The trailers for The Legend of Ochi built such a strong sense of anticipation that I genuinely entered the theater ready to be swept away by this little puppeteered fantasy from A24. The setting, the tone, and Willem Dafoe’s ever-commanding presence had me thinking this could be something special. Add to that the promise of practical effects crafted with care, and I was all in. I expected a rollercoaster of emotions, a teenager crossing stunning vistas with a gremlin in tow—right up my alley. But in the end, I was left a bit disappointed.

The Legend of Ochi is a fun film, but fleeting. It has all the elements I crave in a fantasy movie: expansive world-building, beautiful practical effects, and characters you can root for—both in the cast and the world they inhabit. It borrows the best from films like The Neverending Story and The Dark Crystal, while nodding to Moonrise Kingdom and Hunt for the Wilderpeople. Yet, for all the potential, the film never truly steps out of the shadow of its influences, which makes it feel a little too familiar.

The story walks a strange line—it’s too complex for a kids’ film but too simplistic for adults. I was the right age to be traumatized by The Neverending Story, a film that left a permanent mark on me. But The Legend of Ochi? It’s not likely to have that same emotional impact on kids today. While they should definitely see it, I’d say anyone under eight might struggle to find connection. 

The relationship between the father, mother, and daughter provides some grounding, but everything else feels like an afterthought. The army of monster-hunting kids, who should be a source of wonder, come across more like awkward extras in a Wes Anderson film. There are moments where the awkwardness adds some humor, but it also pulled me out of the film, leaving me more distracted than immersed. Some of the emotional beats in the third act fall flat, as the film seems to rely too much on the magic of its visuals and hopes the emotional arcs will sort themselves out. Finn Wolfhard’s character is a prime example of this. He’s given little to work with, reinforcing the film's biggest flaw: it’s too concerned with themes rather than characters acting in ways that make sense for them. There’s no real emotional cohesion to the story. This could’ve been a gut-punch tearjerker, leaving you hopeful and contemplative. Instead, I’m left thinking, “Ah, that was nice.” A net positive, sure, but I wanted more from a film so clearly made with heart and soul.

On the topic of puppets, I have no notes. The creature designs are perfect. More of this, please. More oddities, more things built with the careful hands of a puppeteer. That said, the cinematography sometimes pulled me out. The blend of VFX with real-world locations made the world feel too perfect, in a way that felt uncanny—like the kind of AI-generated images that ask “What if Lord of the Rings were a dark fantasy from the 1980s?” It’s clear the film is made with vision and passion, but it lacks the grit that defined the fantasy films of the ’80s.

That’s a small gripe, though. Honestly, I want more of these kinds of films. I just hope Isaiah Saxon, when he begins crafting his next vision, doesn’t pull his punches. I want to see him take risks—go deeper, go bigger, and make something that hits harder than this one.

The Legend of Ochi is a film I’ll remember, and I’ll likely revisit. It’s got something special to it, even if it didn’t emotionally wreck me the way I hoped. Still, I had a blast stepping into the world Saxon created, and for that, I’m thankful. Here’s hoping A24 keeps this kind of magic coming down the pipeline.

There’s something electrifying about a film like Sinners.
The kind of film that makes you walk out of the theater feeling just a little cooler than when you walked in. That’s not nothing.

Every frame is pulsing with intention — stylish, sultry, and soaked in blood. It’s a movie that understands history, honors it, and then shoves it straight through a modern lens without flinching. It has the nerve to be cool — infinitely cool — while still dipping its fangs into full-tilt camp and unashamed pulp. Period drama by way of vampire schlock. And somehow, impossibly, it works.

There’s style, yes — oceans of it — but it’s backed with real weight. The substance is in every sideways glance, every note of sorrow tucked beneath the bravado. Sexy and tragic in equal measure. The pain of culture and history clashing — combusting — is painted in bold, bloody strokes.

Ryan Coogler’s fingerprints are all over this thing — not just in the production, but in the soul. That mix of righteous anger and cinematic swagger, that sense of ancestral pain alchemized into something mythic. Sinners doesn’t just tell you what happened — it makes you feel it in your spine.

Hailee Steinfeld is ferocious. Michael B. Jordan brings heat and heartbreak. Jack O’Connell is a surprise — raw, charming, and clearly having a blast. Buddy Guy even gets a moment to shine in a surprise cameo — one of those “hell yes” needle-drops in human form. Everyone and everything is dialed in. Everyone knows what movie they’re in — and they give it everything.

