Tag Archives: Psychological

CAPSULE: ÉL (1953)

AKA This Strange Passion

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DIRECTED BY:

FEATURING: Arturo de Córdova, Delia Garcés

PLOT: A Mexican landowner seduces a woman into marrying him, but his paranoid jealousy quickly poisons the union.

Still from El (1953)

COMMENTS: The career of Luis Buñuel breaks cleanly into three periods: the avant-garde (or first French) period, the Mexican period, and the renaissance (or second French) period. He begins in Paris with the revolutionary experiments of Un Chien Andalou, L’Age d’Or, and Land Without Bread; moves to Mexico where he directs commercially-oriented films after an unsuccessful flirtation with Hollywood; and then, in the twilight of his career, returns to France to produce masterworks such as Belle de Jour (1967) and Discreet Charm of the Bourgousie (1972) with the assistance of new collaborators Serge Silberman (producer) and Jean-Claude Carrière (writer). Of these eras, the Mexican period, from 1947-1965, is the longest—and it can itself be split into early and late periods, as Buñuel again achieves international notoriety with Viridiana in 1961, and re-emerges into surrealism with 1962’s The Exterminating Angel.

The Mexican period is often overlooked, and it’s undeniable that Buñuel was far less experimental in this era, placing commercial realities above personal passions, and sneaking in surrealism and social commentary where he could. But Buñuel was honing his craft in Mexico, and these films are still fascinating to see the development of his aesthetic. Naturally, he also made some great movies in these years, among which the psychologically astute Él (which translates in this context as “he”) is a standout.

The film begins, without dialogue and somewhat mysteriously, with priests ritualistically washing the feet of young men on Maundy Thursday. The gaze of our protagonist, Francisco, scans a line of boys’ feet and priestly hands until it alights on a pair of high heeled shoes supporting shapely calves; his eyes then turn at a right angle to travel vertically up the body to briefly meet the eyes of a young woman, whom we will later learn is Gloria. What this opening means—with its nods to the director’s foot fetishism and his complicated relationship to Catholicism—is a point for academic debate. But no matter; the story immediately takes a turn for the melodramatic, following Francisco as he seduces the demure Gloria (stealing her from her fiancé, an associate of Francisco’s), while expressing his vain desire to recreate his ancestral real estate empire. Francisco’s irrational jealousy emerges as early as the honeymoon, where he gets into a fight with an old friend of his bride’s that the couple coincidentally encounters. Gloria quickly realizes she has made a terrible mistake. Things escalate through beatings, a dangerous scene in a bell tower (which anticipates Vertigo), and finally a disturbing and menacing bit where Francisco gathers up surgical equipment for purposes you can certainly guess. In the end, Francisco has a complete psychotic break, allowing Buñuel to deploy some light surrealism (via editing) to portray the triumph of paranoia over objective reality. (This climax occurs, naturally, inside a church.) An ironic epilogue shows Francisco, now convalescing in a monastery, his demons at least temporarily at bay, zig-zagging down a straight garden path.

Buñuel‘s own process during the Mexican period follows the same path: he follows the inevitable line of conventional narrative, but zigs and zags into his own obsessions. The director claimed that Él was one of his most personal works, and we know from his wife Jeanne’s autobiography that Buñuel himself suffered from irrational jealousy and sexual repression. Thus, he identifies with Francisco, but only in a masochistic and self-reflective way: he’s too perceptive to deceive himself, as his protagonist does, into thinking he’s always in the right. The source novel, by a woman speaking from personal experience, reportedly focuses on social critique of the Mexican patriarchy and its mistreatment of women; this subject interests Buñuel as well, but he leans into the character study aspect of the material. It is a way to exorcise his personal demons, and despite the conventionality of the approach, Él is at heart a typically vituperative strike by Buñuel at the hypocrisy of the human heart.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…a dark, troubling, classily produced melodrama. It may not have the showy, surreal touches of Buñuel’s best known work but it still packs a punch.”–David Brook, Blueprint: Review (Criterion Blu-ray)

Él (The Criterion Collection) [Blu-ray]

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66*. I’M THINKING OF ENDING THINGS (2020)

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“And the sun flicks my eyes—
It was all a pack o’ lies!
I’m awake in a lonely room.

