• Black Mountain Side

    Black Mountain Side


    A voice is tapping at my cabin door. Carnivorously unexplained and unnamed, yet still carrying the ethos of the wendigo as an indigenous omen and a source of unreckonable danger, not expanding across countries but also across states of living, spanning galactic bodies and cultures (un)known. Somehow further ~and~ closer than many other movies are to the mythos of it all, wearing the visage of what we foolishly think is the natural world. It feels as dark as it looks.

    P.S. the Not Deer is my husband, leave him alone.

  • Santa Sangre

    Santa Sangre


    The party's over. The Circus, as an idea, is a trauma breeding ground at the working class level; children, creatures, entire states of being that are sold as punching bags to masses, and whatever this paint-patted ~thing~ is saying, it speaks through a lifetime's worth of wearing a face for the spotlight. Abused for audiences, more Entertainer than Human, left to grow with a Rexian complex and blood to spill. Tonic brewed with P.T. Barnum-tier grotesque. To perform is to grieve. Men will really seek an illusion before they seek therapy.

  • The God Crippled With One Leg

    The God Crippled With One Leg


    Unholy noise from a broken AC. Very much a fragment of 'NEKO-MIMI', beauty and disorder being spoken in the same breath, an antitopia in every sense. The world is an empty complex of tangled tape, static poured into ears, gods and angels wordlessly existing in their own spaces. Violent, hot, loud. Definitely something for the grindcore girls (me).

  • As Above, So Below

    As Above, So Below


    "What I am about to do has not been approved by the vatican."

    One of ~the~ found footage staples, a hole leading into a lake of fire sealed with tombstone and human hair. Essentially the most merciless, metal version of Judgement; your fate as written by demons that existed before and after you. Skeletons in your crypt that come back out and pull you down screaming. Very evil, too, to think that nothing in this movie exists without the catacombs’…

  • Neon Genesis Evangelion: The End of Evangelion

    Neon Genesis Evangelion: The End of Evangelion



    I lose a little piece of myself in every person I hurt.

    The psychosomatic murder of your inner child. A fallen angel sitting in your heart, trying to shield its red eyes under a pair of clipped wings, sniveling, bleeding on the cold tile. But only in vain, because nothing and no one can hide from life. Everything in this red sea drowns, everything under the smile of God dissolves into sand rocks. As a creature…

  • Chernobyl Diaries

    Chernobyl Diaries

    Immense cultural arrogance. I want to set fire to every movie that upholds the stereotype of European locals (specifically laboring) as being somewhere between oafish, threatening, or part of an unsophisticated sub-America. Not just apathetic to Pripyat’s physical, historical, and social trauma, but also resentful of it. These people weren’t ours, this destruction wasn’t on ~our~ streets, so apparently we shouldn’t care about them beyond trinkets in a global gift shop. Horror is meant to be empathy, but this is nothing.

  • The Pyramid

    The Pyramid


    Dusty white folk horror, like a point-and-click Adventure In Egypt where westerner’s ooh and ah their way through a colorless Boomerang cartoon. When people call found footage bad, they may be thinking of a specific title. But little do they know that somewhere in the collective subconscious, they’re actually referring to this one. Pyramid cinema usually feels like an attempt to further exoticize and smear African history (and by extension Asian), but this is ~so~ dilute and barren that it doesn’t even make for guilty fun. Against all odds, there was no quick sand, mirages, or Amazonian jungle.

  • The Fourth Kind

    The Fourth Kind


    Sumerian wails of anguish. It's probably my bad taste talking, but this deserves ~several~ wilted flowers. Crunchy metagalactic trauma horror that digs through the white noise to pull out rage, the inability to move on, and the ghosts of world history. Unironically very, very prophetic of what analog horror would come to be. Contorted faces fresh out of a page from the Mandela catalogue, omens yelling out in the dark, horror without a definite origin but carrying great suffering. It's chilling. Sue me.

  • Fire in the Sky

    Fire in the Sky


    Scorched Planet Earth. A lot of disappointment around this comes from how patient it is with depicting close encounters but this strikes me as a noir-flavored story of trauma. Intense social scrutiny and a forest fog of mystery until a ~vicious~ reliving of pain, inflicted in a space beyond time or local stars. One of the most nightmarish alien aesthetics out there; bits of biomechanics, strands of retro fantasy, Beksiński nerve-endings and bone. A worst-case scenario under the Fermi paradox, potent mortal terror to my eyes.

  • Razor Blades

    Razor Blades


    Sensory combat with a spooky overtone. Sharits essentially made his bid for an esoteric cinematic language in this, like communications from another planet speeding through the spacetime-continuum as the earth glaciates over. Entire mediums of message screened through an impenetrable blue wall. And it comes with a little whipped cream on top! How fun!

  • Wicked City

    Wicked City


    Not wicked. My aura is untainted and I demand my 80 minutes back. I could be okay with a probably great succubus rampage being traded in for a melty, limp white collar fantasy, but what I will not tolerate is a total lack of flavor. More pornographic and hedonist, and not in the cool way. Even for an OVA, it is ~so~ leering. Demonology is linked to sex, but sex is not this sterile, overextended hentai. Give me grotesque and sinful, but horndog anime is a no-go.

  • In the Mouth of Madness

    In the Mouth of Madness


    Straight up, into Hell.

    Carpenter's 8th wall, a photo-negative Wizard of Oz cycling through different types of insanity and unreality. Cosmic literature's ink bleeding onto the real world's fabric, walls of text as walls of flesh, book clubs for stories written in The Beyond, so much meta-genreism that it begins to collapse under its own status as a movie. Sam Neill is the man on the outside, looking in on the man on the outside, audience and author all at once. Sutter Cane forever, in all worlds!