Spook Out! Day 5 ~ The Eyes of My Mother (2016, In English and Portuguese w/Subtitles)

Netflix Says...
"At the remote farmhouse where she once witnessed a traumatic childhood event, a young woman develops a grisly fascination with violence."

I Say...
Dudes. I don't even know what to say, except that the Netflix blurb doesn't prepare you for what you're about to experience when you settle down to watch this movie. It's disturbing af and it'll stay with you a while.

Horror Type...
American Gothic, Indie/Arthouse Horror (A.A. Dowd's review for avclub.com says, "If Ingmar Bergman had helmed The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, it might look something like this exquisite nightmare." That's exactly right. You can read the full review here but beware, thar be spoilers.

Main Players...
Kika Magalhães as Francisca (She only wants somebody to love, is that so wrong?)

Olivia Bond as young Francisca (Handy with a needle)

Will Brill as Charlie (Nope. Just nope.)

I liked...

• how beautifully this is shot, in hushed black and white, lending it a dark-folktale quality
• the boldness of writing a female character who performs horrors typically considered within the purview of men (in fiction and in reality)--but in a completely believable way, given how her formerly-a-surgeon-mother was raising her
• how it engrossed me throughout, even as my gut churned with dread and disbelief
• that it features Portuguese folk, y'all! My peeps, my language, my tribe--Viva Portugal!
• the sparse use of dialogue, especially as it made reading subtitles without coming out of the story a breeze

The Meh...

• it's slightly shorter than a standard feature (1 hour, 16 minutes) yet at times I wondered whether it'd ever end...probs due to the sick feeling in my stomach every time some new, darker horror emerged
• the narrative's a wee bit choppy--when I read the Wikipedia plot summary I realized I'd utterly failed to connect a particular set of dots so I had to rewatch that portion to grok it
• I don't know whose fault this is but two important sentences were mis-subtitled: at one point, one subtitle reads, "What am I going to do?" when what Francisca actually said was, "Eu preciso de alguém, mãe." ("I need somebody, mom.") Another time, the subtitle reads, "I wanted to make you proud," though Francisca said, "Isto é tão difícil sem ti, mãe." ("This is so hard without you, mom.") For each mis-titling, the actual dialogue is far superior to the bad translations, and so vital to the story! Ugh.

Would I recommend it...?

It's a brilliant, visually gorgeous, and unique take on a story often told and I highly recommend it to mature lovers of horror and film. I don't understand how this flick didn't totally blow up when it was released, but it's extremely worthy and deserves a lot of attention. NB: If you're of a sensitive disposition, as I am (I know, you wouldn't think it, considering some of the stuff I like) maybe try watching it the way I did: on a sunshiny Saturday morning, so you have time to process it and, if necessary, go do some fun stuff so you can sleep that night*.

Miscellany...

• For a gal who's lived her entire life in isolation, probably not even going to school or having any other females in her life to talk about makeup and whatnot, Francisca's eyebrows are remarkably tidy
• The guy who played Charlie looked so danged familiar! Turns out he also plays The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel's brother, Noah Weissman, who's secretly working for the CIA. Fella's got some serious acting chops--he utterly terrified me during the brief moments he was onscreen in The Eyes of My Mother

Ratings...

My Grade: A-
Rotten Tomatoes Scores: Tomatometer=78%, Audience Score=57%

Details, Schmeetails...

I Watched The Eyes of My Mother on Netflix (the Rotten Tomatoes page linked above provides links to other host sites)

The Eyes of My Mother's IMDb Page

The Eyes of My Mother's Wikipedia Page (Contains Spoilers)

*One way I process disturbing movies or TV shows is to read others' reviews. Here I've linked a few for The Eyes of My Mother but be warned, as in the link up top, thar be spoilers (aplenty). Please note: I agree with some, though not all, thoughts expressed in the following reviews.

Don’t be fooled by the artfulness: The Eyes Of My Mother is deeply f*ck*d up (I linked to this earlier in the post)

Eyes of My Mother review: a horror film about unimaginable response to unimaginable tragedy

'The Eyes of My Mother': Sundance Review

The concludes Day 5 of

Very Superstitious...

Jacinta Lluch [CC-BY-SA-2.0
(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

...is what the Portuguese are; I've mentioned this before, you may remember. (And if you don't, here's a link.) But there are layers of superstition which manage to surprise me as they continue to unravel, like some stealthy Lusitanian onion, just when I thought I'd heard them all. (I'm a first-generation American of Portuguese descent and, after 43 years on this planet, I coulda sworn I'd learned all the 'guese stuff worth knowing.)

