A review of Dira Tore’s Perturbation
Never have I so badly wanted to devour a film and be devoured by it. To be crushed, masticated, peristalsised all the way down, as I gnaw from within.
In a world overrun by desaturated colors, barely visible night lighting, and baffling sound-mixing choices, Perturbation provides a deliciously disgusting reprieve from the typical viewing fare, horror and otherwise. Unmatched craftsmanship in every avenue of filmmaking is on display in this instant cult classic: dizzying cotton-candy colors and beautifully lush visuals pair perfectly with a soundtrack and script lightyears ahead of contemporaries. I want to eat every frame. I want to slurp every note, every sound effect through a crazy straw. I want to drive my fist through the screen, slice a weeping vein along my arm, climb into Tore’s world, and offer myself as open-cavitied sacrifice to each frame. Each scene’s molars will chew me up, grind me to cud as I slide celluloid between bicuspids—salty-thin transparency dissolving delightful on my tongue.
No other post-apocalyptic movie has ever felt so lived in, so realized. Despite having no society to speak of, Perturbation feels more like a film you could exist in, thrive in, than almost any other. Drawing inspirations from such varied predecessors as Night of the Living Dead (1968), Le temps du loup (2003), Suspiria (1977), and Carrie (1976), Perturbation follows an unnamed protagonist as she travels across a vast countryside. Sweeping vistas with just enough background hints for viewers to guess at the apocalypse that came before, punctuated by feverish, hallucinogenic phantasmagorias as we descend alongside her into loneliness and desperation. I want to keep Her company in those sprawling grasslands, sharing stories over a fire. I want us to help each other survive those forests, keep each other safe from the beasts that follow along just beyond where light stretches. I want to climb inside Her skin—wear Her flesh as mine own while She pulls my face over Hers as a mask—a talisman—grinds my bones between Her teeth—for a poultice—protection against the horrors of a world that has moved on.
The fourth act—truly, this film cannot map to a three- or five-act structure—shunts Her into a sweaty cat-and-mouse game. As pastoral, open expanses collide with the psychedelic horror show of her inner reality, viewers realize, mere moments before She Herself, that She is being pursued. The resolution, which I predict will be hotly debated in online communities for decades to come, answers—or poses—the question: Is She being chased or is She chasing Herself? Is the shadowy figure following Her a crazed maniac, someone from Her pre-apocalyptic past, a personification of Her own fraying sanity? All three? This film is all-consuming. Crack my ribs, one at a time, like splintering tree trunks in a hurricane. Suckle my marrow for warmth, for sustenance. Climb inside of me. Nestle there between soul and stomach. Nourish me as You feed on my insides. We can parasite together as the credits roll.