Still from Maya Gunhilda’s short film “God Save Malvina” (screencaps by author)

“Malvina is the first mistake, Malvina is the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” 

Are you a fan of Sapphic coming-of-age stories…drenched in horror and told entirely from the perspective of the queer protagonist’s hyper-religious mother? Well, if you are, then look no further! Maya Gunhilda’s 2025 disgustingly delightful horror short, God Save Malvina, follows protagonist Malvina, a sweet Christian girl suffering from a possession…or possibly a lesbian awakening? 

God Save Malvina takes you on a dream-like journey through Malvina’s possession, retold through her mother’s narration that reads like a Luis Buñuel script. A young and up-and-coming filmmaker whose work feels like a melting pot of Ethel Cain, David Lynch, Maya Deren and a Nyquil-induced nightmare, (almost always involving a queer protagonist and themes of murder!), Gunhilda brilliantly uses possession as an allegory for Malvina’s queer awakening, examining the queer woman as a vessel for a poltergeist and a protagonist suffocated by the religious ideology that consumes her town. Malvina’s initial possession is the catalyst that leads to the town eventually falling apart! People give birth to dogs, walk backwards, and, of course, some strange murders take place, including one specific crime scene that left behind nine pairs of knickers and a scalpless lady part. 

Gulhilda paints this process of possession through jerky cuts, shot in a series of non-linear clips, containing comically creepy creatures, an Eraserhead baby-inspired dildo, and vast country landscapes, altogether reminiscent of a 2013 Uncanny Valley YouTube video combined with the aesthetic of Ethel Cain’s album Preacher’s Daughter. It is never clearly established which of the many characters IS Malvina, but these freaky figures in the shadows juxtaposed with those projected in bright lights are what make the film. What differentiates these characters is their distinct costume choices: a bright orange-haired girl who runs around the vast countryside or stands against a white, dark room, plagued with a look of fear; a series of blond women in caricature-like masks; a bald man with dogs for hands; and a faceless figure contorting itself in the shadows.

Still from Maya Gunhilda’s short film “God Save Malvina”

Now the question really is: Is it possible to discern who or what these characters represent? The redhead leads us into the story; she is the central character, most likely Malvina. Her petrified gaze and endless wandering, alongside Gunhilda’s shaky camerawork, give the illusion of Malvina being chased. She is almost always in motion, symbolic of her physically trying to escape this rural nightmare. She is also the only character shot in both black and white and color. Is the difference in filter representative of the past and the present? Do the black & white shots embody the spirit’s presence versus the ones shot in color, which could indicate the lack thereof? Either way, the color choice indicates the growing chaos, with the other scurrying creatures shot in black and white.

Now, how does this all connect to the story of a queer girl’s repressed sexuality? So glad you asked! Starting from the beginning, Malvina’s mother describes the host of this possession as a lesbian snake milker who “plagues” Malvina with obscenities, delusions, and unapologetic behavior. This possession goes as far as to affect her friend Agatha, who is described as being “led astray by the devil inside Malvina.” A pretty subtle way of saying she and Agatha probably hooked up, Gunhilda! While the “possession” of Malvina is seen as the cause of the town’s strange occurrences, Gunhilda makes clear that Malvina is a scapegoat. I mean, when Malvina’s mother describes the death of the woman with her scalped-off vagina, there was literally a pantless man at the scene! So, it’s safe to say that these crimes might have taken place regardless of Malvina’s “possession.”

Gunhilda personifies this guilt of identity and religious trauma into tragically beautiful creatures beneath the cross. The leading lady of this film, though, is the Eraserhead baby dildo. This marvelously perverted homage to David Lynch doesn’t take away from the original meaning. The Eraserhead baby is unnatural, a shadow of guilt cast on the parents who want nothing to do with it. In Gunhilda’s film, there is a recurring shot of a girl attempting to use the toy, but always with hesitation. In our black-and-white reality, it feels forced onto us by the blonde woman as we see shots of her preaching it to the protagonist, cradling the baby and holding it above her head like a cross. This Eraserhead baby dildo serving as a replacement for the cross is not only a great addition to the horror element of the film, but also leaves the viewer with many questions: Is this Eraserhead dildo symbolic of Malvina discovering her sexuality? Is it a personified guilt for her sexual desires? Is the character preaching using the dildo to reinforce heteronormativity, making this object as sacred as the cross? Is it meant to represent the idea of motherhood as this character cradles it? All of these options, and yet, it might be simpler than any of that. 

Still from Maya Gunhilda’s short film “God Save Malvina”

Given that Malvina’s mother tells this story, all the horrifying depictions of a dark possession and perverted images come directly from her mother’s imagination. The dildo is emblematic of her fear of her daughter navigating her own sexuality. This spirit holding the dildo juxtaposed with the cross is the mother’s projection of her own repressed sexuality applied to her daughter. God Save Malvina is a story of a generational self-inflicted suppression of sexuality in the name of religion, “modesty,” and control. Malvina’s mother reckons with the fact that her daughter is not a malleable object. Grappling with her daughter coming to terms with her own sexuality, her narration follows the spiraling process of her grief and denial. This perception of her daughter is now shattered, and with that, so is the reality of the town. The two coming to light at the same time in her brain cannot exist separately; therefore, Malvina’s sexuality and the town’s sins must derive from the same source. 

Gunhilda’s exploration of Malvina’s discovery of her queer identity, seen through the eyes of her zealot mother, opens up a larger theme of the dangers of a politicized religion. The religious intolerance within Malvina’s mother consumes her so much so that she is willing to throw her daughter to the wolves. Any other identity that might conflict with heternormative Christian ideals is that of the devil. Altogether, this is a brilliant and thought-provoking examination of a queer girl losing herself through the ideals shoved onto her in a rural nightmare-fueled haze.

Francesca Krikorian (she/her) is a film/visual art student at Sarah Lawrence College and is currently working with Filthy Dreams as our social media intern. Her work ranges from highlighting marginalized voices through her 2022 short Hija Callada, to screenplays that tell the story of Ramon Novarro and the construction of his Heterosexual Latin Lover persona through media advertisement. Film analysis on young filmmakers’ work is something she is extremely passionate about, a goal Mincing Movies aims to achieve. She also paints, with art that is a mash of Otto Dix’s disorienting depictions of the body combined with her own alien-like storytelling. So, if you are in need of a fresh new lens portrayal of your fellow human, make sure to check out artof.frann on Instagram!