The erotic replicant sequel you didn't know you wanted. But where humanity was defined by cognition and the existential, what bubbles to eruption here is the visceral; texture, sensation, a sexual awareness. "Fuck to retrieve" -- bodies aren't packages to be opened, they're hosts to be infected, river mouths dammed, awaiting breach. Each orgasm a currency, and every interaction an exchange of data and pleasure.
A literal sexual appetite contorting at the back of the throat and thrashing it's way up until you surrender the ability to hold your breath. Denis spends the entire film painting in the finest of brush strokes only to let the paint bleed and pool, revealing the absolute result of chewing the houses these ghosts have built to it's bones. Sore tongues cut along the edges of teeth. Love as a Wendigo, a shapeshifter.
Darkness all encompassing, suffocating, but not constrictive. Grandrieux's effects grant life on his screen the greatest gift it could receive, which is the lack of boundary. Lines are blurred, borders ripped from the screen- nothing to prevent impending doom from probing in and out like a strobe light. It's anywhere and everywhere, and focus is the focus only when man chooses to tighten his grip on whatever poor soul wandered into his fractured perspective that night. Light has no restriction from entering, it just dares not to.
Some of the scariest images I've seen on film.