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Among the many horror series released in the second half of 2021 that I only recently discovered, Brand New Cherry Flavor (Netflix-only) stands as the most deliciously offbeat experience I’ve encountered.
I spotted its existence upon release and, based on the tagline alone, knew it would resonate with my sensibilities. Still, I deliberately saved it for a future indulgence.
Having finally immersed myself in its bizarre world, I can confirm it fulfilled—even exceeded—all my expectations. This horror series delivers a visionary trifecta: Lynchian in its pointed yet subtle social commentary, Cronenbergian in its absurd body horror elements, and Jodorowskian in its mythic quality.
Welcome to the City of Broken Dreams
BNCF injected Lynchian vibes into my consciousness within the first 20 seconds of the premiere episode. I can’t pinpoint exactly what triggered this sensation—perhaps the script, perhaps the setting (1990s Los Angeles), or the perfect marriage of both.
Like Mulholland Drive, a young woman’s dream of “making it” in the Babylon of the West transforms into a nightmarish descent that defies conventional storytelling. The series taps into that quintessential Lynchian juxtaposition of the mundane and the eerie.
I mentioned Cronenberg, and this horror series draws inspiration from his work. However, BNCF incorporates an element most Cronenberg films severely lack: genuine paranormal horror motifs.
To clarify what I mean by paranormal horror, think of everything related to BOB and the other tulpas populating the Black Lodge in Twin Peaks. While Twin Peaks functions primarily as a police procedural and drama series, we can’t deny how the Black Lodge/White Lodge dichotomy injects a substantial paranormal horror element into its storylines.
This vein of paranormal horror—largely absent in Cronenberg’s filmography—flows abundantly through BNCF’s distorted reality.
The series elevates itself above countless other horror offerings through its masterful use of dream logic to tell a story set in Los Angeles—aptly nicknamed (not in the series, though) The Dream Factory, The Magic Store, The Babylon of the West, etc..
Horror media this sophisticated is exceedingly rare. Most horror content gravitates toward excesses, explores occult topics only superficially, and presents straightforward (or easily decipherable) plotlines and subplots.
BNCF delivers unflinching horror throughout—meticulous attention governs all aspects of shock and exploitation in both the story and visual composition. Yet it cleverly distinguishes itself from generic horror through its dream logic and rich symbolism.
I adored the dreamlike elements. Blending paranormal horror with surrealism (as Twin Peaks does) infuses horror with a dimension of metaphysical terror rarely found in contemporary horror series or films.
BNCF pursues this path relentlessly. This doesn’t mean the series constantly bombards viewers with curveballs at the level of Twin Peaks: The Return, or presents surrealist imagery comparable to Luis Buñuel, Kenneth Anger, or Jodorowsky.
No—BNCF occupies its very own territory. While informed by Lynch and Cronenberg, it deploys allegorical metaphors to address a pressing social issue (predatory figures in the film industry).
The social commentary metaphors establish an interpretive starting point with relative subtlety. Unlocking personal interpretations of BNCF becomes straightforward if you possess even basic knowledge about Hollywood’s indiscreet and hidden-in-plain-sight underbelly.
Body Horror, Decay, and Transformation as Emotional Metaphor
Truly disconcerting situations populate this horror series. Interpreting these seemingly nonsensical narrative elements remains a profoundly subjective experience.
Some of the apparent nonsense that defies straightforward explanation may reference dark real-life phenomena—topics society prefers to sweep under the rug.
I’ll refrain from deconstructing most subtexts I extracted from the series, with several exceptions.
BNCF features numerous bizarre body horror elements, yet the series transcends this theme, despite body horror being its most recurring motif.
We could spend endless hours cataloging horror elements from BNCF and debating the meaning behind each ambiguous moment. This exercise proves especially tempting because the series incorporates elements from no fewer than ten different horror subgenres.
Among these subgenres, body horror, surreal horror, psychological horror, and supernatural horror appear most consistently.
Brand New Cherry Flavor’s approach to body horror transcends mere shock value—it delivers a truly visionary feast for those hungry for something beyond the ethereal avant-garde offerings of lesser productions.
Like a gourmet meal of the macabre, BNCF serves up quirky yet inventive transformations that speak directly to the protagonist’s psychological state.
The series treats the human form as malleable clay, with Lisa’s body becoming a canvas for the most imaginative horrors this side of Hell A.
