So the first time I saw “Climax,” I had an anxiety attack. From what I understand, you’re not supposed to take a drug like LSD solo, and I’d say the same goes for seeing this bottled trip of a movie. It was too much. I’m ashamed to admit that I reached for my phone for a quick distraction, but it was powered off (as usual), and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. As I searched for something else to occupy me aside from the images on screen, my Buncha Crunch box became a pancake. My movie tolerance is pretty high, but this pushed me past my edge.

Now what?

After piecing myself back together and another viewing, I’m ready to talk about “Climax.” From a filmmaking perspective, this is a finely constructed, terrifying and powerful motion picture. But you should not go in unprepared—in fact, I’m not sure you should go in at all. Story-wise, things are relatively simple: We’re introduced to a multicultural team of French dancers in the mid-nineties, brought together by Selva (Sofia Boutella). Stuck in an isolated warehouse during a freezing winter, the group has been rehearsing for days, and after a brilliant opening performance (captured in a single shot), they finally have some time to relax. As the group drinks and unwinds, they notice an inconvenient buzz—their sangrias’ been spiked, and what should be an enjoyable evening descends into unspeakable madness.

And as depictions of madness go, “Climax” has no equal. There are traces of the catastrophic, winding grime of the upcoming “Her Smell.” The atmosphere feels positively Lynch-ian, recalling the drenched-in-red roadhouse sequence of “Fire Walk with Me,” and the acid-party of Frank Ocean’s “Nikes.” Director Gaspar Noe unleashes long, intricate takes, rivaling the backstage, kinetic momentum of something like “Birdman.” But where the latter’s view always remains level, Noe spins and twists his camera, and the showy cinematography pulls us into these characters’ drugged out perspective, whether we like it or not. It seems to last for hours. There is no escape—for neither dancer nor audience.

I won’t pretend to be familiar with Noe’s equally abrasive filmography, a catalogue of “provocative,” French fare… that I haven’t seen. The craziness he conjures here does serve a purpose (beyond that some of his images are still seared into my retinas), as “Climax” doubles as an allegory for his country’s descent. Like the recent “Us,” Noe’s national outlook is far from optimistic, as he tears the idealistic pluralism of his characters to shreds.

But still, “Climax” finds ways to trip over itself. After that spectacular opening dance sequence, Noe crosscuts between a dozen, smaller interactions, as the troupe kvetches and gossips. But this portion of the movie, which exists to quickly establish the characters, is downright dreadful. The dialogue, envisioned as “naturalistic,” is frequently disgusting—what should’ve been an example of economic storytelling hinders the whole picture. Noe sort-of expects you to forget this sequence because of the ensuing insanity, but we learn more watching these people dance than from any half-baked conversation.

Then the talking ends and the terror begins. Frankly, nothing’s gotten this sort of reaction out of me since “Hereditary,” another outside-the-box feature distributed by A24. But who is this for, besides Gaspar Noe? Who’s intensely interested in seeing the fall of France through this hyper-horrific lens? There are movies that take us out of our comfort zones to worthwhile results, but “Climax” doesn’t belong in their company. If you must, tread lightly into it—this film doesn’t pull any punches, and you’re likely to leave feeling like you’ve just been punched in the gut. I can’t recommend it.