And here’s the real trick: there’s a much worse version of this film out there. One that’s preachy, self-serious, and painfully aware of its own importance. Sinners dodges all of that. It doesn’t lecture. It bleeds. It burns. It seduces. And it earns every second.

This is genius storytelling. You don’t see many films this confident, this original, this willing to be everything at once — political and pulpy, soulful and absurd, sexy and sad. The real joy of Sinners is how completely it nails the era it’s channeling. If you’re a fan of Delta blues — the pops and cracks of bygone field recordings that rattle and never really leave — this one’s for you. The film shakes with the same raw power that defines that music. Dobro guitar medleys, ghostly echoes, foot-stomping juke joint energy — Sinners hollers its way through history with both reverence and fire.

Yes, it’s a vampire movie. But the real horror doesn’t come from the blood — it comes from the stories these characters carry. This is a drama, first and foremost. The horror just happens to show up in the margins, sharp-toothed and dripping. And when it does? It’s earned. It’s fun. It’s a scream in the dark, but the soul of the film is what lingers.

There’s something so rare about a movie that knows exactly what it is.

Sinners knows — and it sinks its teeth in.

From the opening shots of Sacramento, Michael Angarano’s directorial debut makes it clear what kind of ride you’re in for — vibrant, warm, and humming with a kind of gentle desperation.

This could’ve easily been just another odd-couple-on-a-road-trip flick: one guy’s uptight, the other’s a mess, what’s gonna happen when they’re stuck together? We’ve seen that movie. Hell, we’ve seen it a hundred times. But Sacramento doesn’t take the bait. It kicks that tired setup to the curb and chooses tenderness instead — real, earned tenderness. The conflicts hit different. They’re quieter, more personal, and when they land, they leave a mark.

The cast is a quiet powerhouse. Michael Cera, who at this point could coast on awkward charm alone, digs deeper. He gives you a man fraying at the edges — raw, funny, and painfully true. We’ve seen midlife meltdowns before, but rarely this naked. Angarano, pulling double duty as lead and director, keeps the whole thing grounded. When his character finally cracks open, it doesn’t feel forced. It feels inevitable. It feels real.

Sacramento knows how broken people can be — even when they know all the right words, even when they know better. The film doesn’t lecture about mental health or sand down its rough edges. It just shows it, honestly, the way you only can when you’ve lived it. If you want a snapshot of what it feels like to struggle in 2025, this is it.

And then there’s the setting. God, it’s good to see a movie that’s actually shot in California. Not Croatia pretending to be Burbank, not Georgia in a bad wig. Real streets. Real sun. Little Dom’s and the Reckless Unicorn in Los Feliz popping up like old friends. The film industry’s been bleeding out of California for years — tax credits drying up, productions fleeing for cheaper pastures — but Sacramento feels like a love letter to what’s still here.

It’s a small movie, in the best possible way. It knows how long to stay, it knows when to leave, and it never wastes your time. Sacramento has already locked a spot on my favorite films of the year. I hope we get a lot more like it.

 After Civil War, I didn’t expect much from Alex Garland.

I really didn’t like that film — probably my least favorite thing he’s ever done. So when I sat down for Warfare, I was hesitant, waiting for the same half-baked "art house" take on brutality and the human condition. I figured it would be more of the same: pop nihilism disguised as depth.

I was wrong.

Warfare is leagues better. It’s staggering, really — how someone can make something as deluded and silly as Civil War one minute, and then deliver one of the most powerful war films I’ve ever seen the next.

There’s no fat on Warfare. You’re thrown straight into it — no slow ramp-up, no hand-holding. You live in the bloodied, battered memories of these soldiers for just long enough to feel it in your bones — and then it ends. Garland and Ray Mendoza’s goal here isn’t to explain anything. It’s to immerse you, disorient you, and leave you alone with what you saw. No speeches. No tidy conclusions. Just war, remembered like a fever dream.

The sound design alone should come with a warning. It doesn’t just capture the chaos; it becomes it. Where Saving Private Ryan tried to show you the horror of Omaha Beach, Warfare grabs you by the throat and drags you through it — no room for Spielbergian sentimentality here. It’s ruthless. It’s overwhelming. It’s alive.

