artur.sumarokov

“Only You” is a valentine to serendipity, positing love not as a checklist but a cosmic crapshoot.

“Lonely Hearts” stands as a testament to cinema’s power to resurrect the damned.

“Bad Hair” is the cinematic equivalent of a botched box braids install—painful in patches, pretty in others, but undeniably you.

The Black Dahlia isn’t a film you respect; it’s one you surrender to, like a bad acid trip that ends in epiphany.

In Six’s trilogy, horror serves as a tool for deconstructing the humanistic subject: the human, ostensibly the crown of creation, is transformed into a chain.

Jacker 3 insists on the transgressive imperative—to stare into the abyss, not with fear, but feral joy.

Very impressive remake of classic gore horror from 60s

Dariuss masterfully entwines ontology’s thrown being with hauntology’s spectral calls, rendering grief a machinery where existence is ghostly prosthesis

In the end, *Snuff 102* isn’t for shelves; it’s for reckoning. It posits that true horror isn’t the gore—it’s the mirror.

If André Bazin once dreamed of a “myth of total cinema” in which the image would finally coincide perfectly with reality, *The Benefactress* is the nightmare fulfilment of that myth.

“Trauma” stands as Argento’s last truly watchable film, a poignant swan song before his output plummeted.

It’s a film that rapes the senses, leaving one unsettled about the thin line between victim and monster, civilization and savagery.

Western academia fixates on European sins while excusing or ignoring Arab ones, perhaps out of fear of Islamophobia accusations or lingering Orientalist guilt.