While I would hope that viewers give the genre-defying Bellflower a chance, I’m astute enough to know that won’t be the case. So odd is its tone and so initially awkward are some of the performances — not the least of which from its leading man, writer/producer/director Evan Glodell — that I can sense people hitting “STOP,” if not “EJECT,” after just a few minutes, if even that. I can’t say I blame them; I almost did myself.

The thin-at-first story shuffles behind 20-something best buds Woodrow (Glodell) and Aiden (Tyler Dawson), whose shared pastime is jerry-rigging flamethrowers and other apocalyptic-ready tools for kicks and out of love for the Mad Max movies; Woodrow’s car even has been modified to include a whiskey dispenser in the dash. They also drink a lot of alcohol, smoke a lot of a cigarettes, and utter a lot of “fuck”s and its variations.

Then Woodrow meets Milly (Jessie Wiseman) during a cricket-eating contest in a bar, and the two hatch an instant relationship. What occurs after the meet-cute is where Bellflower gets really engrossing … and details of which I can’t share, lest the moments be spoiled. I can say that moods are flipped like someone with an unmedicated diagnosis of bipolar, that Woodrow’s very existence is shaken to its foundation, that things unfold in a manner incongruent to predictable movie plots, that Bellflower grows considerably weird and wild and even unsettling.

I can also say that when it was over, I wasn’t quite sure what had just gone down, but was anxious to give it another spin to see if it could process it in full. A week later, I was still haunted by it. In other words, Bellflower is a challenge, but in the same way that Mulholland Dr. or even Inception were: a welcome mind-rape. It may not be for everyone — in this case, it’s safe to say it’s nearly the opposite — but don’t you owe it to yourself to take one hit? —Rod Lott

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