The Cage, a 1947 short directed by beat poet/filmmaker Sidney Peterson, follows the adventures of an escaped eyeball as it rolls through the streets of San Francisco.
The Motorist (1906, R.W. Paul) (via), a silent comedy short about a couple who exceed the speed limit and fly off the face of the Earth into outer space whilst fleeing the police. Motoring through the solar system, their car touches down on the sun and goes for a spin around Saturn’s rings.
Un Chien Andalou (1929, dir. Luis Buñuel)
"The simplest surrealist act consists in going into the street with revolvers in your fist and shooting blindly into the crowd as much as possible. Anyone who has never felt the desire to deal thus with the current wretched principle of humiliation and stultification clearly belongs in this crowd himself with his belly at bullet height."
-André Breton, Second Manifesto of Surrealism (1929)
What’s really causing your nightmares: Dream of a Rarebit Fiend (1906, dir. Edwin S. Porter) Full film online here.
Simone Mareuil in Un Chien Andalou (1929, dir. Luis Buñuel)
"While spending Christmas with Salvador Dali in Figueras, I suggested to him that we do a film together. He said: ‘Last night I dreamt with ants swarming in my hand.’ And I said: ‘Oh! Man! I dreamt about a cloud cutting the moon and me cutting someone’s eye with a razor.’
We wrote the script in six days. We identified with each other so much that there was no discussion.”
Jabberwocky (1971, dir. Jan Švankmajer), a surrealistic short film loosely based on Lewis Carroll’s poem Jabberwocky.
"Why will you say that I am mad? See how calmly I tell this story to you.
It starts with the old man. An old man in an old house. A good man, I suppose. He had never harmed me. I didn’t want his gold, if gold there was. Then what was it? I think…I think it was…his eye. Yes, that eye … the eye. That. His eye staring. Milky white film. The eye. Everywhere. Everywhere, in everything. Of course, I had to get rid of the eye.”
"The old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, ‘Who’s there?’
I kept quite still and said nothing. Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, ‘It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor’. Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain.
Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once - once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done.
But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.”
-Edgar Allan Poe, The Tell-Tale Heart