X — The Bloody, Sweaty Resurrection of Analog Slasher Cinema

In 2022, Ti West clawed his way out of indie cinema’s catacombs like an archaeologist unearthing a fossil—only instead of dusting it off for a museum, he jolted it back to life with a strip of celluloid, a defibrillator, and a generous squirt of analog lube. X isn’t just a movie; it’s a happening, where sweat, lust, and blood swirl together-la-cueva-de-los-espejos-rotos" class="text-amber-400 font-black hover:text-amber-300 transition underline decoration-amber-500/40 hover:decoration-amber-300" title="[6.5/10 ⚡ Ácido Cítrico] Lee nuestra autopsia de «Together»" data-acid-interlink="together-la-cueva-de-los-espejos-rotos">together with a narrative intelligence most slashers wouldn’t dare flaunt without blushing. Teaming up with A24—that label which has turned "art" into a product as cool as an iPhone in a velvet sleeve—West gifts us a film that reeks of camera grease, 16mm grain, and decades of pent-up sexual frustration. And damn, does it deliver.

The premise is as old as rural horror itself: a group of clueless youngsters stumble into hostile territory, where hospitality is as fake as a televangelist’s smile. But West, sly as a fox with a film studies degree, refuses to settle for cliché. He drops us into 1979, a year when porn hadn’t yet been tamed by Silicon Valley capitalism and the elderly weren’t just "OK, boomer" memes but flesh-and-bone (and prosthetic) beings who could sever heads with the same ease they flipped through their Bibles. The film crew, led by the insufferably chipper Wayne (Martin Henderson, whose charm is as forced as a boner at a funeral) and his porn muse Maxine Minx (Mia Goth, in a role designed to make male viewers feel guilty for getting turned on), rolls in on a van that’s less a mode of transport and more a symbol of creative precarity. Their mission: to shoot The Farmer’s Daughters, a title that sounds like a Russ Meyer flick if he’d had the budget to hire actors who could, well, act.

The First Act: A Porn Doc with Artistic Pretensions

The opening of X is a masterclass in irony and misunderstood nostalgia. West takes his sweet time fleshing out his characters—something as rare in modern slashers as a critic who doesn’t describe every gut-spilling scene as "visceral." Here, the pretentious director RJ (Owen Campbell) debates the "intrinsic beauty of natural light" with sound tech Lorraine (Jenna Ortega), while the rest of the crew does what they do best: fuck, smoke, and bitch about their paychecks. It’s a scathing yet oddly affectionate portrait of ‘70s indie filmmaking, where "art" was just an excuse for bearded dudes and big-breasted women to get high and shoot scenes that would today be flagged as "problematic" by any Netflix diversity committee.

But the real genius of this first act lies in how West uses the porn shoot to explore themes far beyond mere titillation. The scene where Maxine and her co-star Bobby-Lynne (Brittany Snow) hash out the importance of "feeling" sex versus Wayne’s cold professionalism is dialogue John Cassavetes might’ve written if he’d had a thing for bodily fluids. West doesn’t judge his characters; he watches them with the same morbid curiosity as Pearl, the farm’s elderly matriarch, spying on the youngsters from her bedroom window. And that’s where X proves it’s not just a slasher—it’s a study of desire, repression, and the terror of aging.

The Second Act: Butchery as Freudian Therapy

When night falls, X morphs into a classic slasher—but with a formal elegance that distances it from mindless gore and aligns it with ‘70s psychological horror. Ti West and cinematographer Eliot Rockett stage the kills with surgical precision (pun very much intended), evoking the best of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) but with a dark humor Tobe Hooper only hinted at in his nightmares. The alligator sequence is a perfect example: Brittany Snow, as the doe-eyed blonde, wades into the lake with the confidence of someone who thinks nature is a Disney set. The overhead shot of the reptile gliding beneath her is pure Hitchcockian suspense, but with a grindhouse edge that makes it even more delicious. West doesn’t rush the attack; he lets the audience sweat, imagine the worst, remember why dark water is the perfect stage for monsters to rise.

