Grand Entrance to the World of the Dead

As a family struggles to survive in rural isolation during the Great Depression, their daughter's secret affair begins a journey into the unknown.

Shot in the abandoned buildings of Gary, Indiana and the cornfields of Western Illinois, The Twenty-One Lives of Billy the Kid presents a fractured historical narrative without any real protagonist, one in which the titular character goes mostly unseen - Billy the Kid as the always-off-screen assailant, as a ghost’s laugh, as a shadow on the road.

Rather pointless, rather stilted, fetid; not what we want us going after.

Hiding inside&out, writhing about, taken out&in.

Onward, upward, greener [redder] grasstures.

On the Clickity-clack Express it's clear I'm always under duress, unless I forget.

Shadows frighten what one oughtn't be gripping (that thing before/hind you).

I really hope this is well-received. I really hope there's some sort of reprieve.

1 minute experimental film.

(Some of us) Still run down the same [mental&emotional] streets we revered/reproached/replaced as children.

Two men. Friends? Enemies? Lovers? Brothers? One is nothing, success or failure depends on two.

A psychedelic montage of home movie footage gives way to a silent western story.

From a small cabin in the mountains of New York, Nina Breeder and Massimilian Breeder begin a journey across the United States. California is just the initial destination, but just as the edge of the surrounding landscape expands, so does their ultimate destination. A contemplation of nature and time along a raw journey in the American landscape.

A 'reversal' of Jean-Léon Gérôme's 1872 painting Pollice Verso.

Beyond all human restraint lies one's lugubrious layers of paint.

Locked away but not away; somewhere nearby but unreachable, a periphery so notfaroff it's always in sight.

Return to 'burn' only to find out you're already in that urn.

Calangros: Um faroeste sobre o terceiro mundo

A gang of women wreak havoc in the city, killing various men who have treated women poorly. And sometimes they do it just for fun.

Half lullaby for the dead, half lamentation on the twilight of the cinema.