Specifically, I refer to Portuguese superstitions regarding New Year's Eve—though I don't remember my parents, aunts, uncles, or cousins doing anything more on said evening than getting stinking drunk (as is right and proper). But in recent years, my Mom's trotted out a few choice bits of magical thinking. For example, there's the twelve green grapes at midnight business: these must be consumed within the first minute of the new year, so as to ascertain good luck for each of the twelve coming months. Now, I coulda sworn I told her about this, having learned it from my former, Puerto Rican, in-laws, but Mom acts like it's old hat, now. Yeah, whatevs.

That one's pretty tame, and probably not unknown to most of y'all. But the onion unveiled a layer of the surreal the year my Mom gave me a small parcel on a December 30. Doubtingly, I took the thing from her and opened it. I blinked at what lay in the wrapping paper, then at my mother.

"Underwear?" I asked, uncomprehending.

"Red underwear," she replied with a broad, loony smile."Make sure you wear it New Year's Eve."

"Um...why?"

"It's for luck."

My left eyebrow quirked up of its own accord. "What kind of luck?"

Her crazed grin broadened, not unlike the grins of the folks in the video for Soundgarden's Black Hole Sun. "Who knows?" she said. And then she buggered off before I could demand further explanation.

This conversation haunted me, so much so that I had to track my sister, Star, down online and beg her to help me figure this shizz out. I don't remember all the particulars of that long online chat, but I can't forget when stunned realization compelled me to type out the words,

You mean...Mom wants me to get laid?!!??!?!?!?

Or similar.

I think Star and I settled on the fact that, as red symbolizes love, our mother simply wished me to enjoy some happiness in that department. I mean, it's not like she's ever been a romantic (like, not EVER), or thinks men are good for much of anything except making babies (sorry, folks, but it's not what I think, but what she thinks). Mom's, like, super Old Country Catholic and never encouraged us to date or anything even close to it. So the idea of my mother wanting me to get lucky, sort of blew me away. (Which isn't to say I didn't wear the hell out of those underpants that New Year's Eve, for all the good that did me.)

Anyway.

Y'all ever hear about anything even remotely like that? If not that, then what kooky New Year's Eve superstitions did you grow up with? (I'm particularly interested in something that'll help me get lucky, so feel free to share in the comments.) (Please, for the love of all that's holy; Goth Mom Lite's feeling that Urge To Merge!) (Ahem.)

Edited to add: Well, well, well...my Mom is vindicated! 

Lunar Lovin' Hop! (A Blogfest, Yo!)

So, like, this one night (about a year ago, 'cause it totally took place in January), my dad was driving me and the Kid home from somewhere and I looked up at the sky and became entranced. La lune was big, luminous, and full, and more beautiful than I remembered ever seeing her. I was so stunned I remarked on it aloud.

My Dad checked the moon out and said, "In Portugal, we have a saying:

Não há amor como o primeiro,
nem luar como o de Janeiro.
Mas lá vem o de Agosto,
que lhe dá no rosto."

The best idiomatic English translation for this I can think of is:

There's no love like the first,
nor full moon (or moonlight) like that of January.
But later comes the one in August,
Which smacks January's right in the kisser.

That's kinda romantic, right? No? Gosh, picky, picky...

So I was thinking (unlikely though that seems): how about we put this old saying to the test? Here's what I propose:

1. Sign up on the linky list below (where it asks for "Your name" please enter your blog's name).
2. Use this badge on your blog's sidebar and Tweet or whatever to spread the word about the hop. If you don't use The Twitter, don't sweat it; join in anyway!
3. On Sunday, January 27, 2013, snap a pic of the full moon.*
4. Post that sucker up on your blog on Monday, January 28.
5. Go check other folks' pics!

C'mon, this is easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy, folks!

Are ya with me?????

*One of the comments below references the possibility of poor lunar visibility. If that's the case wherever you are in the world, just take a picture of the night sky and post that instead.

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Streaming Consciousness...

I'm introducing a new feature to my blog, "Streaming Consciousness." I was gonna call it "Random Streams" but there are already way too many blog posts (and blogs) with the word "random" in their titles. So yeah, I'm just going to babble on, without rhyme or reason. (As per usual...)