But X’s true genius lies in Mia Goth’s dual performance. She doesn’t just play Maxine—the busty, defiant porn star—but also Pearl, the elderly woman who sees the intruders’ youth as a mirror of her own decay. Goth dives into Pearl with an intensity that borders on disturbing: her face, caked in makeup straight out of The Twilight Zone, contorts with envy, lust, and simmering rage. It’s a performance that channels Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, but with a Freudian twist that turns Pearl into a warped reflection of Maxine. Both are prisoners of their eras: one of slipping youth, the other of consuming old age. When Pearl whispers, "I want to be like you" while stroking Maxine’s face, the audience doesn’t know if it’s a love confession or a death threat. Spoiler: it’s both.

The Third Act: Blood, Sweat, and Latex

The climax of X is an orgy of violence and symbolism that, thankfully, avoids self-indulgence. West knows the slasher genre has rules as rigid as a sonnet’s, and while he follows them to the letter (death order, final chase, final girl), he subverts them with an intelligence few directors dare attempt. The scene where Pearl and Howard (Stephen Ure, whose face looks carved from rotten wood) attack the crew in the farmhouse is a ballet of blood and prosthetics that echoes The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974), but with a campy edge that makes it even more memorable. Pearl’s makeup, though glaringly artificial in some well-lit shots, doesn’t undercut Goth’s performance. If anything, it turns her into a mythic figure—a modern Medusa with white hair and a face that hides a sexuality as ravenous as her victims’.

That said, X isn’t flawless. Its greatest strength—deconstructing the slasher—is also its Achilles’ heel. Though West toys with genre tropes, he doesn’t fully escape them. The death order follows the manual to a T: the Black guy dies first (Kid Cudi, in a role that makes you wonder, "What is he even doing here?"), followed by the token gay (poor Bobby-Lynne, whose demise is as predictable as a CSI episode). The final chase in the farmhouse, though tautly directed, is still a cliché West could’ve twisted with a bit more audacity. But these are minor gripes. X isn’t out to reinvent the wheel—just to remind us why the classic slasher still matters.

The Legacy of X: A Slasher with Brains and No Apologies

X is one of those rare films that proves horror can be smart without losing its visceral edge. Ti West, a director who’d flown under the mainstream radar until now, cements himself here as a master of suspense and a worthy heir to ‘70s horror royalty. His film is an homage to The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Halloween (1978), and The Hills Have Eyes (1977), but also a meditation on youth obsession, the fear of aging, and the hypocrisy of a society that glorifies sex while punishing those who indulge in it unapologetically.

The technical craft is impeccable. Eliot Rockett’s cinematography, with its analog grain and desaturated palette, transports viewers to the ‘70s with an authenticity few modern films achieve. The editing, especially in the first act, is a masterclass in building tension without cheap jump scares. And the score—a mix of ‘80s synths and distorted guitars—reinforces the film’s atmosphere of decay and desire.

But above all, X is a film about characters. West takes his time developing his protagonists, something as rare in today’s horror as a happy ending in a Lars von Trier film. Maxine, with her blend of innocence and ambition, transcends the final girl archetype. Pearl, meanwhile, is a villain for the ages—her evil born not from madness but desperation. And Lorraine (Jenna Ortega), the prude sound tech who discovers her sexuality at the worst possible moment, is a reminder that terror doesn’t always come from outside. Sometimes, it’s already inside us.

The Best

• Eliot Rockett’s cinematography: An analog love letter that smells like burnt celluloid and teenage sweat, with grain more sensual than any sex scene in the film.

The Worst

• The Slasher Handbook, Chapter 1: West follows the genre’s rules with the devotion of a man who’s been threatened with revoked director’s license if he strays.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida (8.5/10)

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