Damage Godhead and Sour Minnows Fantasy 2026

Returning to Chicago after a week immersed in the cinematic chaos of Montreal’s Fantasia Fest feels like shedding an excess of high-octane energy. Festivals, especially those packed with films, can test even the most sleep-deprived critic, but for me, the experience was profoundly rewarding—a chance to reconnect with old friends and participate in some truly unique cultural rituals.

Fantasia has its own set of traditions that ground the frenetic energy of a film festival. Whether it’s collectively shouting along to an old commercial or participating in the annual tradition of the cinematic meow that precedes every screening, these shared moments create a distinct atmosphere. This year, the audience collective opted for the corporate thump of the Montréal-Trudeau Airport commercial as their pre-show anthem, while the universal chorus of meows served as an ongoing nod to the history of the festival.

But beneath the spectacle and the ritual, there is a decidedly darker current. This year’s selection offered a potent tryptich of tales exploring themes of societal decay, living in filth, and confronting a world that feels unraveling. It was a cinematic journey into genuinely unsettling territories.

One standout was Seth A. Smith’s Permanent Damage. Following his previous work, this film delivers a surreal, deeply strange dive into the lives of working-class characters struggling against systemic pressures. The narrative follows Tommy Gods, an escaped convict who seeks respite in a run-down rowhome, finding kinship with other outcasts while navigating the toxic landscape of gentrification. Smith expertly blends pop-punk slacker aesthetics with haunting visuals—from wrecking balls tearing down homes to the hypnotic imagery of insulation foam spraying into existence. It is a sharp, often hilarious, examination of how people cling to what little they have amidst encroaching societal chaos.

The festival also highlighted stark psychological thrillers. Mark H. Rapaport’s Godhead takes the audience into the austere walls of a country church where two oddball siblings must confront a middle-aged priest who holds the keys to their fate. The film masterfully transforms into a locked-room psychological thriller, exploring the heavy burden of faith, guilt, and responsibility. Through stark black-and-white cinematography and taut tension, it evokes the feeling of folk horror and religious torment, prompting viewers to grapple with ultimate certainty and terrifying doubt.

Rounding out this trip was Harrison Atkin’s Sour Minnows, a piece that pushed the boundaries of reality itself. This film begins with an unnerving image of humans frantically licking concrete, setting the stage for a descent into dissociation. The narrative structure deliberately resists linear storytelling, dragging the viewer through Lynchian rabbit holes of recursion and lost time. It captures the gnawing sensation of existential collapse—the feeling that our understanding of ourselves and reality is constantly dissolving around us.

Ultimately, these films, whether steeped in working-class grit, religious paranoia, or pure existential confusion, share a powerful resonance. They capture the universal experience of being unmoored, watching as the walls between time and sanity collapse. While the narratives might be confusing, the emotional core remains deeply relatable: the shared feeling that the world makes less sense every day, but in that collective confusion, there is an unexpected, strangely comforting recognition that we are not entirely alone.