The Eyes of My Mother

By no means does this pilgrim ever intend to sound or hold an opinion in the postal radius of an upper fucker denomination, that can what it can by all means; if the sense of humour starts making enemies, you can not simply stop making friends. Speaking of enemies, parental neglect is the worst kind. I digress, what difference will it make in the grand scheme of things? We shall have to wait and watch.

Also, speaking of sense of humour, a fascinatingly baffling and an uncommon strain of the same can be felt running through the veins of this alluring new feature. Nicolas Pesce has great talent for really scaring the good sense out of the viewer. Eyes of My Mother takes every step with keen recognition of the genre and throbbing reverence for the macabre. It is calculated and aesthetically convincing in making the viewer very uncomfortable in its unravelling. A film that has to be cradled, for it refuses to give answers otherwise. A well grounded screenplay keeps the haunts solid and real and frequent. All of that in a manner so subtle that years go by, sane men and women fall in to depths of desperation, opportunities are missed (a tiny grievance), as if all men lose sanity and yet the cogs keep churning; their sound echoing through the entire length of the Bubikopf feature. A film which will keep gnawing at your insides long after the end.

Shot in high contrast, surreal, sharp, crisp, metallic, depressing and threatening black and white, Eyes of My Mother is a truly frightening part of contemporary cinema where shadows become bona fide characters and no corner or quarter (repeated breaking of the rule of third) is safe. It is a force to be reckoned with. This baby is sublime, brutal, shocking and self-aware to a degree of high grade filmmaking.

I shall be keeping an eye out for both, the director and Diana Agostini. In the meantime I’d suggest you watch this one pronto.