...you may be wondering about the image on the right. Well, it's there 'cause Burns' dilated eyes remind me of one of my fave Simpsons episodes, the X-Files crossover. Also, I adore potatoes. Fried, mashed, hash-browned, nice and salty, mmmmm... ::licks chops::

...chops, by the way, is short for Pork Chops, a pejorative used to refer to Portuguese folk. You may not know this expression if you've not lived near/around them. Strangely, it's never offended me, as I was inordinately pleased we had any kind of slang term associated with us. Since many folks I run into have no idea what or who the Portuguese are, I guess I prefer a slur to obscurity (as does this blogger). Some Portuguese of my acquaintance consider Pork Chop an endearing epithet and often use it self-referentially (as folks in my family do)...

...my friend Nikki and I saw Paranorman Saturday night. It was a cute, entertaining, and sometimes really gross film. In our opinion, the best of the flick came in the last 10 or 15 minutes, which were dramatic indeed. And I would've taken a different angle in resolving the major conflict of the story (don't want to spoil things here, as the movie's only just opened). Still, it was a bit of Halloweenish fun in balmy August, which only whet my appetite for autumn (as well as for Hotel Transylvania and Frankenweenie, coming to theaters near you at the end of September/start of October, respectively). I'll caution parents of very young children that, though the previews for Paranorman look fairly innocent, it is rated PG and I wouldn't say it's appropriate for children under the age of maybe 9 or 10 (of course, you know your kids' ability to handle violence and gore better than I)...

...I continue to experience surreal dreams. In last night's, I was the object of great sympathy from family and friends as I prepared to marry a man by the name of Carlos de Castro. He was a nice-looking fella (who slightly resembled a friend from the first college I attended and with whom I'm completely out of touch), that I saw at the ceremony only. It was depressing how sad folks'd seemed that I needed to marry this dude, when there was nothing (apparently) wrong with him. Though I don't personally know anyone by this name, I've since learned it's the moniker of a footballer from Uruguay and was reminded it's the name of the Portuguese journalist who was found murdered (and castrated!) in a hotel in Times Square last year. (Quelle bizarre...)

...speaking of bizarre, on Sunday I watched the full six-episode IFC series Bullet in the Face, which I quite enjoyed, though it disturbs me somewhat that I find the lead psycho, Gunter Volger (played by Max Williams) dangerously attractive, if Joker-esque. ::shrugs:: I don't normally go for blonds but I dig this character's hairstyle and, I have to admit, he's got a killer grin (pun intended). It ended on a cliff-hanger, leaving me with the reasonable hope for a second season of this off-kilter action/thriller/comedy...

...I'm researching tattoos; these images have caught my fancy: Celtic Moon, Stars Tribal Tattoo, Sun. Celestial combos also appeal, like this one, or this one. I'm not sure where on my bod to put it/them. I want to be able to see it/them easily without having to contort myself Kama Sutra style (especially without a partner), but don't want the average Joe or Jane to be able to see it/them without express permission from moi. Decisions, decisions...Meanwhile, as I agonize over my as-yet-unchosen-tat(s), I think I'll purchase something less angst-inducing (and probably way less permanent)—the Kindle Keyboard 3G. Any o' y'all use that bad boy? Got any feedback on it for me?

What Was Your Childhood Monster?

Click here to see participating bloggers!

To promote her new book Fearless*, writer Christine Rains hosts the What Was Your Childhood Monster Blogfest from August 7 - 9, 2012. She invites participating bloggers to write about whatever kept them shivering under their bed covers during childhood.

Now, if any of y'all have been following my little bloggy-blog, you know that I'm of Portuguese descent, so my childhood monster has a Lusitanian flavor. My parents immigrated to the U.S. in the late 60s and recklessly brought the Coca  along with them. (I'm amazed they got it through Customs.)

I feel I should give y'all a pronunciation guide, here: Coca has two syllables, with emphasis on the first. The "o" sound is similar to that in the word "cook" and the "a" sounds like "uh." So if you've the courage to say this thing's name aloud (and I wouldn't recommend you do it often, lest you attract its attention) you should pronounce it COOK-uh.

What the hell is the Coca? I'm damned if I can describe it to you. According to the Wikipedia entry I linked to above, it's a long, cloaked figure, either masculine or feminine. Whatever—I got the distinct impression from my parents that if the Coca got me, I'd not be looking at it for very long.

