House

Cult movies should be mistakes, not intentional. In his 1977 feature debut, there’s no indication that Nobuhiko Obayahshi meant for House to appear—three decades later, to non-Japanese viewers—completely insane. But it is: batshit, Technicolor, fairy-tale-meets-softcore-porn insane. Seven teenage schoolgirls visit the creepy old mansion inhabited by the spinster aunt of heroine Gorgeous (all the girls are similarly type-named); there they begin to disappear Ten Little Indians-style. But who’s killing whom, and why, are the least interesting questions about this effects-saturated dreamscape. Gorgeous is in love with her dashing father and despises his evil fiancée (whose hair and dress are permanently aflutter with a wind machine). Her schoolmates have a crush on their teacher, and her aunt is still pining for a soldier who died in WWII. All that thwarted love leads to flying heads, flashbacks, severed limbs, a ravenous piano, demonic cat, and tidal wave of blood. Obayashi crams every scene of House with giddy, gaudy visual excess; it’s like Douglas Sirk on acid. (NR) BRIAN MILLER

Nov. 27-Dec. 2, 7 & 9:30 p.m., 2009

 
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