Cheerfully lacerating anything remotely Warholian, a mischievous, very tongue-in-cheek meander through the byways of the NYC art scene. Photo stills are edited into stop-motion and mingle with live action for a rapid, organic flow. It's almost like a proto-Firesign Theatre: Sequential art, simple, ingenious and very funny. A playful, dadaist score aptly sets the tone.

A stylistic, even a meta Kubrickian homage, and on the surface, it's an excellent one: Clinical cool with a bright comicbook palette, pop art sets in a near-future Madrid. Visually, it's a high bar, so there's an inevitable let down when the Clockwork violence eases into a routine crime giallo. An impressive aesthetic outlier, but one that a humdrum story & script rarely sustains.

Mass hypnosis with a dose of strychnine in remote Appalachia, a Wiseman-like observation of some truly eccentric Pentecostal literalists. Things get really interesting when rattlesnakes are tossed around the congregation in a reverie of spiritual possession. But in a cinematic and very ironic climax, the Serpent gets the last word: A final hallelujah that brings the party to a close.

A neon lit odyssey through Cape Town's underbelly- it could be a tale of alien possession, drug-fueled psychosis or both. Tantalizing Noe/Cosmatos influences imply an epic headtrip and Gary Green oozes freaky charisma, but beyond the edgy windowdressing, there's really very little there, a novelty of chic cherrypicking. The dreaded prefab cult film, just a lot hipper.

THEE iconic bad flick, and unlike snoozefests like "Manos" or anything by H.G. Lewis, there's absolutely no filler. Oh all right, it's all filler, but it's the neurotic id of '50's America crammed into a single hour. Yes, there's gorilla-robot, but also H-bombs, dinosaurs, post-apocalyptic paranoia and even a gobsmacking intermission. And somehow, it's as dark as it is hilarious.

Sci-fi psychedelia on a vast cosmic scale à la Lem or Asimov, and better yet, it's an animated world that's truly alien. With intricate visual detail in every frame and even video game aesthetics, there's a languid trippiness, a spell broken only by the mysterious narrator/guide who prosaically advances the plot. The soundtrack? Perfect: Like an intergalactic Super Mario.

It's an onslaught of digital novelties, but Nagahisa's day-glo candy wrapper conceals the desensitization of the terminally online. There's anger beneath the gloss: the story of four orphaned children hyped into pop stardom, their emotional numbness the media hook. If that seems a stretch and the provocation too emo-kitsch, it's also an experiment that's daring and fresh.

Well before, and many miles away from Beverly Hills Cop, was Brest's very own Cabaret, a macabre B&W fantasy on the streets of LA. Stranger still, it's also a noirish buddy flick with fine, morbidly funny performances. Eventually, the ghosts of Brecht and Berkeley (with Elfman) arrive, sending this into a bizarre existential outland- a magical realist, musical phantasm.

The Punk Messiah is here and hiding in a post-apocalyptic junkyard! Bible quotes and all, it's not entirely clear what Arrabal is aiming at: If it's a farce, the film's missing the comic elements needed to bridge the chasm between "Nuke Em High" and the Second Coming. There's a stage play vibe, but as JC Superstar for the Quincy Punks, it lacks the passion and energy it needs.

A sprawling anti-epic, full of miscreant humor, grotesquery, and amazing attention to visual detail. There's a level of artifice and deadpan absurdity taken to extremes, and the bad-trip vibes take some dark left turns, but Hosking's higher-profile cast have hilarious chemistry. And inside the poisonous cotton candy, the most unusual twist of all- a sweet romance.

Beatnik slapstick, or maybe more accurately, a lot of clowning around edited into fast-paced semi-coherence. There's a playful love triangle in there as well, and the roots of self-aware camp, with Ernie Kovacs-inspired visual puns and meta irreverence. It's mostly a crude artistic triumph—unselfconscious, a bit self-indulgent, but also genial and accessible.

Like a minimalist alien purgatory or some inscrutable, remote Valhalla. With impossible tracking shots and mysterious, jaw-dropping exteriors, proto-music video sensibilities are never far away. Opaque, surrealist vignettes, where Nico's otherworldly score resonates (though her overwrought acting is just dreadful). Still, it's a magical, uncanny slice of slow cinema.