Nicholas Cage recently said that he was frustrated by the "memeification" of his performances; how shots of him looking cartoonishly enraged were being taken out of context for an internet punchline. Frankly, I don't believe his frustration.

Because about halfway through this outrageous, gory, revenge-fuelled, psychotropic slice of death metal pulp, I started laughing. And never quite stopped. But trying to stifle my giggles at Cage's wild-eyed, blood-smeared, underwear-clad performance never stopped me from appreciating the eerie, intense visuals or unnerving energy of the film - it just made the experience all the more fun. And I think that's exactly what Cage and director Panos Cosmatos are going for.

Mandy takes place in the Pacific North-West in 1983. Taciturn lumberjack Red (Cage) lives a quietly content life with his beloved Mandy (Andrea Riseborough, wonderfully weird). When a Satanic cult is instructed by their Manson-like leader Jeremiah (Linus Roache) to kidnap and drug Mandy, Red begins his epic, bloody revenge quest - rendered all the more intense by his own experience with mind-altering substances.

The revenge quest markers are predictable, but it's the atmosphere and aesthetic of Mandy that makes it such a spectacular trip. The first half, which focuses primarily on Mandy, is quiet and unnerving, as cinematographer Benjamin Loeb uses red light and blends characters' faces to create a fluid dark fantasy of lost identity.

Later, as Cage begins to wig out and Johann Johannsson's score moves from sighing synths to raging, apocalyptic electric guitar, the textured action becomes bloody and relentless, drawing inspiration from Mad Max, Valhalla Rising, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre - and presumably an imaginary prog-rock concept album that Cosmatos has on a loop in his head. It's ludicrous, excessive and scuzzy. It rocks.