This is a transmission/translation.
Caustic signals, wave after wave, disappear into the void. Glowing. Ruined. Apart. From the bog, a reptilian death meditation. Infected mouths whisper. Blissless. Cosmic dismay surrounds invisible enemies. Setting Fires. Dark red. Beauty did not disappoint.
In the ossuary, bundles of bones turn to dust. In solitude I survive. Time keeper, protected by skepticism. "Did I die here?" Chanting vipers, from the south, are mangled below dismal stars. Screams make them dream of horrible altars. There were others. This is not enough.
For Their Graves belies the simple premise of a horror short to deliver an experiential reckoning with one’s own understanding of the unknown. The viewer is greeted with conventional images before transitioning in both startling and gradual movements toward an infernal symbolism which may or may not be indecipherable. A journey in which the exterior world is beheld and forsaken for interior psychogeographies. To contextualize this work within the cinematic landscape, imagine the following: the kinetic psychedelia of Jodorowsky condensed into a logic of stark blacks and whites; an 80s slasher flick infused with the narrative mysticism of Lynch; Kenneth Anger’s ritual Satanism for the digital age; a spiritualized Nick Zedd not on acid. Genre tropes are acknowledged and disregarded. Semblances of tradition can be parsed out. Traces of dialogue act as touchstones for the uninitiated. When all impurities have burned away, a mosaic of visions coalesce into a singular image both sacred and profane.