When Lisa vomits kittens (a moment both disturbing and strangely humorous), it functions not merely as a gross-out gag but as a powerful metaphor for creative birth—painful, unnatural, yet necessary.
These moments balance precariously between the truly nightmarish and the almost comical, reminiscent of the surrealist strips found in underground comics.
What truly elevates BNCF above its contemporaries is how it employs body horror not just for shock, but as visual monologues expressing Lisa’s internal states.
Each bodily transformation creates a colorful tableau of her psyche—every wound, every supernatural modification tells a story that words alone cannot convey.
The kitten-vomiting sequence, initially appearing silly, evolves into one of the most poetically grotesque metaphors for artistic creation ever committed to screen.
The camera lingers lovingly on each metamorphosis, forcing us to confront our discomfort with bodily change.
These aren’t cheap jokes or stunts by hack comedians—they’re profound statements about the price of ambition and revenge.
The body horror elements function as goon squads for deeper themes—enforcers that break down our resistance to uncomfortable truths about power, creativity, and exploitation.
By the time you’ve adjusted to one bodily violation, BNCF has already moved on to the next, more extreme transformation, keeping viewers perpetually off-balance.
For those brave enough to digest its offerings, BNCF’s body horror provides not just shock but nourishment for minds hungry for meaningful metaphor beneath the viscera and gore.
The Hollywood Abyss
While the #MeToo movement originated in 2006, it exploded into public consciousness in 2017. BNCF began production in late 2019, clearly influenced by this cultural reckoning.
I connect deeply with the #MeToo movement, Lynch’s film, and this series, having endured personal experiences in my youth involving manipulation and boundary violations—events that left invisible scars and shaped how I perceive power, exploitation, and trauma in artistic vignettes.
The “producer’s couch” is exposed, in plain sight in audiovisual media, since at least the 1970s (as seen in Columbo), as far as I know.
When #MeToo news first reached me, I entered a phase of intense self-reflection regarding my dreams of selling a horror screenplay to Hollyweird.
This introspection triggered depressing realizations because I had previously avoided thinking about the actual process of becoming a screenwriter, especially the marketing aspects.
I resisted reading scripts constantly, writing scripts continuously, or essentially dedicating my life to screenplays, and my output (poorly crafted scripts) reflected this reluctance.
Perhaps divine intervention marked me for failure as a screenwriter because God didn’t want me to descend to that level.
I only recognized this in 2017 when the #MeToo movement exploded across social media, prompting me to bid farewell to those empty, confounded fantasies.
I appreciate this horror series and its premiere timing because, for sophisticated conspiracy theory students, tragedies like “the couch at the magic store” merely hint at the tip of an iceberg (in a world potentially much darker than surface appearances suggest).
Addressing contemporary societal issues while they’re trending proves crucial. Thus, BNCF—as a product of its time, highlighting that revolting aspect of the film industry—accomplished nothing short of capturing the zeitgeist and creating a historic horror benchmark.
BNCF isn’t a horror parody or a Mulholland Drive knockoff. The series might initially deceive viewers with its suspicious resemblance to Mulholland.
In terms of social commentary, where this horror series intersects with Lynch’s film, BNCF delivers its message more bluntly and explicitly.
Nor does it approach their shared topic (producer’s couch power abuse) satirically.
BNCF’s narrative represents less an imagined alternate reality dealing with spiritual death, shattered dreams of success, or the protagonist’s lost innocence (three possible interpretations of Lynch’s film).
The Witch, the Filmmaker, and the Curse of Control
“You asked for this. You wanted the magic” is a line one main character delivers to the protagonist. If Rita/Camilla spoke those words to Betty/Diane in Mulholland Drive, they would resonate equally powerfully.
Boro’s rituals, with their montage of body parts and fluids, evoke the work of an animator creating grotesquely beautiful cartoons of human suffering.
Her apartment transforms into a playground for the bizarre—a space where normal physical existence rules yield to dreamlike transformations.
The cinematography treats these moments with a reverence typically reserved for high art, not gore.
For an example of subtext, I extracted from this horror series: in Los Angeles of all places, meddling with unfamiliar forces like black magic, as Lisa does when cursing the producer through Boro, invites particular danger.
I interpreted Lisa’s tribulations as consequences of entering a negative karma loop by seeking revenge through a curse.
