A bayou-lit danse macabre of eldritch wail and gospel brimstone. A Southern Gothic fever dream drenched in swamp dirges. The Three Bs are back in cinema: Blues, blood, and bullets.

Holy Father, bless this film, where men in robes vape and scheme. They pray, they plot, they pontificate. Let the smoke cloud the dome, and may the best sinner take the throne. Good luck and don't fuck it up. Amen.

Disney does Bradbury like a ghost with a clip-on tie. Half-spooky, half-corny, all metaphor. Creepy enough for kids, deep enough for dads—just not quite wicked enough.

Satan opens a curiosity shop that sells curses to unsuspecting white people, and somehow it's less exciting than any toilet paper panic at Walmart.

It's refreshing to see a film that accurately portrays children for what they really are; vessels of wickedness and harbingers of malevolence.

Did more for pink sweaters than the entire Barbie catalog.