Like Snakes On a Plane, the title of Roman Polanski’s second film is a perfect description of what an audience is in for. Catherine Deneuve plays Carol, an attractive young woman suffering a severe nervous breakdown. She gradually closes herself off from a distasteful world to avoid aggressive would-be suitors and the conflicted feelings they stir in her. She can’t even find peace of mind in the flat shared with her sister, whose loathsome boyfriend is a frequent presence. Sounds of their lovemaking disgust and fascinate the sexually repressed Carol. Even in the man’s absence his toiletries and underwear continue to plague her senses.

As if finding a portal into her mind a la Being John Malkovich we experience Carol’s paranoid delusions in real time. Instead of providing reasons for Carol’s mental illness Polanski disorients us along with his protagonist. There is no line drawn between real threats and visions of the world literally being torn apart. Her increasingly odd behavior must appear psychotic to observers but to us it’s a defensive reaction to private horrors. Carol’s waking nightmares of melting walls and groping hands make her oblivious to tangible shocks like a forgotten rabbit carcass rotting in the living room. Her eventual violent rampage seems to come out of nowhere to those in her path but for the audience it’s the inevitable spill-over of a boiling pot.

With little explanation for Carol’s condition the film could be written off as just a bizarre character study. Polanski and Deneuve lift it way beyond that to be immediately engaging and unsettling. The unusual sound design builds incredible tension with near-silent creaks and turns jovial street musicians into monsters. Subtle variations in banal day-to-day routines offer signposts to Carol’s deteriorating state of mind. Cracked pavement and plaster become manifestations of her crumbling reality. Deneuve performs a variety of physical tics that slowly undermine her natural beauty and poise. Her character’s obsession with small disturbances makes sudden contrasts in focus and volume quite alarming. The surreal atmosphere suggests Carol could very well live down the hall from Henry Spencer of Eraserhead.

The basic plot development of this downward spiral is not without some noticeable holes. Despite Carol’s radical personality change nobody catches on that she may need some help. The sister she is so close to sees no problem in taking a two week holiday and leaving an obvious basket case to fend for herself and pay the bills on time. The bachelors following her around must be too overcome with hormones to take her constant frantic fleeing and nauseous reactions to their kisses as “no.” Even her jerky landlord somehow looks past the appalling condition of her maggot-infested apartment to make unwelcome advances. At least Carol’s boss notices when she misses several days of work without excuse, but doesn’t fire her when she injures a client during a manicure.

Several weeks after watching this movie I’m still caught in its grip of confusion and, yes, repulsion. And yet like Carol stuffing a sweat-stained man’s undershirt into her face despite knowing it will make her sick, I know I’ll willingly return for more of the giddy and putrid high it offers.