Fast Times at Ridgemont High is a goofy movie, but it shoots key moments with a low-key sincerity that makes them feel startlingly authentic.
Fast Times at Ridgemont High is a goofy movie, but it shoots key moments with a low-key sincerity that makes them feel startlingly authentic.
This is a horror movie where the monsters don’t smash through the gates of righteousness. They set up shop inside, change the locks, and start forwarding their mail there.
Smile 2 gives away purpose and meaning in tiny, incremental sacrifices, like a bad magician showing you the ropes instead of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
A bleak, feedback-drenched descent into sonic horror. Stomach's Low Demon is sludge metal at its most atmospheric and disturbing.
Lurker asks what happens when seeing someone too clearly turns you into something they can’t unsee.
From jazzed-out cyborgs to dissonant chaos gods and everything that goes BLOOIING in between.
Ari Aster made a Western about COVID, guns, and Katy Perry and somehow, it works.
Ozzy Osbourne he was our unholy grandfather, reminding us that weirdness was a virtue, not a flaw.
The Shining Girls features a time-traveling murder house, which sounds cool until you realize it’s mostly there to make plot holes feel intentional.
The Blackcoat’s Daughter is the kind of slow-burn horror that sneaks up on you, like a ghoulish text from your ex at 2 AM, impossible to ignore and even harder to explain.
Marilyn Manson is dead. Now it’s just Brian Warner dressing up as your goth older brother who’s never gotten over Bauhaus.
You don’t get two None So Viles. You should be happy it exists and that it changed everything.
One of the bleakest movies about grief, magic, and trusting the worst Airbnb host imaginable.
Ben Wheatley’s Kill List doesn’t scare you with what it shows, it scares you with what it tricks you into seeing.
Intermezzo flirts with emotional depth, but keeps ghosting its own potential.
For those who want their metal slow, loud, emotionally ruinous and occasionally French.
Anju Singh’s music won’t comfort you, but it might change how you listen forever.
Thirty-three minutes of self-inflicted psychic damage and you’ll ask for another serving.
The Monkey is what happens when daddy issues, cursed antiques, and one very committed wind-up toy team up to ruin your whole bloodline.
