Sparse, experimental, mysterious, grotty and unpredictable in every way, Gorman Bechard’s regional production of Disconnected is a high point in the pantheon of DIY horror obscurities.
Through a cough-syrup haze of avant-garde technique, elliptical storytelling, eyebrow-raising red herrings and rare East Coast post-punk, we’re told the story of a video store clerk(!) with a twin sister that turns up dead, is seduced by a creepy serial killer dude, and is tormented by harassing phone calls containing nothing but squelching bursts of noise resembling Satan puking up the Ultimate Hairball.
Much like MULHOLLAND DR. or DON’T LOOK NOW, DISCONNECTED raises more questions than it answers, but the fun is luxuriating in the uncomfortable, claustrophobic universe Berchard devises: a careening realm of blood-spattered dream sequences (or are they?), hoagie-chomping lousy cops, instantly evaporating lines of dialogue and a finale that spirals into genuine madness.