Francisco de Goya y Lucientes (Spanish, 1746-1828). Here Comes the Bogey-Man (Que viene el Coco), 1797-1798.
Etching and aquatint on laid paper, Plate: 8 5/8 x 6 1/16 in. (21.9 x 15.4 cm). Brooklyn Museum, A. Augustus Healy Fund, Frank L. Babbott Fund, and the Carll H. de Silver Fund, 37.33.3Image: overall, 37.33.3_SL3.jpg. Brooklyn Museum photograph. Image credited as per Brooklyn Museum specifications.

The Coca is a bogeyman (or woman) whose name is invoked by Portuguese parents to keep their kids in line. The last thing any Portuguese kid ever wants to hear is the stomach-twisting threat, "Lá vai a Coca!" ("There goes the Coca!") The words are usually accompanied by an upraised hand with a finger pointing up, indicating that the mo-fo is on the damn roof and ready to TAKE YOU OUT if you don't cut whatever crap you're up to.

I must have got up to a lot of crap when I was a kid, for I recall my mother frequently heralding the Coca's arrival. Apparently, when I was but a wee Goth, I enjoyed throwing things into the toilet (silverware, shoes, food, money, etc.). Mom told me the Coca would rise up from its boggy depths if I didn't stop. (Then she had the nerve to get annoyed with me when, as a teen, I balked at cleaning said toilet. What the hell did she expect?) And the Coca got around—I couldn't go down to the basement or go play outside because, according to Mom, the Coca might see me. To this day, I have to check behind the basement door and make sure all available lights are on before I can venture into a cellar.

Whatever it was the Coca would do to you if it got you was too terrible to articulate and, frankly, further explication was generally unnecessary. Adults would utter the warning with such looks of dread and such intonations of doom that only the very brave (or stupid) ran the risk of putting the Coca's patience to the test. I refused to call on the Coca for backup when Balthazar came along because I think it's basically bullshit to terrorize one's children for the sake of one's own ease and comfort. But even now, though I've arrived at the ripe age of 41, Mom still cautions me against being out on the streets late at night, because you never know where the Coca might be lurking.

*An electronic version of Fearless is available for FREE on Smashwords and a print copy for $3.99 on Createspace. Pick it up NOW!

Shooting at the Devil...

You wanna pass me over a what, now?

I recently discovered a blog which has quite gripped my fancy - As the Crowe Flies by author Penelope Crowe. Her book, 100 Unfortunate Days, is described on Amazon as being "...the diary of a woman of the verge of a breakthrough--or breakdown." With an opening like that, you can bet this'll prove to be a wild trip. I've not read it yet (it's available as an eBook right now and I've no eReader, so I'm waiting for it to come out in paperback format in the coming month or so, 'cause that's just how I roll). But Crowe's put some excerpts up on her blog, from the amusing Day 10, which provides "profiles" of a variety of pet owners, to Day 23, a dark fable which left me feeling rather hollow. In another post, Do You Believe in Possession? A True Story, Crowe writes about her friend, a young woman who suffered from and succumbed to Wilson's disease, though Crowe wonders if demonic possession was at the root of her illness. An unsettling post, certainly, but what really struck a strange chord in me was that the friend was in Portugal when the spooky stuff went down.

I'm a first-generation American of Portuguese descent. One thing about my peeps across the ocean that's always perplexed me is that, for a ridonkulously Catholic country, the folks there got superstition oozing out their what-whats. For instance, you can't say with any certainty that a thing you're planning will come to pass - you say it will, "Se Deus quiser" ("If God is willing"). For this reason alone, if you wish a Portuguese a happy birthday before that event takes place, you may induce a stroke in the poor unfortunate. Belief, whether real or "just in cases," of O mau olhado (the evil eye) is so pervasive that folks will give a newborn to the family a charm bracelet meant to protect the babe from supernatural harm. If a kid's stretched out across the floor, God forbid you step over him or her - the child's mother will insist you cross back over because you've just opened the kid up to eeeeeee-viiiiiiiiiiiil and you must close that "circle," imediatamente! (For realz!) Mind you, not all the 'guesers are that twitchy but the average native buys into this stuff just enough to make him careful not to cut a homemade loaf of bread when it's fresh out of the oven and still hot (because that would be the same thing as cutting into the loaf's maker, as everyone knows).

