Climax

If Michael Jackson lived and was a young white woman, his name would be Sofia Boutella, one of the world's best dancers. But it's the beginning of the 1990s and they're playing Giorgio Moroder, Soft Cell and Aphex Twin, so time is like a multilevel cake. Above the dance floor hangs a sequined flag of France, and the host of the house party serves pretzels and homemade sangria. There's no way of knowing when the party, complete with its own group of performers, turns into a full-on no-limits trance. The eroticism heats up, though no one is taking their clothes off. Bodies bend like neon lights until they snap like glued glass. The stylized images and poses are just asking for violence, which is why the precisely planned chaos goes off like bloody fireworks in the spirit of psychedelic classics like Suspiria, Querelle and Possession. If you think of horror as a kind of humor, you're going to be shaking with laughter. If voguing, krumpdance and waaking sound like Chinese to you, you'll learn to eat with chopsticks.