And while I worried this would be another piece of glorified propaganda — a hollow, chest-thumping dramatization of American soldiers — it’s not. Warfare lets you step, however briefly, into the shoes of the Iraqis too: the freedom fighters, the civilians. It doesn’t take an anti-American stance, and it doesn’t glorify anyone either. That’s not the point. Warfare is about memory — the memories of men haunted by a conflict they didn’t fully understand.

It honors those who lived it without scrubbing away the mess and ugliness of what they were part of. The last shot is devastating — the camera taking the place of the Iraqi fighters and civilians, forcing you to sit with the aftermath. The story doesn’t end when the bullets stop.

If there’s any justice, Warfare will change the way we write and produce war films.
Here’s to hoping.

The concept alone had me hooked, and Death of a Unicorn stayed near the top of my list for films to watch this year. There’s something about it—over the top, strange, and not tethered to any pre-existing franchise—that made it feel refreshing. The cast is a blast; I’m always here for Richard E. Grant, and even a lackluster A24 film usually delivers a decent experience.

Sadly, Death of a Unicorn falls just short of that mark, and it all comes down to one fatal flaw: CGI. Credit where it’s due—writer-director Alex Scharfman gave it a shot—but the effects used to bring the unicorn to life are flat, rubbery, and a major disappointment. It’s a shame, really, because there was potential here. Unicorn is a quarter of the title here, and if they’re not believable, the whole film falters—and that’s exactly what happens. The effects are lazy and uninteresting.  There’s an attempt to bring the beasts to life in a Jim Henson-style fashion, but the odd, lifeless, and uninspired designs ultimately drag the film down in scope and feel. 

The plot is fun, light-hearted, and attempts to make political and socially conscious statements that stick with you. It’s a violent, gothic horror farce in the vein of classic ‘80s flicks like Fright Night or Evil Dead II, but it never quite reaches the level of a great camp horror movie.

Music in film is a strange beast—essential, yet often elusive. It's woven into the fabric of the medium, a silent partner to every scene, yet getting it right is an art in itself. It can set the tone, deepen the narrative, or unravel it completely. Too much, and you’re left with hollow gestures, a clichéd take on an artist's soul. Too little, and you’ve got nothing but noise—an audience adrift, unable to connect. Finding the sweet spot is as delicate as it is essential.

The Ballad of Wallis Island finds this balance with grace, navigating the journey of an artist in his twilight years—riddled with regret, self-doubt, and a staggering lack of self-awareness. The comedy is sharp, the story tender. The performances, across the board, elevate what could’ve easily tipped into cheesy or sentimental territory, bringing the narrative to life with genuine emotion. There’s always the risk of falling into the trap of the aging musician who finds redemption in what truly matters—a story that could have been a cloying mess. But the restraint and heart in the writing keep it grounded, never veering into awkwardness. The music, and the connection to it, is palpable.

It’s oddly amusing, fifteen years on, to look back at the era of ‘stomp clap’ folk-pop and see it now through a lens of nostalgia. I imagine we'll see more of it as time marches on. The costuming, the tone, the ideas—all wrapped up in a sweet little package that encapsulates a hopefulness that burned brightly and died somewhere in the 2010s. 

This kind of hope is a rare and welcome thing, and the emotional depth of the ensemble makes The Ballad of Wallis Island both a triumphant and unforgettable film. Music, in so many ways, is our portal back to a time and place. This film captures that, turning it into something larger—a celebration wrapped in nostalgia. It’s a tearful joy, thoroughly.

I’m a sucker for a grand, over-the-top musical number in the town square. I just wish this one belonged to a better movie.

2025’s Snow White stumbles at the starting line and never quite regains its footing. It’s less a reinvention and more an elaborate exercise in overthinking a story that was barely there to begin with. The original 1937 Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs wasn’t a masterpiece of narrative depth — it was a groundbreaking achievement in animation that changed the industry forever. Its plot? Thin. Its themes? Even thinner. But it didn’t need to be more. It was magic because it was first.

This new version tries desperately to pull a moral from the bones of an 87-year-old cartoon fairy tale that never had one. Why do you have to drag the body of an 87-year-old film out of the casket for everyone to see? Adding lipstick to a corpse doesn’t make me connect to it any more than I did with its memories. Some stories just weren’t built to carry modern political allegory, and that’s okay. Snow White was never Joan of Arc, nor was she Fantine from Les Misérables, brought low by a cruel and indifferent world. She’s a kind soul who leads by example — that’s the whole point. You can expand on that, sure, but turning her into a symbol of rebellion feels hollow. It’s not revolutionary; it’s branding—-something made by the Mouse’s community rather than a love letter to a cherished fairy tale. 

