The Holy Mountain

The Holy Mountain ★★★½

My eyes are corroded into psychedelic sludge. My brain is short-circuited, fritzed, frizzed, fried. My mind has been boiled by a bizarre barrage of images, a furious fusillade of frenzy. The images have repeatedly pulverized the analytic portion of my reasoning, flipped logic inside out, and then sprinted through the solar system with their own ephemeral shape of reality.

This thing— you can’t really call it a movie—— explodes through the stratosphere of weird. It is disarming, terrifying, horrifying, disturbing, depraved, exhausting, fascinating, and, above all— completely nonsensical. It is a fermented froth of insanity, a cudgel upon reality, pummelling meaning into shrapnel and then taking that shrapnel to fashion its own garish costume. Each and every moment either twists reality, decapitates it, or makes love to it.

Like a fish in a 1,000 meter dash, it flops itself upriver before the third star is set. And not only does it sew its own sweater, but it also replicates it, with and without cosmic thread. Of course, this means it must make a martyr of its own goat, but this is to be expected, especially when unburning thematic fireworks.

Now, the four-pronged weapon it wields reveals a fifth prong, as it stabs the holy cross, the glittery assault rifle, the burning bill, and the third eye (both skewering and uniting). Each of these items are actually reverse eclipses, occurring when the celestial blots out the terrestrial. And the fifth prong is the hand itself, the tool that reveals this, but then must sacrifice itself within its own net while doing so.

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