textured with eye-squinting hmm moments like the copper who relays that the only flowers he can distinguish are pansies, and the servant's quarters where screams can't be heard from. this manor house in a different film would elaborate on the saturated-tick-of-a-grandfather-clock horror, but this doesn't - and re-heeeeelly needs robert newton to bring a spark to the formulaic drawl. I do love a bit of this though

a body count of scumbags is a good cathartic prescription for nights where the waking days are news feeds full of increasingly reactionary sewage that feels like its going to engulf everything & everybody you love. injustices redressed & liberated sensuality are naturally major yes's & the culmination love letter to de palma's '76 burning gymnasium extravaganza hits good besides that knife position so annoyingly, but brilliantly, and tragically, lingering there waiting for her. Mew. Carrie it out in nun garb babes x forever

managed to trigger entire bodily goosies 6,7,8 mins in where the synchronicity of the whirly industrial score cut perfectly with face-on meets with this fucking monstrosity like clockwork. train-track metronomic modulation. i've never felt anything like this before, where goosebumps can be attuned to reliably rise & fall on cue. brings new meaning to the power of film. darkly precursor to asmr? bleak deep recurrences scratching themselves in, now treated with a meagre cleanse of affirmations & momentary calm. long live never taking your eyes off the bloodflower background, and the mask.