That’s not to say the film doesn’t try. I respect the effort to flesh out the characters — the prince, for example, is less “random dude who kisses corpses” and more swashbuckling rogue, channeling Errol Flynn’s Robin Hood. It’s a good look for him. The dynamic between him and Snow White has moments of charm, though the film seems to aim for Han Solo and Leia and lands closer to uninspired community theater. Close enough to recognize the shape, but stiff enough that you notice the seams.

There are seven dwarves in this film and each one of them looks terrible. They are teetering on scary to look at: rubbery, warped, painfully stale, and lifeless. I know I am not the first to say that the modern landscape for CGI is a bad place, and while I will say this isn’t the worst I’ve seen recently, this is not good. The dwarves themselves are written as well as they can be — they are charming and charismatic, just like in the original — but visually, they’re stuck somewhere between a cheap video game cutscene and a theme park animatronic that hasn’t been serviced in a decade.

Speaking of lifeless, unsettling things — Gal Gadot is bad in this. Truly, bafflingly bad. Before you accuse me of being some basement-dwelling misogynist raging against women in film, hear me out: a bad performance is a bad performance. Rachel Zegler, for all the off-screen controversy, is genuinely inspired and charismatic here. She brings a magnetic energy to the role, even if it’s not the direction I would have taken. Gadot, though, feels like she wandered in from a different, worse movie — stale, campy, and awkward in a film that’s otherwise trying to be sincere.

For all my cynicism, though, I can’t call this a dumb movie. It’s trying. It’s reaching for something more meaningful, even if it never quite grabs hold. And maybe that’s enough. I’m not the target audience, after all. If I were a seven-year-old girl watching this, maybe I’d see Snow White as a powerful, inspiring hero. Maybe I’d walk out feeling like I could change the world. And maybe that’s worth more than my grumbling about CGI and misfired revolutionary messages.

Sometimes, you need to get off your high horse and appreciate things for what they are; no one likes the cynic at Disneyland.

There’s a jazzy eccentricity to Black Bag, the second of Steven Soderbergh’s films in 2025, that kept me engaged throughout. This is a film teeming with intelligence and maturity, keeping the story fresh and colorful from start to finish. The story is simple, yet the nuanced additions and contemplations create real depth, making it a film that can be enjoyed over and over.

I definitely left the theater feeling like I needed to see the film again to fully grasp the story — which is both a positive and a negative. This is certainly a “blink and you’ll miss it” kind of film. The story structure almost functions like a two-act play, with virtually no fat in its hour-and-a-half runtime. I found this compelling, though I can understand it feeling dense for some audiences.

The cast doesn’t miss a beat, and the tight, densely serious yet simultaneously tongue-in-cheek dialogue feels refreshing and challenging all at once.

Stylistically, the combination of mid-century sleek bohemian spy thriller charm blends perfectly with modern touches — AI, vape pens, your therapist asking if you’re still taking ashwagandha — creating a playground for a classic modern film. It fits seamlessly into the films of 2025, yet still harkens back to an earlier era, making Black Bag a potential timeless classic. The thoughtful blend of pop espionage and bare-bones political thriller created a story I welcome with open arms, and it deserves a high spot in Soderbergh’s filmography.

It’s a rare and welcome thing to walk out of a theater feeling genuinely entertained again. Novocaine, directed by Dan Berk and Robert Olsen, serves as a sharp, unpretentious showcase for ever-growing Hollywood darling Jack Quaid and delivers exactly what it promises: light, clever without trying too hard, and, most importantly, gory and violent fun. The setup is refreshingly straightforward: Nathan, a man with a rare medical disorder that renders him unable to feel pain, falls hard for a woman. When she’s kidnapped, he barrels headfirst into the kind of messy, bone-crunching rescue mission you root for, even as you wince. It’s pulpy, sure — but the good kind of pulp, the kind that plants a smile on your face and reminds you why you love movies in the first place.

Novocaine is sharply written, and that’s why it works. It isn’t bogged down with exposition or trying to prove it’s smarter than it is. It takes a simple concept, wraps it up with enough heart and humor to carry you through the gratuitous action sequences, and never overstays its welcome. The core gag is razor-thin: Nathan can’t feel pain. That a nearly two-hour movie manages to serve up this joke repeatedly without wearing it out is a triumph in itself.

