My dear readers, though I understand there is much joy to be derived in designing one’s own surroundings, I have always preferred inhabiting estates that come with their original furnishings and have never greatly overburdened myself with selecting them myself. The domestic landscape I share with my sweet Penny Dee is peppered with a small bounty of antique items left behind by the previous tenants, including a handsome bureau that we have been unable to open on our own. We were given many assurances, however, that we would have no trouble budging these stubborn drawers, "when the time comes." 

But accepting furniture on these terms can produce unwelcome results, as is the case in Death Bed: The Bed That Eats. Though the title would seem to spell out the action rather clearly, there are some particulars that warrant mention. Evidently unsatisfied with the demonic dating pool, a demon falls in love with a mortal woman and as is often the case in these scenarios, the coupling of satanic and corporeal does not end well for the lady in question. Lamenting the loss of his lover, the demon floods their bed with tears of blood that not only imbue the bed with life but also a serious appetite. As a result, many an unwitting slumberer falls victim to its unholy hunger.

Despite its habit of consuming anyone unfortunate enough to lay their head upon it, the bed has successfully passed from owner to owner over many generations. Its only constant companion is a nattering little nag of a spirit, an artist (Dave Marsh) who was nearly consumed by the bed before being regurgitated in ghost form. The artist has since been trapped in his own painting, forced to watch as the murderous furniture consumes lovers, forward-thinkers, priests, gangsters and all other manner of other society during its impressive carnivorous reign.

Many a lesser filmmaker would be more than content to rest on their laurels once united with a premise as outlandish as the one the title so clearly lays out, to tell the straight and simple story of a death bed, one that eats. But writer and director George Barry is no common day laborer punching his time card, collecting his paycheck and dreaming of retirement. He is an artist of the purest sort and he uses this unique opportunity to lure the average horror viewer into a miniature masterclass on surrealism. Rather than presenting a workmanlike procession of victims marching their way to doom, Mr. Barry loads his sole contribution to cinema with dream logic, strange juxtapositions, visual gags and indiscriminate voice overs.

Admittedly, these may not be the attractions audience members sought from this particular film. Though a feature-length movie about a bed that eats people is a bit unorthodox, few may be prepared for this unwavering oddity. And surely some will feel they have been the victims of disingenuous marketing after sitting through a film that more closely resembles Jean Cocteau’s Orphic trilogy than any traditional horror fare. But I, for one, am more than happy to be ambushed in this fashion, sapped and dragged unwittingly into rich and uncomfortable territory. His effortless use of both surrealist staples and guerrilla tactics leave me wishing that George Barry’s cinematic tenure had not been so brief.

Death Bed: The Bed That Eats runs 77 minutes and does not possess a certified rating in the United States.