towards us. In the background, the shadow of the witness who leaves without helping her. Gaspar Noe's twinking eye for all those who don't suffer him, who escape from his movies. Who convince themselves that those things can't happen.

My ass they can't happen. The perpetrator is turning and we frame him. Corpus delicti. Erected, white-hot from the coitus, live charcoal-looking, pulsating, the sun of evil. But ironically added only in the post-production, in this movie of the flesh. So disobeying, so untouchable, too real to be reality, it could be realized only as a special effect.

We can't bear the way the guy stays lying after the act. How much intimate his being. He doesn't run from the scene... and the victim is leaving, creeps away. But him, as if he were in bed, not on the floor of the subway. As if he had just made love to, not sodomized. Instead of smoking the post-orgasmic cigarette, he's breathing Hopper-style.

From rectum to rectus. From the shit to the place where all is in its right place. From the vibrating buzzing of Bangalter several hundred meters deep under water until the 7th of Ludwig van, 2nd movement. At the beginning, the dark torn aside by the fist, sprays of sperm, anti-esthetic surgery with the extinguisher. The face already crushed, and the mandible is still moving, gargles, longs for the air. The hand stretched towards us.

And the other face: smiling, aware that distortion was for him. And in the end, the light, penetrated by the childrens, the spurts from the tube on the park they're caring for, the water spiral, the spiral of Hitchcock's stairs, the spiral of the galaxy, the comfort of the upper-middle class. Monica's reading a book, the book about time. The time which destroys everything. First, Hell. Then, the sky. Which doesn't mean peace anyway, with Noé. It starts to change. Air itself. Stroboscopyze itself. The soundtracks of both the worlds synchronize, complete each other. In the sky, the disturbance creeps in. It starts twinkling, like the eye. What else? The only place where happiness and horror can live together.

In the end, we're back to the beginning of life and the universe, and even more backwards, just like in the Amis' novel. We've gotten back to the place Zizek would call via  Schelling  
preontological Netherworld. The world before time. It's the babe of 2001: A Space Odissey. Babe unconceived. Babe of the stars, who never was. No babe, no man.