Few silent films feel as hypnotic or as flat-out strange as The Fall of the House of Usher. The French director Jean Epstein takes Poe’s old haunted-house story and turns it into something closer to a dream — slow, eerie, and gorgeous in that “is this real or am I dying?” sort of way. The walls seem to breathe, the candles flicker like nervous eyes, and time itself goes soft around the edges.
The story’s simple: an artist paints his ailing wife; she dies (or doesn’t); and the house takes it personally. What matters is the mood — part love story, part nervous breakdown. You can feel Luis Buñuel’s surreal touch, but Epstein keeps it swoony rather than shocking.
It’s the kind of film that seeps under your skin rather than jumps out at you — a ghost story told in sighs and candlelight, still quietly unsettling a century on.