This one is for the brave, the deranged, the seekers of celluloid riddles. Outer Order’s double dose of Schizopolis and Malpertuis is like reading Finnegans Wake while hallucinating inside a haunted kaleidoscope. You don’t watch these movies—you get abducted by them. It’s language vs. myth, disintegration vs. entrapment. And the only way out… is through.
Schizopolis (1996)
Steven Soderbergh took a studio break, had a full-blown breakdown (or breakthrough), and made Schizopolis—a meta-absurdist, DIY mind grenade starring himself as multiple versions of an empty man drifting through bureaucratic hell, marital collapse, and cultish nonsense.
Dialogue breaks down. People speak in placeholder text (“Generic Greeting!” “Fleeting expletive!”). Plot dissolves. A bug exterminator fights off a self-help guru. The camera breaks the fourth wall, then smashes the other three for fun.
It’s part Monty Python, part Godard, part corporate satire, all fever dream. This is what happens when the machine turns in on itself and laughs until it vomits. It’s a comedy, sure—but only if you’re already on the edge.
Malpertuis (1971)
Enter the labyrinth. Malpertuis is gothic horror dipped in classical mythology and Belgian surrealism, where nothing is what it seems and everything is a trap. A sailor returns home only to find himself locked in the mansion of Malpertuis, a house that functions like a living tomb, populated by strange relatives and inexplicable events.
Orson Welles shows up in a wheelchair, spouting riddles and portents. The walls shift. Time folds. Gods live in human shells. It’s a giallo by way of House of Leaves—an Escher painting with bloodstains.
Director Harry Kümel turns every shot into a painting, every hallway into a descent. The deeper you go, the more you realize this isn’t horror—it’s mythology trying to remember itself through a nightmare.
The Pairing
This combo is for the cerebral masochists. Schizopolis pulls the rug out from under language, identity, and modern existence. Malpertuis whispers to you from the floorboards of old Europe, reminding you that myths never die—they just get locked in strange houses.
Together, they’re a descent into the disordered subconscious: one cracking jokes as it collapses, the other singing in ancient tongues. Both films demand surrender. Refusal is futile—and not half as fun.
Final Verdict:
9.7/10 – The best kind of madness: bureaucratic schizophrenia paired with mythological entrapment. It’s like watching your mind reboot in tongues. Let go. Get lost. Stay weird.
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