Its infrasonic soundscape is the work of a nauseous draughtsman keeling Paris over hardstyle and the word "whore" whilst the camera is mounted upon a freshly decapitated tocsin cobbling nosebleed collateral for its whipping towards ruin. There is no hiding from Irreversible, that much he makes sure of. Do I believe that art is moral? If I believe that it can be used to illuminate the many worlds hidden to us – hell, if I build a website around that belief – then it follows that I must also believe that there is art that drags the soul through the dirt, that is self-obsessed and pathologically cruel, that can be outdated and exiled by a wiser society who believes that the things it produces must offer more value beyond a momentary thrill of transgression. How to write about Irreversible? It might be Noé’s true provocation: forcing the complacent cinema viewer, flabby on a century of perspective, to finally draw a sinewy ethical line.
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