If anyone takes this film seriously they need to question their reality. If you take it instead as a half-scary, half-humorous dream where a painting talks a woman to death and a death bed drinks Pepto Bismol, there are images and atmosphere to reward your experience.
This was such a perfect combination of everything I love about stupid 70s movies that I almost can't believe it. A constant delight tbh, from the weirdly earnest undertones (mostly provided by a consumptive Fauxbrey Beardsley trapped behind a painting forever?) to the weirdly mythical (and yet only 19th century) backstory, to the dream sequences and obv the fact that a freaking bed eats people. Bless this movie