Chilean surrealist Alejandro Jodorowsky returns to filmmaking for the first time in more than 20 years, and the results are every bit as bizarre and beautiful as we could have hoped for. Loosely depicting his own childhood in Chile, Jodorowsky’s own son, Brontis, plays the director’s father as a strict disciplinarian enamoured with Stalin, while his mother is a typically plus-sized beacon of unconditional love, whose every line is sung in opera. The film’s imagery, however, is the real star, with sequences of young boys masturbating with large wooden phalluses, young Alejandro scolding the ocean until it rains fish, his mother urinating on his father’s face and chasing the young boy around the house naked. The list goes on and can do nothing to capture the magic and mystery on display. The results are unlikely to win Jodorowsky any new fans, but those already in love with classics like El Topo and The Holy Mountain will find the last two decades have done little to dull the blade of his uncompromising artistic zeal.
The Dance of Reality
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