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.

The afterlife as a theme park run by therapists. Meryl glows, Brooks whines, and nothing quite sticks. It's like It’s a Wonderful Life had a midlife crisis and decided to sell you a self-help book.

No explosions, just awkward dinner chats and cold stares. It’s a marriage thriller dressed like a Bond flick. They lie, they spy, they slay — together.

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.