Rigorous analysis with a heavy dose of sarcasm. Built for film lovers who don't swallow Hollywood's marketing talk.
No editorial review on Claqueta Ácida yet.
We interview filmmaker Paco Plaza without filters in Valladolid after he received the Honorary PUFA. We review his career, his ghosts, and the hidden history of his cinema.
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«Ben Affleck directs a claustrophobic thriller where money cannot buy freedom, only the absolute certainty of failure.»
Jesse McKeown delivers a tale of geographic isolation disguised as a sea monster that barely manages to stay afloat in Under the Surface.
Odin Lagbert dissects Takashi Miike's Audition: a surgical treatise where horror doesn't reside in the needle, but in male complicity.
Diego Velasco delivers in The Whistler an exercise where resource scarcity lays bare the seams of the modern thriller.
Discover the release of Beware Boiúna in theaters and streaming.
Discover the release of Street Fighter in theaters and streaming.
What happens when childhood cruelty runs wild without adult supervision? Eskil Vogt plunges us into a suffocating daylight nightmare with *The Innocents*, a masterclass in psychological horror that spits in the face of Hollywood’s flashy gimmicks. Forget saccharine kid superheroes—here, psychic gifts are filmed with unflinching, skin-crawling realism. We dissect one of contemporary genre cinema’s boldest, most magnetic, and squirm-inducing offerings. A work of art or pretentious discomfort? Step right up and find out. 💀
Claqueta Ácida’s scathing review of HBO’s post-apocalyptic series, where cordyceps and maudlin drama run rampant—because nothing says "prestige TV" like a fungal pandemic and a surplus of tearful monologues.
Robert Eggers made his debut with a rigorous and hypnotic Gothic tale about the religious paranoia of a 17th-century colonist family and the whispers of Black Phillip, the goat who’s either the devil or just really good at small talk.
Demian Rugna revolutionizes paranormal horror—possessions, poltergeists, and all—by transplanting it to a residential neighborhood in Buenos Aires, armed with a devastating sound design that rattles your bones.
A scathing review of Kubrick’s masterpiece, where ultraviolence meets 60s fashion in a twisted pas de deux.
M. Night Shyamalan builds a cardboard village with bargain-bin monsters and a twist so stale it smells like mothballs. Roger Deakins lights up the boredom.
A ruthless autopsy of the overvalued work of Paco Plaza and Jaume Balagueró. Is it a revolution in terror or just another passage in the cinematic horror genre that confuses screams with art? We dismantle the myth of the most famous quarantine in Spanish cinema.
Timo Tjahjanto unleashes another hyperviolent bloodbath under the banner of XYZ and Edko Films. Tiger Chen’s return and Yayan Ruhian’s feral mysticism gift us with razor-sharp choreography and a stellar visual package, but the alarming lack of dramatic pacing and a generic script riddled with clichés prevent this fistfest from becoming the instant classic it promised to be. We dissect the film’s physical triumphs and narrative shipwrecks in our latest acidic takedown.
A ruthless dissection of the 1998 film that will keep you on the edge of your seat—if the edge of your seat were a death trap.
A scathing review of *The Flash*'s spectacular flop and the Hollywood storm it dragged in its wake.
M. Night Shyamalan delivers a beachside thriller that ages worse than its own protagonists—a feast of predictable twists and self-help manual dialogue set against a tropical backdrop.
Tom Hardy rises from the dead to inherit an empire of rotting ships and enemies with grinning masks. A gothic masterpiece or a soap opera in dirty suits? Claqueta Ácida dissects this feast of shadows.
A scathing, no-holds-barred evisceration of *Crematorio*—the Spanish series that didn’t just show you the sewers of power, but handed you a shovel and dared you to dig deeper.
Review of *Megalopolis* (2024), the Roman fable Francis Ford Coppola paid for out of his own pocket: an overflowing, ridiculous and beautiful wreck with Adam Driver stopping time.
A scathing review of the animated sequel that promises multiverses but delivers less than the web can handle.
HBO served us a feast of family dysfunction, pitch-black sarcasm, and metaphorical corpses. Alan Ball dug a grave so deep we still haven’t climbed out.
Darren Aronofsky turns addiction into a grotesque ballet of sweat, pixels, and shattered souls. A masterpiece that hurts more than heroin withdrawal.
Stanley Kubrick dismantles the noir genre with a heist that reeks of gasoline and betrayal. 83 minutes of surgical precision, actors sweating ambition, and an ending that tastes like ashes. A masterpiece or a cold stylistic exercise? We dissect it here.
