Movie Review: Don’t be fooled by the artfulness: The Eyes Of My Mother is deeply fucked up

The Eyes Of My Mother is a grotesque, depraved genre movie with the skin of an art film pulled tightly over its bones. If Ingmar Bergman had helmed The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, it might look something like this exquisite nightmare. Making his confident feature debut, writer-director Nicolas Pesce shoots in a crisp, striking black-and-white and applies hallmarks of “respectable” international cinema—static long takes, passages free of dialogue—to acts almost too unspeakable to describe. To say that this is not a movie for everyone would be to put it mildly: The Eyes Of My Mother is too deliberately paced, even at a brisk 76 minutes, to serve as red meat for midnight-movie crowds, and the poor souls who stumble into their local arthouse theater unawares might stumble out scarred. But those with both strong constitutions and refined tastes—the kind who admire, say, the extreme French horror released …

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *