Directed by Guy Maddin
WTF? Where do I even begin? Imagine if David Lynch dropped acid, overdosed on early 20th century silent cinema and then made a movie. Or to be more precise, he made an assemblage of movie fragments, fractured and jostling together, interwoven into something that surprisingly resolves into a beautiful pandemonium of chaos.
This film splashes across the screen like hot magma, all shot through with a freudian malignancy of repressed sexual desires, fractured identities, suppressed memories and contortions of dream logic that culminates in one hell of an explosive catharsis.
It is a staggering visual cornucopia of almost overwhelming stimuli threaded together by shear creativity and the madness of an indomitable imagination. It left an imprint that sizzled and popped across my retina.
After the movie, once I was home and in bed trying to sleep with my eyes closed tight, a frenzy of ephemeral and cyclonic images were projected against the backs of my eye lids, a blistering ecstasy of colours, shapes and movements, all just beyond the grasp of my cerebral cortex as I drifted into the boundless realm of nightmares and dreams.