I ain’t gonna dream ’bout her arms no more!
I ain’t gonna leave her alone!
Goin’ outside,
Git myself a bride,
Git me a woman to call my own.”

–“Lonely Room,” Oklahoma!

DIRECTED BY:

FEATURING: , , , , Guy Boyd

PLOT: As a snowstorm approaches, a young woman travels for the first time with her boyfriend Jake to meet his parents, but inwardly she is struggling to work up the courage to end things between them. Strange things happen at Jake’s house: not only is his parent’s behavior awkward, but their ages change before her eyes. Meanwhile, the action frequently cuts to an elderly high school janitor as he makes his rounds; the third act will bring the couple into contact with him.

Still from i'm thinnking of ending things (2020)

BACKGROUND:

  • Based on Ian Reid’s 2016 psychological novel of the same name.
  • An early prestige property for Netflix, who gave it a limited theatrical release in 2020 to qualify for awards season, then kept it locked into their exclusive streaming service.
  • Several of the film’s monologues—including Buckley’s poem, her opinions on John Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence, and Plemmons’ “acceptance” speech— are lifted wholesale from other people’s writings (“Bonedog” by Eva HD, Pauline Kael’s review, and A Beautiful Mind‘s Nobel speech, respectively).
  • The film-within-the-film, a romantic comedy credited to , is fictional. (Zemeckis is thanked in the credits for allowing his name to be attached.)
  • The end credits include a list of the various books, artworks, etc. referenced throughout the film.

INDELIBLE IMAGE: A cartoon pig leads a naked elderly man through the sterile hallways of a high school in the middle of the night. Bloody droplets drop from the animal’s underbelly, staining the newly-shined floor, as he plods along—maggots, he explains, as he is a maggot-infested pig.

TWO WEIRD THINGS: Ice cream in a blizzard; animated maggot-ridden pig leads naked man to awards ceremony

WHAT MAKES IT WEIRD: This labyrinth of awkward interactions, faulty memories, and uncertain identities may just be Charlie Kaufman’s most surreal film.

Original trailer for I’m Thinking of Ending Things

COMMENTS: Someone should take a pencil and catalog how many Continue reading 66*. I’M THINKING OF ENDING THINGS (2020)

CAPSULE: SPIDER (1991)

Zirneklis

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DIRECTED BY: Vasili Mass

FEATURING: Aurelija Anuzhite, , Algirdas Paulavicius

PLOT: A teenage girl who dreams of spiders attracts the attention of a mysterious painter.

COMMENTS: A priest and an artist walk into a bar. . . well, actually they meet in the artist’s studio and drink coffee, but they have a revealing conversation nonetheless. The priest prefers the artist’s early works, painted in the style of the Italian Renaissance. In contrast, his current works appear much darker, inspired by the likes of Hieronymous Bosch and Caravaggio. “It’s a changing world,” the artist says by way of explanation, “and we’re changing with it.” “We’re changing,” the priest corrects him, “and so we change the world.”

Spider opens with a quotation from Sigmund Freud (“Subconscious sexual desires are closely linked to the sense of fear”). This sets it up to be a softcore tale of burgeoning adolescent sexuality, though one with serious art-house vibes (in an early scene, the main character imagines herself entering a Pre-Raphaelite bower where she clutches a bouquet of pink flowers to her heart as trickles of blood seep between her fingers). The film then abruptly cycles through various genres, from a Gothic mystery in a haunted medieval castle to, by the nightmarish finale, a full-blown seventies-style satanic horror. Like its antagonist, it constantly changes form, leaving the viewer wondering just where it will go next.

