Best movies of 2024
We dissect the cinema of 2024. Here is our top ranking from best to worst based strictly on our editorial autopsies.
Robert Eggers resurrects the immortal vampire classic with a sublime, tenebrous, and sweat-drenched symphony of shadows, rats, and fleshly obsession.
Thea Hvistendahl delivers a stunning, melancholic, and agonizing reimagining of the zombie myth, centered on grief and the existential torment of loss.
Luca Guadagnino turns tennis into a high-stakes game of erotic and psychological tension in this vibrant three-way duel.
The Zone Zero
(2024)A deadly virus unleashes hell at a biotech conference—because nothing says 'team-building' like a lab full of flesh-eating mutants.
A scathing, cinematic vivisection of Exhuma—a descent into mystery and the kind of unknown that leaves you smelling like a haunted crypt
Radio Silence signs a delightfully entertaining, bloody, and hyperbolic vampire slasher within a mansion where a twelve-year-old ballerina is the monster.
*Civil War: Alex Garland’s Chilling, Flawless, and Terrifying Postcard of America’s Collapse*
(2024)Alex Garland plunges us into an uncomfortable dystopian nightmare that refuses to offer political explanations, instead zeroing in on the desensitization of war journalism.
Bustillo and Maury return in 2024 with a dark, filthy, and suffocating police-gothic thriller set deep in the forests of France—where the trees whisper and the locals *really* don’t like outsiders.
Fabrice Du Welz and his shadow ballet in the Belgian underworld. Du Welz delivers a gothic thriller teetering between visual virtuosity and baroque excess—155 minutes of nightmare and obsession.
Industrial claustrophobia and pure physical terror. A merciless critique of Ian Holm's CGI and the cheap nostalgia that stains the franchise's return.
Damian McCarthy delivers an Irish horror flick with more style than scares. Carolyn Bracken shines, but the script trips over its own wooden dummy. Cult classic or mere oddity?
Alexandre Aja takes a break from his usual gore-fest to trap us in a psychological horror thriller where the only thing between you and the end of the world is a rope—and your sanity.
Tim Burton resurrects his most iconic creature, but the script is a Frankenstein’s monster of stale jokes and half-digested nostalgia. Keaton still rules, but this reeks of easy money.
E.L. Katz and Simon Barrett deliver a brutal, relentless mute survival horror film where Samara Weaving once again proves why she is the modern scream queen.
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 review of Ridley Scott’s long-awaited sequel—a colossal spectacle that dazzles in its naval battles but lacks the dramatic nobility and mystique of the original classic.
We dissect George Miller’s latest release. A visual feast that overstays its welcome like gum on hot asphalt.
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.
A submarine dive that drowns more than it breathes: Claqueta Ácida's critique of a thriller running out of air.
Severin Fiala and Veronika Franz deliver a historical psychological horror drama that drowns in its own solemnity. Visually flawless, emotionally frigid. Art or autopsy?
Hugh Grant dons the disguise of a cultured villain in this A24 psychological thriller that promises terror and delivers a bingo card of clichés wrapped in self-help manual dialogue.
A scathing review of HBO Max’s *The Penguin*—the desperate attempt to glorify Gotham’s ugliest villain.
Pedro Martín Calero delivers an Argentine supernatural thriller that promises the moon and hands you an eternal sigh. Ester Expósito shines, but the script loses itself in its own labyrinth of tears.
A recap of the 83rd Golden Globes. We break down the winners, the most awkward acceptance speeches, and Hollywood’s open bar.
*The Japanese Whisper No One Asked For (And Everyone Deserved to Ignore). Kiyoshi Kurosawa dives into domestic horror with *Chime*, a series that whispers more than it screams and bores more than it terrifies. Art or visual nap time?*
Rodrigo Cortés delivers a prison thriller that reeks of mothballs and a screenwriting workshop script. Mario Casas shines, but not even he can save this self-help pamphlet with handcuffs.
A fiery industry controversy over the use of music in films without the artists' permission—because nothing says "art" like corporate looting in a tuxedo.
