Marna Larsen’s review published on Letterboxd:
There's an interesting rift between like actually people sleeping outside the building, just everywhere, on the fire escape outside your window. And artists who have to stay in and eat pizza instead of going out and doing drugs. I read a horror novel recently I thought would either be a lot like one I'm planning advantageously or not, and it really tries to paint an accurate picture of millennial aged crashing on a friend's couch poverty and I wondered if anyone will care about 'artist' version of that (as motive to stay in what is clearly a fucked up situation. In my case, it is ghosts, it is literally what it is teasing, but with a twist. But I want to be really up front about that it's a haunted building story) because I think people think we choose these situations.
Which, like all things, is true and also an oversimplification. I am, at some point, going to need to put my work out there in some capacity that it can potentially earn any money at all. But then you read all these articles that are like 'people are saying no to you for a reason; don't self publish, only losers who write shitty books do that!' And I get freaked out and think, 'isn't self publication admitting defeat? Won't everyone in town nod knowingly and be like, 'oh good. She failed. I knew she would fail so it's okay that I didn't even try?' How can I go crawling back to digital downloads on the internet?
I liked that buffalo. But what do I know about art. This was my second Abel Ferrara/Nicholas St John. It's lonely and hypnotic, much like The Addiction. And similarly, understands an existential crisis is not the same as what some people have to suffer in this life.