Vortex

Imagine a screen that literally splits apart, forcing you to watch two different worlds that just happen to inhabit the same cramped Parisian apartment. For over two hours, Gaspar Noé—the man who once specialized in strobe-lit orgies and head-crushing violence—asks us to sit still and watch the slow, agonizing evaporation of a human mind. It is, quite possibly, the most terrifying thing he has ever filmed.

I caught this on a rainy Tuesday afternoon while my neighbor was loudly practicing the scales on a trumpet, and honestly, the discordant noise next door felt like a perfect companion piece to the domestic disharmony on screen. Vortex isn’t a movie you "enjoy" in the traditional sense, but it’s one that sticks to your ribs like cold oatmeal.

The Geometry of Loneliness

The film gives us two legends of cinema playing a couple in their twilight. Dario Argento, the maestro of Italian Giallo behind Suspiria and Deep Red, steps in front of the camera as Lui, a struggling author with a failing heart. Opposite him is Françoise Lebrun, a titan of the French New Wave known for The Mother and the Whore, playing Elle, a retired psychiatrist who is rapidly losing her grip on reality to dementia.

Gaspar Noé uses a dual-frame technique for almost the entire runtime. It’s not just a stylistic flourish; it’s a narrative necessity. We see Elle wandering through a grocery store, utterly lost, on the left side of the screen, while on the right, Lui is frantically searching for her in the apartment. Even when they are in the same room, they are separated by a black vertical bar. They are together, but they are fundamentally alone. It highlights the brutal truth of contemporary aging: we can share a bed with someone for fifty years and still end up in a private, unreachable prison of the mind.

A Different Kind of Horror

For those used to Noé’s neon-soaked provocations like Enter the Void or Climax, this feels like a radical departure. There are no drug-induced hallucinations here, just the mundane horror of a pill bottle being emptied into a toilet or a gas stove left running. Yet, in many ways, it's essentially a snuff film for the soul.

Dario Argento is a revelation. Seeing a man who spent his career orchestrating elaborate cinematic deaths suddenly confronted with the un-cinematic, messy reality of his own mortality is deeply moving. He’s frail, stubborn, and desperately trying to finish a book about cinema and dreams, even as his own life turns into a waking nightmare. Françoise Lebrun is equally haunting; her performance is mostly silent, told through vacant stares and the frantic, bird-like movements of someone who knows she’s forgotten something important but can't remember what "important" even means.

Their son, Stéphane, played with a frayed, desperate energy by Alex Lutz, drifts in and out of the frame. He’s a recovering addict with his own set of problems, representing that modern middle-aged struggle of trying to care for parents who are disappearing while barely keeping your own head above water.

Why Did This Slip Through the Cracks?

Released in 2021, Vortex entered a world that was already exhausted by death. We were coming out of a global pandemic where "isolation" and "respiratory failure" weren't just plot points; they were the daily news. Arthouse theaters were struggling, and a 142-minute split-screen drama about dementia was a hard sell for audiences looking for the escapism of the latest Marvel entry. It made less than $350,000 at the box office—a rounding error in the streaming era.

But looking at it now, Vortex feels like a vital piece of the current cinematic conversation. As we move into an era of "legacy sequels" and de-aged actors, Noé does the opposite. He shows us the wrinkles, the liver spots, and the genuine terror of a body that has outlived its utility. He doesn't offer a "meditation" (sorry, had to say it once just to dismiss it); he offers a confrontation.

The cinematography by long-time collaborator Benoît Debie (who also shot Spring Breakers) ditches the saturated colors for a dusty, cluttered, beige reality. The apartment is filled with books, posters, and memories that have become obstacles. It feels like a tomb that hasn't been sealed yet.

The trivia surrounding the production makes the film even more poignant. Apparently, Gaspar Noé suffered a near-fatal brain hemorrhage in early 2020. That brush with death clearly stripped away his desire for shock value, replacing it with a profound, terrifying empathy. He allegedly didn't even have a traditional script, relying on his actors to improvise much of the dialogue, which explains why the conversations feel so jagged and authentic.

Vortex is a tough watch, but it’s an essential one for anyone who thinks they’ve seen everything the "enfant terrible" of France has to offer. It’s a film that demands your full attention—both screens of it. Just maybe don't watch it if you're already feeling particularly existential about your birthday.