I myself have long been interested in things mysterious and spooky, from tarot cards to ouija boards, runes to gemstones, witchcraft to astrology to dream interpretation, vampires to werewolves, you name it. I've been told that my occult bent stems from a branch a little higher up on the family tree - my dad's maternal uncle (my great uncle), Tio Nuno*. (TEE-oo NOO-noo.) AND, as it happens, though the gentleman never met me in person, he did diagnose me as being "possessed" of some kinda yuck.

Tio Nuno was a typical, chouriço-fed farm boy from a podunk village in the middle of Portugal, until he traveled to exotic Brazil to make his fortune. This he did, and came back an "Espiritista," or Spiritualist, to boot. With his newly earned coin, he set about buying some forested land, a vineyard, and whatever else seemed a good money-earning prospect, and the man did well for himself. But he developed the reputation for being involved in bruxaria (witchcraft) and, to be honest, alcohol. My dad tells some entertaining tales of Tio Nuno's exploits, which frequently transpired in the black of night, while Tio Nuno made his way home from carousing with women and spirits of the liquid variety, his trusty pistol within easy reach. One time, as he made his way along the dusty road to the neighboring city of Aveiro, Tio Nuno was surprised by the Devil, who straddled the cliffs that bordered the road and effectively blocked his path. He told Old Scratch to get bent, who (unsurprisingly) wasn't inclined to oblige him. So Tio Nuno whipped out his pistol, fired off a few shots, and, when that failed to yield the desired result, prudently took an alternate route to his destination. Another time, as he engaged in his nocturnal rambles through the woods, he saw a light flaming from the top of a pine tree. Tio Nuno called out but heard no answer. He resorted to his pistol again, shot at the light, but it wouldn't go out. So he took an alternate route home. Yet another time, as he approached his parents' house in the wee hours of the morning, he found a lamb chillin' by the front door. He couldn't get past the lamb and couldn't shoo it away. Thankfully disdaining his pistol this time around, he scooted around to the back of the house, thinking to get in through the backdoor, but that tricky lamb was already there, once again blocking his access to the house. So what did Tio Nuno do? Well, he took an alternate route to Dreamland by snuggling underneath a nearby haystack, where he was discovered by his parents in the morning.

These stories are great for a laugh over a glass of vinho verde and some tremoços, but the one involving me is slightly less goofy.

Mom and Pop brought me over from the States when I was a wee one so the family could meet their first born. Apparently, I gave them a bit of trouble - I stayed up crying the first nights they were in Portugal, growing cold and clammy from getting so worked up. Nothing they tried soothed me. I hadn't been colicky or anything up till then, so there was no reason they could discern for my fussing. They took me to a local doc who assured them that I was medically fine. So my Mom put it down to me feeling out of sorts from being in an unfamiliar environment. Or, you know, the evil eye (I dig that she didn't rule anything out). Shortly after the doc visit, Tio Nuno stopped by my paternal grandmother's house and my Avó told him about my peculiar spells. Because my Grandma's husband had recently passed away, she wondered if he might somehow be "visiting" me and generally freaking me out. Tio Nuno thought there might be a larger problem and asked her if any of my clothes or belongings were lying around. She found something of mine and brought it to him, which he examined carefully. After a while he told her that someone in the family wished me ill, but he wouldn't specify who (the big tease). He gave her the following instructions to pass on to my parents:

1. Make the baby a wreath of garlic and sprinkle her with holy water.
2. Make a bonfire and toss into it some rosemary, rue, and eucalyptus.
3. Pass the baby through the smoke of this fire and pray to some saints (which specific ones is lost in the mists of time).

When my Mom heard all this from my Grandma she nodded politely but privately thought there was no friggin' way she was going to pass me over a bonfire (the Portuguese equivalent of this thought, obviously). Instead, when she went to put me to sleep that night, she laid me on my back and prayed the Apostles Creed over me three times, all the while making the Sign of the Cross over me, asking God to liberate me from whatever ailed me. And, according to her, from then on, I did get better.

I have to admit, I'm disappointed that she didn't try the bonfire thing. Also, I think I'd look pretty smashing in a garlic wreath (kickin' it old-school!). But seriously, I'm proud of my Mom for turning to her faith during this peculiar phase in our lives...I hope I'll always turn to God, in good times and in bad. Still, I'd love to know who hit me with the bad juju, so I could avenge myself (and my parents) by TPing her house.

*Nuno was not his real name, but it is a common - and unique - Portuguese name, for an uncommon man!