📜 Devotee of black-and-white classics and forgotten cinematic gems. Considers any film made after 1970 to be modern and highly suspicious.
"Orson Welles didn't need CGI. Think about it."
Jordan Downey presents The Cycle, an autopsy where violence is reduced to a routine procedure devoid of any emotional catharsis.
Review of Crawlers by Ángel Gómez Hernández. An exercise in claustrophobic horror where the algorithm rules and cinema obeys.
Review of The Weight by Padraic McKinley. Ethan Hawke and Russell Crowe star in a thriller where the commodification of freedom obliterates any trace of redemption.
Thomas Vincent uses the theft of the Mona Lisa as a lazy excuse for an unbearable family therapy session starring Stanley Tucci.
Scott Eastwood, wounded behind German lines in the Ardennes, with a radio and a pack of cigarettes. Worth watching? With reservations: 6/10.
A scathing critique of Andrew Patterson's pseudo-epic, where honey turns into poison and bluegrass sounds like a squeak.
A review that dissects the fifth installment of Insidious with sarcasm, hard data, and a touch of respect for the Blumhouse formula.
An acidic review of Barry Levinson's film that tries to scare with viruses and ends up as a low-budget routine.
Damien Leone resurrects Art the Clown with more blood, fewer ideas, and a budget that reeks of gas-station pizza. Cult classic or celluloid vomit?
Richard Kelly sold us a $4 million puzzle that he himself didn't know how to solve. Jake Gyllenhaal shines, but the script drowns in its own ambition. Cult classic by accident.
Eli Roth tries to resurrect the slasher with a Thanksgiving-themed killer, but ends up serving a cold, reheated dish. 107 minutes of unfulfilled promises.
Scorsese films a three-hour orgy where capitalism celebrates itself. DiCaprio shines, but the script reeks of self-satisfaction. Critique or apology?
A scathing review of the horror flick *Evil Dead Rise*—where family drama burns brighter than the demons.
Kubrick turned science fiction into pure art: 149 minutes of eloquent silence, bone-wielding apes, and a psychopathic computer. Masterpiece or pretentious fraud? Here’s the verdict.
A scathing deep-dive into the film that plunges into the darkest corners of the human psyche, only to resurface with demons that haunt us via a festival of clichés and a script so desperate it might as well be a cry for help.
Claqueta Ácida dissects Alejandro Amenábar’s *Thesis*—the film that turned cinematic violence into a psychological autopsy of the human soul.
Christopher Nolan turned a comic book into Shakespeare with a blockbuster budget. Heath Ledger stole the Joker’s soul—and ours. Masterpiece or pretentious overkill? Here’s the autopsy.
The most scathing, unfiltered roast of *Spider-Man: Brand New Day*, the latest installment in the Wall-Crawler’s saga—now with 100% more existential dread and 0% less corporate cowardice.
Jane Schoenbrun turns a summer camp into a dumpster fire of hormones and clichés. Art or autopsy of a dying subgenre?
Christian Bale disembowels capitalism with an axe and an Armani suit. Mary Harron films it like a cologne commercial. Masterpiece or style guide for yuppies?
Mike Flanagan turns Poe’s tale into a gothic soap opera with more skeletons in the closet than in the basement. Masterpiece or luxury telenovela? Claqueta Ácida dissects this feast of guilt, money, and rot.
Martijn Smits turns animal activism into a Dutch slasher so clumsy even the pigs are embarrassed. Blood, bad conscience, and worse dialogue—welcome to the abattoir of cinema.
Buñuel and Dalí eviscerate surrealism in 16 minutes of blood-soaked celluloid. Masterpiece or Freudian nightmare with a razor? Here’s the acidic verdict.
Two young men convinced an executive is an alien kidnap her. Will they save Earth—or just their own delusions?
Panos Cosmatos delivers a visual orgy of revenge, acid, and chainsaws that makes Tarantino look like an altar boy. There’s no redemption here—just charred flesh and demonic synthesizers.
Madison travels to Thailand in search of "authenticity" and ends up in an Instagram thriller where likes taste like blood. Art or self-promotion with filters?
Nicolas Cage wallows in fake blood and bargain-bin symbolism while the FBI chases a serial killer who reeks of abandoned-church air freshener. Claqueta Ácida dissects Perkins’ ritual of cinematic self-flagellation.
Max cracks the secret code behind the stock market in this 1998 fever-dream of a film—where math and madness collide like a Molotov cocktail in a petri dish.
Nicolas Cage embarks on a blood-soaked rampage in this psychedelic revenge fever dream.
A scathing takedown of David Cronenberg’s *Eastern Promises*—where the mafia gets the autopsy it deserves.
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.
A scathing review of *The Exorcist*, the horror classic with a razor-sharp edge.
Caye Casas made her directorial debut alongside Albert Pintó in this hilarious, cruel, and pitch-black satirical farce where God is a dwarf vagrant forcing a dysfunctional family to choose the end of the world.
In-depth review and analysis of 'The Executioner' (1963), the undisputed masterpiece of Luis García Berlanga and Rafael Azcona. The best black comedy about the death penalty.
Ti West delivers a filthy, lascivious, and razor-sharp love letter to '70s indie porn and rural slasher classics, set on a Texas farm where the only thing sharper than the knives is the satire.
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