See the above. Afterwards see the below:
Indubitably, Enter the Void boasts the best opening title sequence since Panic Room. Similarities end there, as everything that follows bears little-to-infinitesimal resemblance to movies, reality, and in some cases, any and all observable phenomena that has ever fallen upon human optical receptors. The movie is insanely unlike everything. Over the tortuous, revelatory course of nearly three hours the viewer is subjected to all sorts of stuff. All sorts of stuff.
On a visual level, the movie is I’m-going-to-have-to-make-a-day-of-scraping-grey-matter-off-my-walls mind-blowing. Best description: if a flock of neon peacocks walked into a fireworks store all carrying poorly wired boom-boxes that played white noise symphonies at the highest discernible decimal level and, simultaneously, every boombox exploded killing every peacock in a bewildering moment of variegated fireballs, and squawking, causing the entire fireworks store to go up in an explosion of confounding magnitude and pressing heat, and imagine every individual molecule of your eyeballs being that fireworks store, and imagine they (the store(s)) are rebuilt instantaneously, and the neon peacocks are resurrected, return, detonate again and again, and then imagine that for three hours.
All sorts of stuff.
At times, the viewer’s CNS begins to backfire and send gibberish signals to the limbs. There is a sense of the seat’s headrest closing around the skull like a predatory talon. It’s as if a set of dirty tweezers is plucking out the color shards from the viewer’s irises. People leave the theater. You understand completely.
All sorts of stuff is including and not limited to: death by manslaughter from a first-person viewpoint, third-and-first-person DMT smoking and the de-actualizing aftereffects, a leitmotif of head-on collisions with Mack Trucks resulting in the death of both main character’s parents, Japanese penises, dry humping, women fucking themselves with dildii, men fucking women with dildii, a teenage male double-fisting cocks that he unevenly sucks upon (in an elevator nonetheless), stoned pontificating, Oedipal sex between a baby and his mother, incestuous sex between a brother and his sister, motherfucking of a best friend’s mother, a restaurant that appears to be constructed entirely of chandeliers, an abortion shown from the perspective of the vagina and the woman and the abortionist’s tools and the resulting dead fetus, and finally, intercourse as seen from inside the vagina looking out, complete with the petulant penis coming ever closer to the camera before cumming all over the camera upon which the POV rides a high-tide wave of semen to the ovum before the audience sees the moment of conception, the triumphant wag of most assertive spermatozoa.
Now, is the movie any good? That depends on whether any of the above appeals to you (so yes, a thousand times yes).
There is a negligible narrative, and endless transitions of omniscient ghost-hovering through Tokyo. There is a ten-minute long section where suns appear to melt while boxing each other with tentacular arms of light. In the end, depending on how you look at it, Enter the Void makes sense, in its own way, a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very particular way.
Strawberry Verdict: 4 Strawberries out of 5.