The plot seems simple enough at first. The priest commissions the artist to paint an Annunciation scene for a homeless shelter. The artist spots teenaged Vita at the church and tells the priest he’ll only take the commission if she’ll model for the Virgin Mary. The priest agrees and says he’ll convince Vita to pose for the painting.

Though ostensibly a wholesome girl, one who chooses to hang out at church rather than in night clubs, vivid dreams and hallucinations of spiders plague Vita’s sleeping and waking moments. Her dreams and reality continue to intersect after her first visit to the artist’s studio. One of the other models tells Vita to beware of the artist since he was once bitten by a spider. He then begins to haunt her dreams, along with other ominous black-robed figures and insects.

Made in Latvia on the cusp of the Soviet Union’s collapse, Spider feels like a time capsule of its era, but also of earlier filmmaking conventions. Scenes of paintings come to life feature actual actors posed on detailed sets in elaborate costumes. The titular spider is a massive puppet with many, partly animated, writhing appendages. The ending includes practical effects worthy of Luigi Cozzi, evoking nostalgia for the days when corpses routinely exploded with glue and Jello. Director Mass is also obsessed with lighting effects; soft focus lens flares and rainbows characterize nearly every shot. The score, too, travels through the decades. The main theme, a pastoral with pan pipes, accompanies Classical, opera, and late ’80s synth stings whenever the suspense ratchets up.

After waking from a nightmare with spider bites on her back, Vita’s mother takes her to a doctor. Upon examination, the bites are gone; the doctor diagnoses auto-hypnotic suggestion and recommends a period of rest in the country. Vita’s mother then sends her to visit her aunt, who lives in a castle on an island. Since the modeling job creates conflict between mother and daughter, the priest decides to call off the commission. He tells the artist Vita will no longer be his model, then leaves his studio before the artist can argue with him. The scene then repeats, and in the second version, the artist informs the priest he will not be dismissing Vita. She now belongs to him, and she will be his, until he finishes the painting.

Meanwhile, Vita happily moves into her aunt’s castle where she’s warned against a mysterious bedroom that’s off-limits. The isolated island community, peopled with various strange characters, provides a verdant setting for more imaginative erotic set-pieces. By this point in the narrative, a critical viewer might fault the director for introducing a series of plot threads without ever tying them up.

A more charitable viewer may assume the director intended to create a tangled web of the plot. The artist tells the priest, “Both evil and good are threads of a spider web. . . untangle it and they’re gone, both good and evil.” Mass complicates the narrative as Spider moves beyond the highly eroticized reveries of a horny teenager. There are shades of Pygmalion and Galatea, and one possible interpretation attributes Vita’s experiences to Stendhal Syndrome. Either way, far from being a merely evil foil to the good priest, the artist comes across as a much more ambiguous character, though in the end, he’s vanquished (or is he?) by the sign of the cross.

The artist’s dialogue centers on themes of surface appearances, control, manipulation, and illusion. He tells Vita appearances are deceptive because they hide the soul, and “the soul is a great mystery.” By the end, Spider suggests the pertinent issue isn’t Vita’s sexual allure. It’s her dreams, the secrets of her soul, which beg the question, in a rapidly changing world, how can you tell the difference between mirage and reality?

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…psychedelic and often jaw-dropping Eastern European mash up of Walerian Borowczyk and Alain Robbe-Grillet…”- Nathaniel Thompson, Mondo-Digital

APOCRYPHA CANDIDATE: SOUL TO SQUEEZE (2025)

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DIRECTED BY: W.M. Weikart

FEATURING: Michael Thomas Santos, Danielle Meyer

PLOT: Jacob signs up for a dangerous psychological treatment to overcome his anger issues and finds himself trapped within a small home.

Still from Soul to Squeeze (2025)

WHY IT MIGHT JOIN THE APOCRYPHASoul to Squeeze doesn’t wear its metaphor on its sleeve so much as encase the protagonist. This narrative framework allows for a psychological deep-dive which proffers as much ambiguity as it does clarity.

