Metacritic reviews

Cocteau has produced a bizarre, interesting although at times tedious movie.

What is so remarkable about THE BLOOD OF THE POET is that Cocteau has created a lasting piece of art, a haunting poem, as exciting today as it was in 1930.

Few drug-induced visions, however, can match the playful ingenuity of this freewheeling assault on the senses, which eschews conventional narrative in favor of one mesmerizingly bizarre image after another.

The first time you see this film, you're likely to find it silly, autoerotic, static, absurd, and you may feel cheated after having heard so much about it. But though it may seem to have no depth, you're not likely to forget it -- it has a suggestiveness unlike any other film.

As a groundbreaking examination of the reality-bending potential of film, it's of a piece with Un Chien Andalou and L'Age D'Or.

The honesty and robustness of the images prevents the movie from lapsing into pretension or preciousness; it remains extremely interesting as a source of Cocteau's later work.

Despite its flaws, the film remains a fascinating souvenir of a vanished avant-garde.

While the various imaginery episodes shown on the screen, to the accompaniment of microphone comment by M. Cocteau himself, reinforced by English titles for those unfamiliar with French, have a certain fascination, especially for persons interested in film technique, they are hardly calculated to set the Hudson River on fire.

On the face of it, this film represents six reels of scraped together footage from off the cutting room floor. A more vague or hopeless mess could not have resulted.