Like some grungy, grade-Z picture found tucked away in an abandoned grindhouse, Calvin Reeder’s portrait of a young woman (Lindsay Pulsipher) left shaken by a car accident keeps its ambitions and aesthetics modest: This lo-fi horror movie simply wants to mind-fuck you in the most disturbing, druggy manner possible. Dazed and bloodied, our heroine wanders the backwoods of the Pacific Northwest, encountering all sort of weirdness—Type O–urinating truckers, corpses in fuzzy frog suits, a mysterious crone in a red cape—while dissonant bursts of noise batter your eardrums. It doesn’t take a mathematician to add up what’s going on here, and though Reeder’s attempts to unnerve sometimes veer close to enfant terrible posturing, The Oregonian knows how to work its unpleasantness to primo psychotronic effect. Advocates of bad-trip cinema, you may commence cult-worshipping this warped nightmare now.
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