IT CAME FROM THE READER-SUGGESTED QUEUE: THEY SHOOT HORSES, DON’T THEY? (1969)

July 21, 2026 Michael Diamades Leave a comment

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FEATURING: Jane Fonda, Michael Sarrazin, Gig Young, Susannah York

PLOT: In Depression-era America, people take part in an exhausting dance contest for a big prize of $1500.

Still from They Shoot Horses, Don't They? (1969)

COMMENTS: Long before the pop phenomenon “Squid Game” and contemporary reality shows, one New Hollywood flick used contests and challenges as the perfect metaphor for a materialistic and overly competitive society. They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, based on the 1935 Horace McCoy novel, is the product of a specific Hollywood period characterized by creativity and vision. In the late 1960s and 1970s, American mainstream cinema, inspired by the French New Wave and theories regarding auteurist cinema, produced a series of socially-conscious, well-regarded masterpieces. Horses happens to be one of them.

The setting is the poverty-stricken America of the 1930s. The plot revolves around a group of people taking part in a dance competition for couples, which promises a big prize of $1500 for the winners. Jane Fonda plays the cynical, hardened Gloria. By happenstance she meets Robert (Michael Sarrazin) and chooses him as her dance partner for the competition. These two are the protagonists of our tale, and by following them in their struggle we get to know some other couples from the dance floor as well.

Each participant carries their own misfortunes and desperation, and, at least for a while, the competition seems like an escape from their burdens. Not only does it promise rewards, but it conceals everyone’s misery in beautiful costumes and an elegant, festive atmosphere. The question is, is the contest really exploiting them? Their struggle for survival becomes a show for the masses, while the event gradually reveals its face as a deeply humiliating farce. Mental and physical breakdown is part of the program here, and in the end, that failure is what the paying audience wants desperately to consume.

Despite the absence of graphic imagery, within such a competitive and oppressive environment there is a certain dynamic that recalls the microcosm of Pier Paolo Pasolini‘s Salo, the 120 Days of Sodom (1975). Contestants try to appeal to the authorities—the event’s producers—through implied sexual favors. At the same time, the relationship between Gloria and Robert hints at a typical Hollywood romance, only to wildly subvert it by revealing its the fakeness and the process behind its construction. The uncommon narrative technique of flash-forwards suggests a tragic finale that only reveals itself fully towards the end.

All in all, this is a solid recommendation for everyone interested in classic cinema and movies with strong elements of social critique. It reveals the exploitative mechanisms at work behind the star system, and the show business, attacking even its own home, Hollywood. And although it takes the form of a tragic fable, it doesn’t lose its realism. It may not be a weird movie, but it is a subversive one for sure.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“A sordid spectacle of hard times, a kind of existentialist allegory of life.”–Variety Staff, Variety (contemporaneous)

(This movie was nominated for review by Brett Warwick, who said “I’m a little surprised that Sydney Pollack’s 1969 fever-dream masterpiece… wasn’t mentioned.” Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

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FANTASIA 2026: APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: GODHEAD (2026)

July 20, 2026 Giles Edwards Leave a comment

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Recommended

DIRECTED BY: Mark H. Rapaport

FEATURING: Al Warren, Sarah Coffey, Kimball Farley, Luke Speakman

PLOT: Fraternal twins enter a Catholic church and demand the priest shoot one of them so that the Holy Spirit may be set free.

Still from Godhead (2026)

WHY IT MIGHT JOIN THE APOCRYPHA: Rapaport again slides an odd one across our desk, as his sophomore effort kicks off Funny Games-style before converting into fully blown mystical madness.

COMMENTS: What is the Holy Ghost? One would think that the metaphysical world is sufficiently inscrutable without theorizing about an entity that lacks substance in a realm that is already beyond the perceivable. A more-vaporous vapor, it travels without constraints in a realm already lacking any constraints mortals might conceive. Though utterly incorporeal, this Ghost can apparently still be trapped in a vessel—a human vessel no less. And although its selfhood cannot be fathomed, even we lowly, three-dimensional meat-and-bone creatures are aware that no one, nothing, wants to be trapped.

