User Score

Generally favorable reviews- based on 5 Ratings

User score distribution:
  1. Positive: 3 out of 5
  2. Negative: 1 out of 5

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  1. Jan 25, 2011
    I am not really sure what to say about this. I guess I just am never going to understand Surrealism/Art- house/ Expressionism. Supposedly a autobiographical (yeah right because my dad had a ring that he stuck into children's necks to harvest their nectar so he could make my mom young again too) this story is extremely well shot and edited as a modern day silent flick. The visuals and camera work are disturbing yet at the same time pleasing to the eye. The shrieks of mother from the audiophone are downright scary and the visuals of here in the watchtower swiveling back and forth looking for the children is horror at it's best, yet again I just can't really enjoy these movies for anything other than technique. The story's don't appeal to me and really make little sense unless completely over scrutinized and over analyzed. Expand

Generally favorable reviews - based on 15 Critics

Critic score distribution:
  1. Positive: 14 out of 15
  2. Negative: 0 out of 15
  1. Reviewed by: John DeFore
    Winnepeg filmmaker Guy Maddin isn't known for run-of-the-mill movies, but the feature he debuted at the Toronto Fest was outrageous even for him. A silent film taking the form of a twelve-chapter Feuillade-flavored serial and designed to have live accompaniment, the movie itself is a match for any of his features to date, and could outstrip earlier efforts in the arthouse arena.
  2. Reviewed by: Scott Foundas
    Billed as a silent film, Guy Maddin's Brand Upon the Brain! is actually closer to a live theatrical event -- a feature-length motion picture screened with the accompaniment of a live orchestra, plus Foley artists, sound effects technicians and assorted vocalists, too. Together, they provide the elaborate soundscape for a typically frenetic, Maddin-esque amalgam of the autobiographical, Freudian and willfully absurd.
  3. Reviewed by: Aaron Hillis
    Not to discredit its wild artistry by saying the gimmick's the prize, but . . . the gimmick's the prize. Without all the hoopla, there simply isn't enough variation to this stylized fever-dream to justify its fatiguing running time, nor to call it anything less than predictably Maddin–esque.