Mel Gibson’s mythic Mayan adventure is so tooth-grindingly tense it is almost impossible to enjoy it in any conventional sense of the word. Shot on location in Catemaco — one of the last remaining tracts of rainforest left in Mexico — the film charts the epic struggle of a handful of native hunters when their idyllic village is decimated by a tribe of Mayan warriors.

After 20 minutes gently picking out the earthy human innocence of this timeless village, Gibson lets rip with a vintage blast of bone-crunching brutality. His film never recovers its dramatic cool. It was not meant to, of course. The director and his Cambridge-educated writer, Farhad Safinia, are fleshing out a controversial theory of why the Mayan civilisation vanished from the face of the earth, and it seems to revolve around a hero who looks remarkably like the Brazilian footballer, Ronaldinho.

Jaguar Paw (Rudy Youngblood) is one of the lucky survivors, but luck is not on his side. He has stashed his wife and child down a well without a ladder, and he is a prime candidate for human sacrifice.

He is duly lashed to a bamboo pole by his neck and frog-marched for numbing days through some of the most stunning and unforgiving landscape on earth. We feel as throttled for information as he is.

The disorientating drama, cleverly milked by Gibson, is that we know less about these ferocious Mayan warriors than Mr Paw. They have incredibly bad teeth. Their beefy leader wears human jawbones as fashion accessories. And one of his psychotic Mayan officers takes great pleasure in torturing Youngblood’s noble Paw for sheer pleasure.

There is nothing shy about the director’s taste for gristle and spectacle. When the convoy finally reaches one of the mighty Mayan cities, the full nightmare horror of Gibson’s apocalyptic vision is revealed. One of the world’s greatest civilisations has clearly imploded. Famine has gutted them of sense. Disease is rampant. The most sophisticated culture in the world has turned into Sodom and Gommorah.

The finest production designers in Hollywood lend an eager hand. Heads are tossed down the bloody steps of the highest temple. They sound like coconuts being smashed. Still-pumping hearts are ripped out of terrified captives to sate the thirst of the Sun God.

The creepy, dead-eyed king looks into the eyes of every gibbering victim. The fat wives and fatter children laugh. The cackling high priests are stoned on the delirious gore. The baying crowd scream for more. We are harried and emotionally rammed into another of Gibson’s sadistic and sacred passions.

There is plenty more grimness here than The Passion of the Christ, and potentially fewer people to offend. Yet it still makes the stomach churn. Youngblood’s Paw is not going to give up his beating heart without a damn good struggle. And Gibson, for all his well-meaning seasonal endeavour, is not going to let the cast sneak off without an eye-watering spread of very un-Christian payback moments.

Like the Mad Max of yore (or should that be lore?), Youngblood’s hero makes a dash for freedom, and a terrific chase movie ensues.

I am plainly too lily-livered for this hearty pagan stuff, but a moment to remember if only to close your eyes: a jaguar biting a man’s face off, and what it looks like bouncing around the floor from a severed head’s point of view. Perhaps not a moment to treasure, but definitely novel.

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