The Grandmother

The Grandmother ★★★★

David Lynch's head is one crazy beautiful place. This short film is an early nightmare turned into art. Poetry with chalky feelings and no morning dews.

How was this possible in 1970? When Hitchcock was still the guidance to follow suit --remember Coppola's underrated Dementia 13 (1963) or Polanski's Repulsion (1965) and Rosemary's Baby (1968)--, Lynch retreated to more primitive impulses and began the development of a new kind of horror.

I can even see the seeds of Goth giving birth to Tim Burton as if he was one of the characters originating from enormous alien plants, its tortured roots getting wet in the polluted air of a dark room.

Freud and Breton hand in hand, sliding to the abyss as an abused kid plays cheekily with the only friend he has ever had. His bullying father beating the living shit out of him for peeing on the bed every night, his estranged mother making fun of him remorselessly. Both of them calling his name like it was a damnation.

Just don't expect the boy to use his grandmother for revenge. Low self-esteem is a black hole, and he is getting sucked into it. Too many heartbreaks have gotten to the room upstairs. In the end, it's all about Stephen King's role in Creepshow. Not really. Maybe the Body Snatchers. I'm deranged.