This musing is amongst the prerequisite considerations when approaching Mark H. Rapaport’s sophomore feature, Godhead. Creepy twins, named Firstborn (Sarah Coffey, slipping around the screen with serpentine malevolence) and Secondborn (Kimball Farley, trapped in his own spastic discomfiture), seem all too familiar with the “primary” third of the Godhead. The Creator; the twins claim It speaks to them. A small town priest (a mild and exhausted Al Warren) knows the triune Son, and also has an earthly son (Luke Speakman), a boy found as an infant found in a shopping basket on his doorstep and now stowed away in the back rooms of the church. A night-long journey through menace, hope, despair, and impossibility develops between these four characters.

Godhead has a delightful, temporally ambiguous style. Low tech, the story often plays like a classical Hollywood morality tale (and that title font, oh yes). Cinematographer William Babock is on board once more, whipping up stark church imagery to contrast with the occasionally-seen “other” world from whence came the uncanny siblings. There is an odd sense of humor sprinkled about. While the priest is berated by Firstborn, Secondborn earnestly helps him with a dust pan as the priest fretfully sweeps the church. A delightful scene with the boy-in-the-backroom features a static-glowing television; the director slips in an exchange which encapsulates anticipated reactions to his movie: “I’m not sure what this is.” “I do not like it.”

Rapaport and his tight cast alternate between punches of shock (gunplay in the sanctum is frowned upon, I can assure you), feints of deceit (a pair of hearse-bound conversations tip this film into hard-R-rating), and a third act which darts seamlessly, and often, between the mundane and the divine. The climax ratchets from one kind of weird into another. I did not expect Rapaport to be so gracious to his own creations. But that is within the dimension of possibility when you are a filmmaker: you are your own movie’s Godhead.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“[T]he film’s commitment to its own strangeness will also be the dividing line… plenty of films chase weirdness without understanding how to shape it. Rapaport does.” — Chris Jones, Overly Honest Reviews (festival screening)

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FANTASIA 2026: APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: TEENAGE SEX AND DEATH AT CAMP MIASMA (2026)

July 20, 2026 Giles Edwards Leave a comment

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DIRECTED BY: Jane Schoenbrun

FEATURING: Hannah Einbinder, Gillian Anderson

PLOT: An up-and-coming filmmaker tasked with rebooting a horror franchise arranges a meeting with the reclusive star of the original film.

Still from Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma (2026)

WHY IT MIGHT JOIN THE APOCRYPHA: My weirdar blipped plenty during the screening, but it’s difficult to get a bead on specifics. There’s a great scene sexualizing the act of eating fried chicken with dipping sauce, so I’ll drop that here for now as a placeholder.

COMMENTS: From the beginning, Kris showcases her love of candy. For a planned overnight trip to middle of nowhere, she stocks up on a grocery bag full of the stuff. As much as she loves her candy, she loves Little Death more. No, not the French euphemism for an orgasm (we’ll get to that later), but the air-vent-headed, double-tipped harpoon-toting murderer from the Camp Miasma franchise that Kris grew up adoring and has been assigned to reboot. Re-watching a lesser entry in the series during a stopover before her inspirational awakening (in manner both creative, and orgasmic), we watch her watching whilst she gorges on an impressive amount of sweet cinema snacks.

Watching. That’s what Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma is about, I reckon, while delivering the dozens of trope-nods (mainly, sex -> murder, or at least death, if only a little one) necessary for a slasher dissection. The hotel movie-‘n’-candy orgy launches the long weekend with the enigmatic and aged Billy (Gillian Anderson, in a lovely Southern Gothic turn), star of the franchise’s opening installation. Kris grew up watching (young) Billy’s strange look of detachment during the film’s sex scene. We now watch Billy as she playfully parries with this talented but staggeringly insecure filmmaker before her. Kris watches Billy sketch violently during a 35mm screening of the old movie in her home. And watching both of them, it seems, is the mysterious Little Death.

(Apologies for this parenthetical paragraph—though I’m sure Kris would understand, as she’s constantly apologizing for parentheticalizing—but this review has so far turned out to be more about candy than I was anticipating. Several other elements worth noting briefly: old film merging with this new film as per the designs of Little Death in their lair beneath the lake; an absurd Zoom call with the studio that collapses into performance art; and the bloodiest sex scene I have yet seen.)

