Meantime, no-one will go into the movie immune to the peals of disgust hurled in Gibson's direction since he first declared his intentions ù principally accusations of anti-Semitism and Catholic propaganda - and, even objectively, they are not entirely unfounded. The film functions more as a visual experience than an intellectual or emotional one, the actors almost throttled by the significance of their characters. Caviezel is almost mummified beneath layers of prosthetics, skin flayed red raw like an animal carcass, leaving him more symbol than character. And amongst such vocal verisimilitude there is only the thinnest veneer of the gospels' eloquence, Christ's sanctified poetry to counter the cruelty into which he is delivered. So, be warned, it will test your mettle - not least in its determination to have Aramaic and Latin as the spoken languages, leaving English captions to feed the lines. Gibson's Passion is a downward spiralling journey into darkness and despair on an unprecedented scale. Ripping away years of indoctrinated Sunday School niceties, this is a film born less of Christ's message of love than a torrent of unfettered rage. A post-match lie-down in a darkened room comes highly recommended. When was the last time a film managed any of that? There is no doubting the impact. You may feel anger, revulsion, even queasiness at the stinging stretch of bloody martyrdom frustration at the film's obvious limitations or indelicate undertones it may even leave a residue of religious contemplation, a return to questions and confusions that scarcely reach debate in our secular times. Stumbling into the light, having just endured Mel Gibson's two-hour pop-profound blitzkrieg on your senses, religious convictions (or lack of them) and prescribed interpretations of the events leading up to the crucifixion of Christ, first reactions race and ricochet like a pinball.

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