Kentucky Brothers

Amid the bluegrass hush of post-Civil-War Appalachia, two nameless siblings—one a fiddle-scratching dreamer, the other a coal-dust atheist—ride a swayback mule along limestone gorges where the sky itself seems to bleed magnolia. Their mother’s deathbed map, inked with hickory soot, points toward a river called Absolution, rumoured to swallow blood-feuds whole. Along the way they loot a burning revival tent, barter the stolen stigmata to a one-eyed photographer, and inadvertently adopt a mute girl who collects thunder in mason jars. When the elder brother is conscripted into a vigilante posse chasing his own kin, the film’s ragged chronology splinters like shrapnel: flashbacks of subterranean cockfights, a locomotive baptised in kerosene, and a lullaby delivered by a Union deserter whose face is never shown. In the final reel, the younger brother—now wearing their mother’s wedding dress—burns down the family homestead with a lantern full of lightning, while off-screen hoofbeats fade into phonograph static, leaving only the girl’s jar of thunder to roll across the ashes like some impossible newborn sun.