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Santa Sangre

The stuff of life.

Santa Sangre is a lurid, surreal jolt to the system.

The contemporary horror landscape is awash with films where the real monster is trauma, especially childhood and intergenerational trauma. When this is done badly, the movies feel bloodless, so clinical and astute in their dissection of their characters’ minds that they forget about their souls—let alone their stomachs and nerve endings. Let alone mine. They live on in their ideas, like an essay.

Santa Sangre, love it or hate it, is done well, and it lives on in its images. It’s more cinematic than the new generation—but its aggressive, gaudy, somehow pungent visual excess feels too immediate even for the screen. It makes the iconic immediate, like it would be in a stage play (and indeed it draws from Titus Andronicus, one of the bloodiest of them all). It makes it immersive and hectic, like a street parade or a thronging circus (and indeed it has both of those too). It’s weird and confusing and revolting and transcendent, and I’ll take a rich text over a precise one.

It has a familiar outline: a young boy, traumatized by his parents, grows up to be a psychologically fragile young man with a psychosexual dependence on his domineering mother. He kills, but he doesn’t want to. He wants love. If you can’t see three new arthouse versions of this in 2025 alone, it’s only because directors now sometimes make this story about psychologically fragile women instead, for variety.1

But no matter where you go, the only thing truly like Santa Sangre is Santa Sangre. Alejandro Jodorowsky keeps the narrative and emotional thrust simple so that the rest of this can be strange and baroque, like a drugged-up, uncensored fairy tale.

An elephant, its trunk turned into a fountain of spurting blood, gets a funeral procession any head of state would admire, and then its immense coffin is shoved off a cliff for riotous villagers to pry apart the boards and butcher its corpse, throwing bloody chunks of meat to each other in front of the child who thought of it as a friend; naturally, his father shames him for crying. A marriage ends with acid thrown on an abusive adulterer’s genitals—he wanders into the street, naked, slashing his throat in front of an almost-unblinking band, but not before cutting off his wife’s arms. The troubled protagonist is not only committed, he winds up in a facility where he lives in a tree and eats raw fish. When he finds his armless mother in the outside world, he becomes her hands not only metaphorically but literally, creating an uncanny, beautifully choreographed stage show where they fluidly meld their bodies together. Danger is everywhere.

So is fantasy, and Jodorowsky handles it in a fascinating way. It would be easy for this kind of film to detach itself from reality altogether, but while nothing here is especially plausible, the movie cares immensely about what is true. When the characters’ fantasies intensify their world, bringing them to engage with it, Jodorowsky allows it, but when they lean into fantasies that cushion the world’s harsh edges or promise them a false escape, he empathizes but shows no mercy. It’s the work of someone who is portraying what he knows2 and trying, with passion, beauty, and savagery, to say what he’s found out.

Here, it is hard to be alive, and everyone is steeped in blood. That’s no reason not to make your own soul, even if it will usually have to be its own reward.

Santa Sangre is streaming on Amazon Prime, Kanopy, and Tubi.

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  1. Which is nice! I support fictional female murderers and vote with my dollar, directors and screenwriters. ↩︎
  2. I didn’t meant that literally, but even a glance at Jodorowsky’s biography reveals that a shocking amount of this is literally what he knew. ↩︎