Death Bed: The Bed That Eats (George Barry, 1977)

Oh, to have seen this film in its enigmatic, dubiously-legal, no-credits pre-DVD iteration. In its current digital guise , however, one can already experience a lysergic beguiling event. Patton Oswaltisms about its title aside, this is an alternately fascinating and troubling trepanation into the fevered head of a director with a Méliès-like ambition to merge the vocations of filmmaker and conjurer, with a blackly humorous attitude towards his subject matter, and with an obvious eye for the surreal and grotesque. With such a bizarre parade of images (skulls and roses, fingers and rings, buckets of fried chicken and Pepto-Bismol) and events (copulation, vacation, experimentation, eternal damnation), it’s a Sisyphean task to whinge about the lack of sync sound and narrative resolution.

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