The characters are what keep it all from collapsing into a blood-soaked house of cards — the film’s true secret weapon. The first act wisely holds back on gore, giving you time to settle into the relationships and the offbeat, deadpan tone Novocaine is aiming for. It earns the chaos that follows. If the comedy doesn’t land, the whole thing falls apart. Luckily, the writing holds strong, buoyed by energetic performances and absurd situations that keep the story moving at a brisk, playful pace. Special mention goes to Matt Walsh, who shines as a worn-out cop — a trope just as exhausted as his character, yet he still makes it work. A perfectly timed jab about San Diego falling apart after the Chargers left gives the film (and its setting) an extra punch of personality.

That said, I am on the fence about Ray Nicholson — son of Jack… Nicholson, not Quaid. I haven’t seen Smile 2, so this is my first time watching him in action. He’s making bold choices and clearly giving it his all, but as the film’s lead villain, he’s the weakest link. He hits the right notes in theory, but by the fifth set piece of Jack Quaid getting beaten to a pulp, unfazed, the movie’s runtime starts to show — and that’s where Nicholson’s performance starts to sag. To be fair, this feels more like a script issue than an acting one, but he doesn’t quite rescue it either.

And before you think I’m just here to bash Ray for being a nepo-baby — let’s be clear: I am all in for Jack Quaid. I didn’t watch The Boys, either. But he’s flat-out impressive here. He’s the heart and soul of this movie, with a likable, effortless magnetism that holds everything together. Still, I’ll admit my Jack Quaid bias runs deep. Companion is still my front-runner for favorite film of the year so far — but a lot of my head start with Jack comes from his mom, Meg Ryan, and the Nora Ephron classics that I hold dearly. When I see Jack Quaid, I immediately think, Man, I love Sleepless in Seattle, and, I really should do my yearly rewatch of When Harry Met Sally. What can I say? I’m not immune to the charms of nepo-babies.

The transition from the climax into the heartfelt conclusion is the only time the film dragged for me — and even then, it’s still remarkably tight. It’s a testament to the care and character work baked into the script. By the end, the scattered pieces of drama culminate in a surprisingly cohesive, satisfying picture. Everything you rooted for pays off, and you’re left with a wonderfully gory, genuinely fun time.

From the first slapstick crash of Mickey 17, I wasn’t hooked — I was bracing for impact. Robert Pattinson’s Mickey hits the ground, and the movie never quite gets back on its feet. The jokes fumble, the tone stumbles, and what should be a slick, darkly comic opener lands with all the energy of a deflated airlock. It’s a start that promises speed but delivers awkwardness — a feeling that never quite lets go for the rest of the ride.

Let me be clear: I got my fill from Mickey 17. Robert Pattinson is phenomenal — a cocktail of sorrow, fear, anger, and apathy, garnished with the mannerisms of Jackass’s Steve-O. He’s giving everything he’s got, dragging the film’s emotional core to the surface and carrying it on his back. The movie itself isn’t afraid to get weird, and it brushes against something deeper, a meditation on life, death, and the spiritual toll of working-class exploitation. Bong Joon-ho pulls from his greatest hits — Snowpiercer’s class struggle, Okja’s corporate cruelty, Parasite’s commentary on wealth and power — but this time, it never quite hits the same nerve. The ideas are there; the impact isn’t. It’s not meaningless, just... flat. Like a speech that says all the right words but never raises your pulse.

The humor is mostly dead on arrival. Pattinson salvages some laughs, but the rest of the cast struggles. Mark Ruffalo, playing a televangelist-meets-Trump cult leader, leans into cartoonish villainy without much nuance, and Toni Collette, though giving it her all, is trapped in a role that teeters between satire and caricature. The film also leans hard on expository narration—presumably a holdover from the novel—but instead of enriching the story, it bogs it down, stopping characters in their tracks rather than propelling them forward.

And here’s the part that bothers me more than it should… (slight spoilers ahead): This world has cracked immortality. That should be earth-shattering — a fundamental shift in what it means to be human. Instead, the film breezes past it, using the conflict between Mickey 17 and Mickey 18 as a punchline rather than a gateway to deeper existential stakes. There’s a better movie buried in this premise, one that digs into identity, consciousness, and the weight of infinite existence. Mickey 17 flirts with those ideas, and sometimes it even lands, but when it doesn’t, the film drags — hard. The result is a muddled message, leaving the movie feeling more scattered than profound or relevant. 

