And right out of the gate, Noé parallels his desires with that of his characters, asking us to contemplate his own worst nightmare—a world without Possession , without Harakiri , without Suspiria —before then dazzling us with the means by which he staves off that nightmare: his will to create.
A stack of video cassettes is piled next to a TV playing an audition reel for a dance troupe who will eventually be revealed as our cast; the titles on display include Argento’s Suspiria, Polanski’s Possession, Fassbinder’s Querelle and Pasolini’s Salò.
A selection of video tape spines shown next to a television screen that played the preliminary video introductions of each character acts as neat shorthand to introduce the direction that this doomed trip will soon take; references to films like Dario Argento’s Suspiria, Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salò and Andrzej ?u?awski’s Possession all foreshadow what is to come in one way or another.
Even as Psyche expresses this anxiety about falling under the influence of a film as much as of drugs, her interview, and those of the other dancers, are shown on a television set alongside a pile of videos whose titles – Suspiria, Possession, Hara-Kiri, Querelle, La Maman et la Putain, Un Chien Andalou, Labyrinth Man (i.e. the French title of Eraserhead) – will also cast a dark spell over what follows, dosing the narrative of Climax with their own specific motifs and moods (chiefly free love, writhing hysteria, disorientation and danses macabres, infanticide, suicide and transcendence).
There are VHS copies of Suspiria, Un Chien Andalou, Salò and Harakiri, and books by Nietzsche and on Taxi Driver , Murnau and Fritz Lang.
From here, we flash back to the beginning; a series of taped audition interviews with dancers, played on an old TV (it’s the mid-1990s) alongside which sit VHS tapes of extreme cinema favourites: Argento’s Suspiria , Pasolini’s Salò, Lucio Fulci’s Zombie, Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou – all indications of what is to come.