COMMENTS: A young fellow emerges from debris on the roadside. He’s bleary-eyed, but looks content—even happy. In fact, he’s doing so well that, when a kindly passerby offers help, he politely declines. The preceding ordeal nearly broke him, for this trash pile is the site of a rebirth. As he limps to the roadside, it is clear that our protagonist, Jacob, has had his soul squeezed, but not how you might think.

Certainly not how I thought, until some days after watching the movie when the title’s implications finally became clear. Weikart uses a number of tools to form the narrative, but a television documentary (which seems to be the only channel available where Jacob’s locked himself away for “treatment”) is nearly as omnipresent as the allegorical house the film was shot in. Alongside Jacob, we learn about the mysteries and wonders of the eye: its nerves, cones, strata, apertures, and, most importantly, the aqueous humour. You’ll develop an understanding and appreciation of this unlikely organ from watching Soul to Squeeze, if nothing else.

Jacob’s ordeal begins immediately upon signing the medical release for an unclear procedure—someone, or some force, locks the exit the moment he lifts the pen from the contract line. As Jacob angrily goes through his routines in confinement, he encounters an array of characters who probably aren’t there, though it’s difficult to be certain. (Surely there isn’t a kitchen game show titled “Don’t Fuck This Up!” lying in wait to pounce on the unsuspecting breakfaster.) As the story unfolds, and Jacob’s psychological journey dives deeper into the source of his omnipresent anger, the surrounding pressure of recollection and contemplation forces him (and us) to focus on his true ailment.

The documentary narrator explains: we know much about the hardware involved inside the eye, but there’s no concrete theory as to why it all works. As with the eye (a window to the soul, we’ve been told), so with the mind. Weikart’s one-set drama, putting actor Michael Thomas Santos through the wringer, features much that is obvious. But like an eye (which comes up as much in this review almost as much as in the film), it transcends the sum of its parts through an alchemical process that cannot be easily dissected into its constituent parts without destroying it. Apologies if I’ve veered too far into bio-philosophical rambling, but that’s just the kind of thing Soul to Squeeze catalyzes. With a little focus, life’s debris can be put into perspective, and you are free to move on in the world.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“There’s a haunting stillness to the production design—this is not a surrealist explosion of dream logic, but something more intimate and grounded… for those willing to surrender to its slow, aching rhythm and deeply personal approach, it offers something rare: a film that doesn’t just explore the mind—it mirrors it” — Chris Jones, Overly Honest Reviews (contemporaneous)

IT CAME FROM THE READER SUGGESTED QUEUE: THE COMING OF SIN (1978)

La Visita del Vicio;  AKA Vice Makes a Visit

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DIRECTED BY: José Ramon Larraz

FEATURING: Patricia Granada, Lidia Zuazo, Rafael Machado

PLOT: An orphaned girl haunted by prophetic dreams becomes the maid of a wealthy young widow.

Still from the coming of sin (1978)

COMMENTS: If asked by a producer to make a “sexy movie,” not many directors would combine the unsettling atmosphere of Belgian weird fiction with the Tenebrism of the Spanish Baroque, and then mix it all up with an ancient Greek myth about bestiality. José Ramon Larraz does just that. The tale of Pasiphaë provides the surreal imagery; the painting of Diego Velazquez the light and shadows; and the setting, an isolated country manor house, is straight out of Thomas Owen, along with the film’s shockingly violent conclusion.

Trianna (Zuazo) suffers from a recurring nightmare. An orphan without any family, she ends up working for Lorna (Granada), an eccentric and independent widow living alone in the remote countryside. When Lorna asks Trianna about her dream, she says there’s a man on a horse and he frightens her, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. They drop the subject and soon fall into a cozy domesticity which eventually develops into a full-on Sapphic relationship.

When the subject of her nightmare appears in real life—a nude young man riding a black horse bareback—he terrifies Trianna (and tramples the rose bushes in the process). Trianna greets him with a double-barreled shotgun. “That’s no reason to shoot somebody,” Lorna tells her.