By the time the film stumbled to its emotional finale, I was charmed by its characters but left with an overriding emptiness. The runtime doesn’t justify itself, and by the last action-driven set piece, I wasn’t exhilarated—I was just ready for it to wrap up. There’s plenty to enjoy, plenty of twists and turns to keep it engaging, but with Bong Joon-ho at the helm and a cast this stacked, I can’t shake the feeling that Mickey 17 should’ve been more.

 There’s a certain alchemy to regional cheap beer. Lone Star in Texas, Narragansett in New England, Grain Belt for the Minnesotans, National Bohemian for the Maryland diehards. But in the Pacific Northwest, the beer of choice—the one that clings to your adolescence like the smell of pine needles after a wet hike—is Rainier.

It was never about flavor. It was about presence. If you grew up in or around Seattle, Rainier wasn’t just a beer; it was the beer. You’d see it at every house party, crushed cans lining the countertops, a half-empty case beaten up in the corner of the room. It was a fixture—cheap, local, reliable. A rare trifecta these days.

There’s a peculiar magnetism to the things that come from the places we’re from. A desperate, almost primal desire to make home feel singular—to argue, against all evidence, that no other place could possibly be this place. Sure, Chicago has its dog, a chaotic mess of neon relish and sport peppers. New York? Pizza, obviously. Champagne has to be from Champagne, France. But the Northwest? That has to be a wild-caught salmon dinner, maybe a few crab legs for good measure, and an ice-cold Rainier.

That towering red R is more than just a logo. It’s shorthand for a region, a feeling, transportive as it is red. As emblematic as the Space Needle, the state ferry boats, the thick lines of Coast Salish artwork, hell, maybe even the mountain it’s named after. And when you see it outside the Northwest—which is almost never—it stops you in your tracks. No neatly stocked six-packs in some Brooklyn bodega, no trendy West Coast dive pushing it as an ironic import. If you do spot it, it’s a battered old metal sign clinging to the wall of a bar unironically, a flickering neon sign in the corner of a bar, or maybe a lone, dust-covered can in the cooler of a rural gas station, as if it wandered too far from home and got lost.   

A few years back, I started seeing posts about a fundraising campaign for a Rainier Beer documentary. The project was just starting to pick up steam—the kind of niche, hyper-local passion project that could just as easily fizzle out as make it to the finish line. In the years since, I moved to Los Angeles, but the film lingered in the back of my mind. Nearly five years in the making, Rainier: A Beer Odyssey has finally arrived. It took me a minute to track down a screening—it’s only really been shown in Washington—but on a trip home, I jumped at the opportunity to see it with a raucous crowd of proud Washingtonians at the historic Everett Theater, built in 1901. I’m happy to report it delivers—not just a stunning tribute to the state’s history, but a damn good documentary in its own right.

Director Isaac Olsen and writer-producers Justin and Rob Peterson—the two brothers behind Tacoma’s Eleven-Eleven bar—have stitched together a beautiful love letter to Northwest culture. Their documentary, Rainier: A Beer Odyssey, traces the trajectory of Rainier from its humble beginnings as a locally loved but unremarkable brew to the ’70s and early ’80s, when a scrappy group of young ad creatives lead by Terry Heckler, took a dying brand and gave it something far more potent than market share: an identity.

The strength of this documentary lies in one critical distinction—it’s not really about the beer. The focus shifts, almost imperceptibly, from the beverage itself to something much bigger: the moment Seattle found its voice. A time when artists and oddballs, unburdened by corporate censorship, made things without inhibition. The film deftly captures that perfect, fleeting intersection of art and commerce—advertising as creative rebellion. Seattle wasn’t New York, wasn’t Chicago, wasn’t Los Angeles. It didn’t have the budgets or the infrastructure. What it had was nerve. And that, in the end, is what leaves a cultural footprint.

Eloquently put by Gordon Bowker—a crucial part of the ad firm that crafted the legendary commercials and, incidentally, the founder of a small coffee shop known as Starbucks—his words encapsulate the unpretentious, almost accidental brilliance of Rainier’s presence in the city’s creative boom: “I never thought of it as a brand icon… it was just kind of there.” And yet, that’s exactly what made it work. It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t striving. It was organic, weird, and entirely of its place.

