Raul Marques’s review published on Letterboxd:
Movies as dreams. Dreams as reality. Reality as an inescapable nightmare. All but an illusion.
Clearly functions on a plane of existence that is not our own, perversively tapping into deep-seated abstract confines of human beings' psyche, where disorientation between fact and fiction is actively stimulated by a deranged subconscious. Which means this is far scarier than practically any horror film ever made and profoundly meta in ways that well exceed the winking direct depictions of the industry. A fraction of it seems empty for empty's sake, even considering the project's surreal structure, but the all-timer sequence at Club Silencio and a Naomi Watts in state of grace are more than sufficient to overpass these minor (personal) gripes.