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Both the Tibetan Book of the Dead and psychedelics get insinuated as guides to envisioning nonexistence—the sacred and the profane profoundly coupled, to the point that Enter the Void's plot starts to smack of silliness: sleaze and the divine piled so high. (Oscar is a drug dealer, his sister a stripper; the film includes an abortion scene.) Noé's remarkable, hypnotic visuals, however, keep the film (and Oscar) alive, buoyed—perhaps forever—upon a dazzling sea of dreams, movement, and memories.

It seems designed for drug-enhanced viewings, where everything stupid and faux-provocative might be outweighed by its acid-trip sensory overload. But viewed sober, Enter the Void’s buzz wears off after about 30 minutes, and the movie keeps going, inexplicably, for 130 more, until, like a bad trip, you just wish it would fucking stop.

Anyone who’s ever had a mushroom trip described to them knows that the trip itself is kind of a “had-to-be-there” experience, and this is the case with Gaspar Noé’s Enter the Void: summary really doesn’t do the film justice. Because there is very little to be gained from plot or dialogue, a much more pleasant viewing experience is in store if you tune them out and just focus on Noé’s visual wizardry.

With beauty, mild and sharp jolts, and mesmerizing camerawork, [Noé] tries to open the doors of perception.

Enter the Void is brilliant. It’s also smug, terribly acted, dramatically inert, and jaw-droppingly stupid. Oh yes, and for long sections, it’s deeply boring. As such, it’s business as usual for its French-Argentinian director Gaspar Noe.

An experiential marvel, wired to paralyze the brain through a full-on assault on the senses.

It may be an extremely elaborate formal exercise about every man’s desire to crawl back into the womb, turned up a loud notch visually and adapted into every brother’s apparently latent compulsion to both impregnate his sister and suck on her tits. But, dude: I could stare at this movie for days and not get tired of the sensation. A mash-up of the sacred, the profane, and the brain-dead, Enter the Void is addictive.

Noé’s trip is at once overlong and disappointingly conditional, especially compared to the likes of The Last Movie: clunky moments of exposition regularly bring things to a buzzkilling halt, and the siblings’ primal car-crash trauma comes to feel mundane, no matter how deeply Noé indulges his view of the human body as potential special effect.

It’s not every day that a director makes a movie that’s both amazing and pointless, the kind of gimmicky shockeroo provocation that wows you even as it leaves you going, “Huh?” Gaspar Noé fills that niche, for better or worse, with his hallucinatory life-after-death tone poem Enter the Void, a picture that’s by turns inventive, tender and boring.