Hardly has a pulse. Exists between fire and rain, light and dark, howls and stark silence. Runs on its own synth drip. Not even really an action movie, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Just bathe me in it. The wood. The oblivion of tree limbs and echoing screams and endless nightmares. Bing Crosby crooning away the final desperate moments of Crane's existence. The outstretched wail of the full moon beckons the light of evil, cackling and smiling along the path. All that's left was his hat.
Stands tall as a remarkable cultural object and a peerless evocation of a one-of-a-kind talent. Beyoncé shifted the paradigm for festival shows in a way that was previously held by Kanye at the Hollywood Bowl, and the experience behind the creation and flawless execution of said event is wonderfully balanced. Shout-out to the man near the end who basically shits himself all while wearing a "I got hot sauce in my bag" shirt.
A total unified synthesis between actor and performance. Barbara Loden *is* Wanda, rumbling through a observational, harsh reality of structures and concepts destined to ruin lives of those at the bottom of the well. A landmark achievement that flies by like a flash of memory.
"That's the score."
Iconography rising from the grave. Slasher scuzz is transformed within a Gothic zombie cemetary masquerading as laboratory, consumed with relentless carnage, all while the autumnal, whispering leaves are dissipating as slowly as the laughs. A shining example of a horror-comedy that never forgets to be scary, and one that lingers on terrifying notions in hilarious fashion. Paced like a bullet, every sequence leads to the next in exponential fashion. All the audience beats hit like a bass drop. The shot of the open cabin door, the shadow of the tree branches quivering in the wind, is an all-timer.