Grandma’s house always smells like cookies, and she loves to talk about the aunts and uncles in the portraits on the wall. The house is a bedrock of family life, a place where nothing ever changes—its predictability feels like a comforting hug. But then grandma starts getting forgetful, mixes things up, and loses her grip on reality.
Grandma’s House manifests her decline as a 360° re-imagining of her home. The camera glides through the interior and slips outside through the window. Each time it returns to the living room, the perspective tilts and the chaos swells. Grandma’s failing memory begins to infect the narrator, who also starts losing the plot. A poignant and palpable representation of what it feels like to be tumbling down into the bottomless pit that is dementia.