One possible reading explores the regrettable aspect of degrading oneself to match scummy individuals—fighting fire with fire.
Retaliating against professional scams and moral abuses with witchery.
Following this interpretive path reveals numerous topics for exploration, some quite direct, like a curse’s negative blowback affecting the target’s loved ones.
But all interpretations remain subjective and are best left to individual viewers.
I always find amusement in portrayals of distorted, alternative versions of La La Land, simply because it’s a hub of extremely high occult activity.
Though it might sound disingenuous, I sometimes interpret hellish Los Angeles cityscapes (Hell A)—like those in Blade Runner—as manifestations of excessive black magic transforming the city into a dystopia through negative karma.
While BNCF lacks such grandiose or futuristic ambitions, it reveals hypothetical pockets of corruption within the city (which may or may not exist) to remind viewers of The Babylon of The West’s obfuscated side that many either cannot or will not see.
Cronenberg Influence and Lynchian Homage?
In one particularly striking sequence, Lisa’s eye is replaced with a void—an absence that paradoxically enhances her vision. This inventive visual metaphor recalls Lynch at his most experimental, yet BNCF carves its unique path through conventional storytelling’s flesh.
By adopting a less serious tone than Mulholland Drive and moderating its surreal elements, the series avoids becoming a Lynch knockoff.
It carries subtle Lynchian overtones and certainly evokes Mulholland Drive memories, but I’d argue the story and general atmosphere borrow more substantially from David Cronenberg.
Horror fans unfamiliar with Los Angeles’s “City of Broken Dreams” nickname needn’t worry. Knowledge of that subject matters little for developing personal interpretations.
Maybe to decipher the deeper meaning of Mulholland Drive, you need some, but not this series. So for someone who didn’t watch Lynch’s movie, it would make all the sense to watch this series before watching Mulholland.
Regardless, the series deserves viewing if only for its gross-out factor and shock content.
If you’ve overlooked media using cryptic elements but wish to explore further, I recommend diving directly into discovering what resonates with you. This exploration requires no gradual approach.
Begin with the most whimsical horror movies or series—perhaps Begotten (1990) or Twin Peaks. After watching, determine personal meaning. Then, if curious, discover others’ interpretations.
Sometimes others’ meanings will astonish you. I adored Twin Perfect’s (a YouTuber deconstructing David Lynch’s works) interpretation of Mulholland Drive’s seemingly absurd elements.
Yet I don’t need such exhaustive explanations for films or series with the granular detail Twin Perfect applies to Lynch media. Granted, his insights about Lynch’s works demonstrate genius, and I wholly endorse his interpretations.
I maintain that this YouTuber brilliantly interprets Lynch, but exploring how meta-narrative, metaphysical, and/or opaque a horror series is doesn’t necessitate such objective, minutiae-obsessed interpretative quagmires.
This applies even to Brand New Cherry Flavor—a horror series, I believe, was artistically and intelligently crafted to accommodate numerous valid interpretations.
Conclusion—2 Davids + 1 Alejandro
I confess myself something of a whore for all-American audiovisual entertainment incorporating surrealism, and I adored this series for masterfully blending horror with surrealist elements.
For me, horror series or films with thoughtfully crafted ambiguity that elicits varied interpretations become truly rewatchable. This quality makes them rewatchable even for someone like me who rarely revisits films or series.
The series’s mythic quality particularly impressed me—BNCF either subverts or completely omits a third of the 27 stages in the hero’s journey.
Compared to Jodorowsky’s filmography, BNCF similarly infuses the journey with profound mystical qualities.
Peeling back Brand New Cherry Flavor’s skin reveals not merely gore and glamour but a festering spiral of ambition, betrayal, and mystic rot.
What makes this horror series tick—like a cursed reel trapped in a haunted editing bay—is its homage to Lynch, Cronenberg, and Jodorowsky without falling into mimicry’s trap, in my opinion.
Instead, it dances—awkwardly, seductively—through dream logic that oozes symbolism and refuses clean resolution. The grotesque becomes poetic, the surreal political. If horror functions as a mirror, BNCF shatters it and dares us to count the shards.
What do we see? That’s the fun part. Or the nightmare.
Media Credits
Netflix
© Bholenath Valsan 2025 — MBrand New Cherry Flavor (2021) Essay Horror Series