Lorna insists Trianna’s nightmare results from her fear of sex and/or men; she has books that will explain it all to her, but illiteracy saves Trianna from having to read volumes of pop psychology. Instead, she visits the local fortune-teller, who asks why she even bothered to come, since her fate is sealed. Trianna is the devil’s child; and if she and the man on the black horse ever become a couple then someone will die.

After this disturbing revelation, the young man on the horse becomes a regular guest at Lorna’s house; she insists he learn some manners, so he begins wearing pants when he joins the ladies for tea. Eventually Chico (Machado) becomes the lover of both Trianna and Lorna, despite Trianna’s fears. Though Chico wants Trianna, Lorna begins aggressively pursuing him, unbalancing their fragile love triangle.

In between orgies, they visit the local museum, a nightclub where two female dancers perform a tango, and Lorna convinces Trianna and Chico to pose half-naked together for her latest painting. Lorna insists the pair would make a fine couple, even as she continues her clandestine visits to Chico’s shack down by the river. To make her assignations, Lorna passes through towering reeds, a landscape vividly described in Owen’s “The Conquered Beauty and the Troubadour,” wherein gunshots obliterate the post-coital calm of a summer afternoon.

Larraz started his artistic career as a comic book illustrator, and Spain’s then-restrictive censorship laws drove him to other parts of Europe. He turned to directing films after a chance meeting with Josef von Sternberg in Brussels, where Larraz also met Owen, friend of Jean Ray, the author of the novel Malpertuis. The influence of these two men shaped the course of Larraz’s idiosyncratic film career. The Coming of Sin was made in Spain upon his return at the end of the Franco regime.

In interviews, Larraz claims that every one of his films is actually a Thomas Owen story. Larraz wears this inspiration on his sleeve, but anyone who hasn’t read Owen’s work won’t recognize him as Larraz’s muse, and he’s never mentioned in the credits. Owen was a fan of old dark house stories (one of his collections is titled “Les Maisons suspectes”), and Larraz clearly shares this obsession. His first film, 1970’s Whirlpool, takes place in an isolated house outside of London, where the protagonists get up to artsy, sexy, and occasionally murderous menages á trois, as they do in The Coming of Sin.

In Owen’s stories uncanny events fracture mundane life. Old mansions reveal to strangers worlds unto themselves, where the normal rules of everyday existence no longer apply. The Coming of Sin exists in numerous cuts and under a plethora of titles (S&M scenes were excised from some versions, or augmented with hardcore footage in others), but Owen’s themes are the focus in Larraz’s original. When Trianna and Chico intrude upon Lorna’s den of solitude they set in motion the hand of fate.

The films of Larraz (AKA J. R. Larrath) are admittedly something of an acquired taste. Like and , his pacing can be slow, the scenery repetitive, the amateur acting impeded by stilted dialogue. He had the makings of a genuine auteur; his film Symptoms was England’s submission to Cannes in 1974, where it received favorable notice from French audiences. Despite that success, Larraz primarily worked in low budget Eurotrash productions, his wild imagination sacrificed to excessive sex scenes and gore at the behest of producers. But no matter how cheap or sleazy the film, Larraz always retained his artist’s eye, and he speaks in his own voice, a unique downbeat tone with a heart of weird fiction hidden at the core.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

‘…another Larraz offering that is almost weirdly suffused with a near hallucinogenic, dreamlike ambience, despite some of the more shocking aspects of the visuals.”–Jeffrey Kauffman, Blu-ray.com (Arrow box set)

Blood Hunger: The Films of José Larraz ( Whirlpool / Vampyres / La visita del vicio ) ( Whirlpool / Vampyres / The Coming of Sin ) [ Blu-Ray, Reg.A/B/C Import - United Kingdom ]
  • Blood Hunger: The Films of José Larraz ( Whirlpool / Vampyres / La visita del vicio ) ( Whirlpool /
  • Blood Hunger: The Films of José Larraz
  • Whirlpool / Vampyres / La visita del vicio
  • Whirlpool / Vampyres / The Coming of Sin