With nearly two-hours to unpack, Teenage Sex… has a great deal to chew over. On the other hand, Schoenbrun somehow turns the corner from meta-movie back into movie-movie: their film is about what we see. Schoenbrun’s tremendous love of movies channels the past, with its slasher classics; the present, with its journey of self-discovery and acceptance; and a hint at the future, through the coda in the nearby convenience store. Kris and Billy, still dolled up in the scant attire and buckets of blood from their climactic encounter, meander the aisles, Kris explaining which gummies are the best. Kris would know: of her various quests in life, few have been more exhaustive or satisfying than this one. Anchored now by more than candy, she is better equipped to chase down her greatest love: making movies.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…a wonderfully warped and weird queer spin on Friday the 13th that proves horror has, and always will be, for the shes, gays, and theys.”–Kat Hughes, The Hollywood News (festival screening)

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FANTASIA 2026: APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: DANCE FREAK (2025)

July 20, 2026 Giles Edwards Leave a comment

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Recommended Weirdest!

DIRECTED BY: Robby Rackleff, Alan Resnick

FEATURING: Robby Rackleff, Megan Koester, Sheila Mears, Jamel Johnson

PLOT: Obie’s crummy life becomes dangerous when a mysterious freak appears in town to murder those caught up in his hypnotic moves.

Still from Dance Freak (2026)

WHY IT MIGHT JOIN THE APOCRYPHA: I’ll pitch this as “The Residents Present: Guy Maddin‘s Jekyll & Hide“, to give you an approximate idea what to expect.

COMMENTS: There are few sacks sadder than Obie. He is timid, depressed, seems to own only one sweatshirt, and cannot build a bird house to save his life, no matter how much coaching—both practical and existential—his teacher provides. To add to his woes, his go-getter girlfriend, Dorty, a young woman with a big heart, a big club, and mayoral aspirations, dumps him. And now, enter the Dance Freak: a humanoid entity whose motion and rhythm crushes the heads of anyone who dares gaze upon its wondrous moves.

Dance Freak is a masterful example of the possibilities encountered when creativity slams into the wall of zero resources. Obie’s town is a ghost town, populated by quietly angry people (or, in the case of the Salad Gang, loudly angry). Obviously animated birds attack and peck at the protagonist, and mist permeates the peripheries. Special effects crumble and melt into themselves and into each other, reflecting not only Obie’s fractured mind but also the “just add another layer” attitude that runs throughout the production. The Dance Freak itself is nothing more than co-director, co-screenwriter Robby Rackleff (who, incidentally, was wearing the Dance Freak’s khaki slacks on the film’s opening day); if you’re looking for something below Z-grade for your monster, you can’t do better than have one of the filmmakers just jamming his unchoreographed body onscreen to the unheard strains of a famous piece of pop film music.

The one professional actor (the directors words) is Sheila Mears, playing Dr. Dilly Gorgul. She earns her fee and then some as an evil scientist who exemplifies the excitement that draws someone to expanding knowledge in the first place: science is cool, especially mad science. Her giddiness is a refreshing novelty amidst the trip-wire tempers and hyper-caffeinated visuals. Most importantly, she still fits in with the milieu as a slightly plus-person alongside all the other heightened townsfolk, from father-issues Detective Gittit to Megaman, Obie’s manager who suffered from a filthy childhood that interfered with his one true love of drinking clear water fresh from the tap.

Rackleff and Resnick thread a tricky needle in this microbudget bit of madness: for the story of Dance Freak, there needs to be hyperbolic imagery and acting, but also enough relatability to keep the viewer invested. For the look of Dance Freak, there needs to be consistent “otherness” that doesn’t break the bank. And while not every movie needs to have a moral, Dance Freak opts for one, taking on itself the further task of showcasing the three possible paths we face when our life is in a rut: keep digging in, break something, or build something. We would do well to remember that there is a potential Dance Freak in all of us; will we dance for destruction—or creation?

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“100 minutes of pure irreverent nonsense in a gorgeous visual package that utilizes what appears to be old-school compositing, direct animation, and trippy transitions to augment some gnarly distortions, repurposed glue guns, and an out-of-body skin suit that’s as much a prison as it is a home… Would I watch it again? No. Should you watch it once? As long as you’re prepared to wonder whether you’ve had a stroke.”–Jared Mobarak, The Film Stage (Fantasia screening)