Joseph H. Lewis' MY NAME IS JULIA ROSS (1945)

So tight and closely woven is this plot,
Which we, the viewers, know of all along,
That just an hour wraps it on the dot.
Such Gothic trappings seem a little wrong
When played out in a proto-noir disguise --
A lovely woman, kidnapped on a ruse,
Is gaslighted and can't enjoy the prize
Of Cornish seascapes many, sure, would choose
To see each morning from the windowsill
Of one's great sumptuous bedroom. Watch her stress!
Her mocked suspicions! Held against her will
And called another name! I must confess
The expositions of the evil plan
Got silly, but I still might be a fan.

Kenneth Anger's FIREWORKS (1947)

How ev'ry damned emotion one could feel
Comes forth in thirteen minutes, I can't tell.
In that short span, the viewer's fed a meal
Of imagery, some raw, some cooked too well.
Deep shadows, lush and secretive, invite
Our exploration, then, as though a spell
Is breaking, stark and strong and sere and white,
The body beautiful is put through hell.
Sometimes it disappears, a landscape, or
An abstract pattern takes its place. No cell
Or tissue has been substituted, nor
A shred of clothing. Laugh? Too soon t'will quell
Your humor with some horror. Frame by frame,

The dreamer's dream can never be the same. 

Victor Erice's THE SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE (Spain, 1973)

This could become a fav'rite. No effects
Or special sets were needed, just a child
Immersed in her imaginary texts,
In Frankenstein, in spirit stories, wild
Yet simple. Warm and golden Spanish light
And perfect little actors, and, yes, bees
And mushrooms, it's from these things in the night
As spun out by her sister, Ana sees
Her own world's monsters, in the only sense
That she can make of them. Her world is small
And something new has entered it, intense
And scary? Maybe. But you must recall
The little girl with daisies made a friend
In that film. All is balanced in the end.