Barbi Cauzzi

Zombies, beautiful dead girls, newly-dead and a wide variety of colorful and slimy undead invade the West of Santa Catarina, Brazil. Guts roll while "yerba mate" Cronenberg is consumed by the farmers. But the zombies aren't the biggest problem when all the humans are sadistic and selfish.

Tropical SOV is a Brazilian anthology that brings together 23 independent filmmakers who bring to life 21 hilarious, strange and bizarre stories that could only happen in Brazil. From brains that produce cocaine to the incredible human videocassette, including the secrets of synthetic meat, baldness cures, castration of rapists, nihilistic fruits, magical sweets and the poop king of Evangelistão.

Friends who intend to have a picnic at the Castle go through a bureaucratic tangle to obtain authorization for the picnic to take place. Based on the book "The Castle" by Franz Kafka.

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Once again, 23 Brazilian filmmakers come together for the second Tropical SOV anthology, now exploring sci-fi in humorous stories involving aliens and their space invasions, mad scientists, time travel, dystopias, and a myriad of end-of-the-world scenarios.

A short tale about violence, filled with zombies, blood and guts.

Chibamar Bronx is back in a delirious, lysergic short film about very strange investigations.

This film portrays the strength that art has in surviving the megalithic tricks and repressions that the State manipulates towards its compatriots. The colors reflecting the dominance over the being, which, if not thinking, is tortured by its religious, political and academic doctrines, staining and building the States with drops of blood, but the art subjugated and repressed by lobotomized intellectuals of the three doctrines is what we hang and endure our arts and our values in the face of a bankrupt ethics/morality, a false truthfulness created only for the purpose of dominating one another. This art of ours survives and grows stronger as we fight to open up the bulging eyes of our society, already manipulated into being blind, deaf and mute. Our art doesn't speak, it screams! Scream! For only then can ears clogged with false sermons be unblocked like a vase full of shit overflowing with anguish.