Noé takes this ancient text literally. The entire runtime is Oscar’s Bardo. He is terrified of the light (rebirth), so he floats backward, reliving his trauma. He watches his sister have sex, watches his friends argue, watches the city breathe—but he cannot touch anything. He is a poltergeist of nostalgia.

We don't watch Oscar. We are Oscar. The camera is a ghost. And for two and a half hours, we float. If you haven’t seen Enter the Void , you have no reference for its visual language. Noé famously shot the entire film from a first-person POV, but not like a video game. The camera hovers, swoops through walls, zooms across the city skyline, and peers into the windows of strangers.

Just remember to breathe. Have you survived the Tokyo trip? Or did you turn it off during the title sequence? Let me know in the comments—if you’ve recovered enough to type.

It is too long. It is repetitive. It is emotionally manipulative. By the time the final shot arrives (a cosmic, uterine zoom that will leave you speechless), you may feel less like you’ve watched a movie and more like you’ve survived a haunting.

But the movie doesn't end. It begins.

But that is precisely why it is a masterpiece.

There are movies you watch. And then there are movies that happen to you .

And the lights. My god, the lights.

Do not watch Enter the Void on a laptop. Do not watch it with your parents. Do not watch it if you are feeling sad or unstable. But if you have a good sound system, a dark room, and a curious soul? Press play.

Noé uses the camera not just to see, but to remember . As Oscar floats toward the light (a recurring, terrifyingly bright white void), his mind flashes back to his childhood, his parents’ death, and the incestuous boundaries of his relationship with his sister. Why is the movie called Enter the Void ? It’s a reference to The Tibetan Book of the Dead , which describes the Bardo —the intermediate state between death and rebirth.

In an era of sanitized, algorithm-driven content, Gaspar Noé made a film that is raw, bleeding, and utterly human. It asks the big questions: What happens when we die? What do we leave behind? Is love just a chemical reaction, or is it the only thread that ties us to Earth?

From the moment the bullet hits, Oscar’s spirit (or consciousness) detaches from his corpse. Bound by a promise to protect his sister, Linda (a stripper at a club called "The Void"), Oscar’s ghost drifts, omnisciently, through the neon-lit streets and claustrophobic apartments of Tokyo.

You will either turn it off in 20 minutes, or you will emerge from the other side a fundamentally different person. There is no middle ground. The plot is deceptively simple: Oscar, a small-time American drug dealer living in the chaotic, pulsating heart of Tokyo, is shot dead by police during a botched sting operation.