Two films. One chandelier. One bloodstain. Both dripping.
Last Year at Marienbad is cinema as coma dream—Resnais pirouettes through space and time like a metronome set to sighs. Men in tuxedos glide across marble floors reciting memory as myth, while statues leer like they know the end of the joke. It’s all architecture and agony—hypnosis disguised as cinema, or cinema disguised as hypnosis. It is the sound of a mirror admiring itself. You do not watch Marienbad—you succumb.
Then THINGS lurches out of the Canadian VHS void with all the grace of a diseased cockroach humping a tape deck. It's what happens when your camcorder gets possessed by the ghost of Ed Wood and impregnated by Cronenberg’s discarded home movies. Bugs! Blonde porn star! Beer! Duct tape rituals! No plot—just incident. The audio is off, the lighting is a dare, and the result is avant-garde trash symphony. This is not so-bad-it’s-good. This is so-bad-it’s-a-transmission.
Together? They loop. They hum. They seethe. Marienbad is your fever dream in a palace; Things is your fever breaking in a basement. One says: “Remember?” The other says: “You’ll never forget.”
Art and trash. Memory and migraine. Cinema at its most glacial, and its most gonorrheal. Bring a date. Leave with trauma. Or enlightenment. Maybe both.
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