_A Page of Madness_ is silent, surreal, and visually arresting — a descent into something far murkier than mere madness. The asylum pulses with unease; inmates convulse in what appears to be seizures, captured through a lens that mistakes illness for delirium, reflecting a time when epilepsy and mental illness were indistinguishable. What unfolds is a profound exploration of madness and regret, less like a narrative and more like a disturbed memory — fractured, guilt-ridden, soaked in sorrow. There are no intertitles to guide you, no dialogue to hold onto — just disjointed, nightmarish imagery that loops and folds in on itself. Time feels broken. Reality slips. You’re left to wander a labyrinth of regret where nothing is certain, and everything aches. It’s the kind of film that doesn’t just unsettle — it possesses. Strange, tragic, and hypnotically beautiful in its disquiet, it burrows under your skin.