When I first sat down to this movie, I remember thinking it was very good, but not much more beyond that. However, little around a year ago, I saw it for the first time in what must’ve been a long time, and… Oh. My. God! Little did I know how much of an impact this film has had on my writing career. So much of what Pesce brought to this product, the raw sense of loneliness, the artfully deliberate pacing, the up-close look at a regular human being driven to commit unspeakable acts, so much of that found its way into my very own first original psychological horror drama, Daddy Still Loves Us. Long before the credits rolled, my mind was best described as blown, and tears had swelled to the center of my eyes out of sheer respect and excitement for the magic Mr. Pesce had poured out onto the screen. 

Shot in crisp black and white photography, and made on a conspicuously (and unashamedly) small budget, Nicholas Pesce has crafted one of the most audacious, visually enthralling, bravely unconventional, deeply, achingly humane pieces of horror that I’ve ever had the pleasure to bask in courtesy of a genre newcomer. Over the last several years, the horror genre has seen breakout hits from filmmakers such as Jordan Peele (Get Out & Us), Ari Aster (Hereditary and Midsommar) and Robert Eggers (The Witch, The Lighthouse), just to name a few, making their marks with bold visions of unforgettable psychological terror. While Pesce hasn’t quite achieved the mainstream status of the aforementioned trio, he delivered an explosion of formal inventiveness and thematic beauty that, yes, I would say surpasses the works of his horror brethren.

The Eyes of My Mother is a film as aesthetically resplendent as it is narratively intimate, taking a painful, beautifully empathetic plunge into the depths of human loneliness and our collective need to be in the presence and warmth of others. In crafting such a deceptively simple story about a woman drowning in isolation and desperate to connect with others, Pesce nails an uncommonly seamless synthesis of arthouse sensibilities, macabre body horror and emotionally eviscerating character study. 

None of this movie would work as well as it does without a fully committed, recognizably human performance from Kika Magalhaes, and this sensually captivating dancer rises to the challenge with magnetic physicality and refined delicacy. As Francisca, Magalhaes portrays her as a depressed human being first, and a cold-blooded monster second. Witnessing her unearth her mother’s corpse and cradle the skeleton in her arms while tearfully admitting how much she misses her is utterly heartbreaking. I never forgot I was in the company of someone who is in deep agony and cannot bear to be alone for another second. At one point, she drives to a bar and picks up a student named Kimiko (Clara Wong) to bring her back to her house. These two share an awkward conversation about what their lives are like, and once Frannie informs her that her mom was killed, Kimiko responds with a warm, compassionate hug. That’s the heart of this story: compassion and empathy for people we wouldn’t normally expect to talk to or identify with. Once Kimiko attempts to leave, Francisca can’t handle it. She will not be left alone again. Cut to… she’s scrubbing the floor. Looks like a puddle of blood she’s mopping up. Even when Frannie gives in to her most selfish, sociopathic tendencies, Magalhaes doesn’t neglect to imbue her with a quiet intensity, devastating underlying sense of dejection and callous indifference toward human life. In a number of ways, Francisca evokes real-life serial killer, Jeffrey Dahmer, bringing to mind his early dissociation from reality and all-too-understandable desperation not to be left alone. In other words, these are real people who exist in our world, not simple, one-dimensional monsters meant to be written off and forgotten. 

Rather than dwelling on the numerous supplies of blood and guts, Pesce elects to take the “mature” approach. He presents the aftermath of a struggle, and shies away from displaying Frannie’s surgical experiments up close and personal. Whatever our imaginations come up with is infinitely more repulsive than almost anything we could possibly see. That’s where the true magic of this movie lies: Pesce presents us with a protagonist whose actions are despicable, inhumane & soul-sickening, yet he blankets it with a lush color palette of black and white to symbolize his disturbed character’s blindness toward society. It’s almost like watching a real-world serial killer go about their business, but within a dreamworld where nothing feels real, the time period is impossible to make out, and no one else appears to exist. There’s only Frannie, her farmhouse, and her mother’s murderer – at least until a night of misguided, insanely twisted romance ends with an orgasmic fit of stabbing.

True to its indie form, there’s very little music incorporated into this bizarre odyssey. Zach Kuperstein’s camera slowly, methodically skulks around Francisca’s home, capturing every piece of furniture, every bare, unadorned wall. There’s nothing interesting or attractive about this setting, and that’s what makes it so authentic. Pesce delivers his ingredients in a brilliantly unvarnished style that hearkens back to the work of Roman Polanski with his 1965 classic, Repulsion, another psychological thriller about a woman all alone in her own little world, slowly succumbing to insanity. Now, one logical component that can’t be ignored: how is it that, during this entire lifespan of violence and monstrosities, no police ever think to go for a ride and knock on this woman’s door for a checkup? When Frannie comes into the presence of a newborn child whom she raises as her own, how does she afford to keep him alive and clothed? We never see her working a job. Perhaps Pesce would’ve pulled back the curtain a bit more and showed us just how Frannie manages to go about her life unnoticed and physically healthy. But those few plot holes are fairly minor when placed against the bigger picture of this breathtakingly assured blend of gruesome slasher thrills and poignant human drama.  

While enough cannot be overstated regarding Magalhaes’ subtle magneticism, another standout performance arrives in the form of Will Brill, who portrays Charlie, the salesman responsible for waking the monster lurking within Francisca’s damaged mind, as a seemingly average, oily, ingratiating man hiding a dark secret. His creepy, overtly forced smile and insistent tone of voice give me the chills every time. Seeing that phony smile break as Charlie demands to be shown to the bathroom is all this movie needed to have me checking my own pulse. This is a man who lives in our nightmares and wears the clothes of an ordinary human being looking to make an honest living. A wolf in sheep skin, if you will.

One of my favorite points in horror is this: you can run from the monster wearing a ski mask who’s chasing you in the woods. Find a tall tree and crouch down behind it. You can run upstairs, hide under your bed, wait for the police, and make the escape as soon as you see it available. But what happens when the real monster creating all this pain and destruction… is coming from within? What if you are the monster that everybody’s afraid of? You are the one causing anguish and sorrow and death to others. You’re the one who needs to be stopped. That is the most frightening, unnerving possibility I can think of when it comes to the essence of true dread-soaked, unshakable horror – and this unforgettably harrowing psychological slasher illustrates that concept better than most.

Finally, once the end draws near and the inevitable outcome reveals itself in a flash, nobody is spared. Nothing is drawn out. We’re treated to the gorgeous intro to The Acid’s Tumbling Lights, and shortly thereafter, the simple sound of a single unexpected gunshot. It’s a quick, brutal, perfect conclusion to a quick, brutal, perfect nightmare.