This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
Marna Larsen’s review published on Letterboxd:
This review may contain spoilers.
That nurse in the elevator: literally everyone's reaction when I say I write horror novels and sometimes just when I say I'm a writer...and definitely when I am forced to say that I have never been published. The interaction, which is sprung upon me even when I go to the dentist, is usually as follows:
Look on older person or dental assistant's face when I say I am a writer: ah. Another worthless young person with no job. But I guess I should check on the off chance that they've actually been published:
'oh I'll look you up!'
Me, trying to find a good way to state that I am an unpublished loser:
'Just no. I go away now.' (While staring off into the horizon without actually going anywhere at least physically.)
You know what's easier? Just telling people I do NOTHING during the winter. Yep, I am unemployed! 'I don't do anything, Marjorie.' Who should for fuck sake's know this, I only talked about my writing around her constantly. But I guess she wasn't listening, ever. You know how they say to use someone's name if you want them to like you? Well, I use people's names as an intimidation tactic, a social skill that makes me endlessly popular at parties. 'I don't do anything, Marjorie' with an emphasis on her name and prolonged, uncomfortable eye contact until she is forced to look away! HA! I win!
Sorry. I do not generally consume alcohol as I can feel my heart skipping more when I do, and as a result I can't tell the difference between drunkenness and potentially life-threatening dizziness. Yet, I feel more 'drunk' than the average person without heart thing or who possibly drinks more than I do, would register as even being drunk...or something. 'Help me...my heart.' 'He says it's his heart.' 'Then he needs some heart medicine.' 'Oh God, I feel awful.' 'Drink this now. You'll feel better.' Anyway, I promise I will talk about the movie right NOW:
This was definitely more somber in tone than Suspiria, which I think was the intended effect - but possibly also an unintentional result of how this movie, unlike it's predecessor, is not processed in technicolor. So, the reds are less saturated, but there's a lot of melancholic blue to lose yourself in - the bathtub, the screen that slashed-to-ribbons Sarah falls through. Even the music as well is less vibrant and more meditative.
I can't believe that guy was such a jerk to all those nice cats that just wanted to sleep somewhere (and to occasionally eat someone's face). And who tries to drown sacks full of cats during a lunar eclipse anyway? I guess someone who thinks witchcraft is just something dumb females believe in because they are less rational and more prone to hysteria. Well, who's prone to hysteria now?
Anyway. I am sorry again that much of this failed to be a review. I was really going to try and be better about not doing that from now on and writing more coherent, review-like reviews. Well, here's something: the setting for this movie was just insanely beautiful and I will probably never be happy living anywhere ever again!
But...if the nurse in the elevator is really death...then, it doesn't matter if I ever get published. 'But to them...we are nothing but dust.' That actually makes me feel somewhat better.