One Paragraph Movie Review: Hour of the Wolf

Two hundred and thirty-seventh film: Ingmar Bergman’s “Hour of the Wolf”, a surreal 1968 art horror movie that I was absolutely not in the mood for. That said, I’m not sure what the right mood to watch it is — the mood to say “what the fuck” a lot perhaps, or the mood to see an old lady peel her eyes out of their sockets while another comments how much the process smells like glue — either/or. Anyway, an artist and his young pregnant wife move to an island, him to paint grumpily and her to wait for him to come home and tell her dark stories about his past. Inhabitants of a castle up the road keep inviting him over and blurring the lines between nightmares, reality, and the ‘hour of the wolf’, which is between midnight and dawn. Famous for its ambiguity and darkness, I may have made the mistake here of making this film sound watchable. A thousand apologies. At the very least, this film serves as a warning not to move to an island with Max von Sydow. No sense or good real estate decisions were made here today. Half a sexy maybe-corpse out of five.