Seattle icon and Almost Live! alum John Keister puts it bluntly in the film: these ads helped shape the city’s unique, offbeat voice—one that still echoes today. And yet, the documentary never indulges in self-congratulation. In true Northwest fashion, it stays modest. No grandiose claims, no sanctimonious nostalgia. Just a tender, joyous tribute to a moment when creativity reigned.

And then, the gut punch. The film doesn’t shy away from the fury that comes when corporations buy up cultural touchstones and gut them for parts. The crowd at the Everett Theater let out an audible groan watching footage of Rainier’s brewery being dismantled, transformed into a soulless training site for Tully’s Coffee. A slow, arrogant corporate death—one of many, familiar to anyone who’s seen something they love get gobbled up and spat out in the name of “corporate insight”

Who would’ve thought beer ads could capture so much? But the film makes it clear: these weren’t just ads. They were absurdist, visually stunning, sharply funny snapshots of a moment in time—bold, weird, distinctly of Seattle. They weren’t overtly political, but they had an edge. A quiet, knowing rebellion woven into every frame. Watching, I kept thinking: modern advertising could learn a thing or two from this. Give fresh creatives the space to run wild—like the legendary Rainiers bottles—and you’ll get something with real staying power. Instead, we get algorithm-approved nothingness. A system fixated on predicting what will “sell” and maximizing revenue, rather than creating what will endure.

Moving away from the Northwest only deepened my attachment to Rainier. Silly as it sounds, it became a point of pride. I don’t even drink anymore, but I still keep my fridge stocked with it. I’ve checked bags full of Rainier on flights back to LA like some deranged beer smuggler, hoarding it because—unless you’re in Washington, Oregon, British Columbia, or, sadly, Idaho—you won’t find it. There’s a thin sliver of availability in Northern California, just over the border in Lake Tahoe. I’ve made the pilgrimage, stockpiled cases, lugged them back like relics from a holy site. And then I gave them away. Trinkets from a faraway land. The response? Underwhelming. I’ve watched eyes glaze over as I wax poetic about its significance—what it means to me, to Seattle, to the Northwest culture that made me who I am.

And that’s fine. It’s not for them.

But Rainier: A Beer Odyssey? That’s for everyone. For anyone who loves Seattle. Who loves making things. Who loves being part of a cultural conversation. Who rages at the way corporations gut creativity in pursuit of a safe, sellable product. The film isn’t about beer. It’s about making something with integrity—and how, when you do, it outlives you. Just like that towering red R, still standing, still beloved, in the heart of a city that refuses to forget.

This is the perfect dumb movie—just smart enough to keep you engaged, just dumb enough to remind you that the details don’t really matter. From the opening ten minutes, you’re launched headfirst into the 1980’s cocaine-fueled, self-serious, and utterly wacky world of Stephen King. It nails the tone, embracing both its absurdity and its sincerity, culminating in something wildly entertaining.
This is the kind of film best watched with a group of friends, cheap beer in hand, ready to roast every ridiculous twist. It’s not meant to be dissected with scholarly intent but rather praised in gleeful, tongue-in-cheek admiration—the way all great over-the-top horror should be. The film is heavily steeped in irony and cynicism; it should be celebrated in the same spirit.
If there’s a flaw, it’s that the film’s central conceit—nihilistic, over-the-top deaths doubling as a loose metaphor for generational trauma—wears thin fast. The more CGI-heavy and cartoonish the carnage became, the less invested I felt. One particular sequence involving thousands of bees nearly lost me entirely.
But what saves the film, what elevates it from B-movie schlock to something genuinely memorable, is the cast. They play it with just the right mix of sensitivity and humor, selling the madness with total commitment. 
I walked in expecting disappointment. I walked out pleasantly surprised. This is the kind of horror movie that thrives on its own excess—teetering between brilliance and absurdity, never quite collapsing under its own weight. It’s messy and occasionally exhausting, but that’s part of the fun. You don’t watch a film like this for restraint; you watch it to see just how far off the rails it can go. And on that front, it absolutely delivers.

I went in expecting a horror film with Companion and was relieved when it wasn’t. What I got instead floored me. This is a film that doesn’t just critique fifty years of misogyny, the film-bro gaze, and the tired “nice guys finish last” mentality—it crumples them up and tosses them aside without ceremony.

It’s sharp, it’s funny, it’s thrilling, and, above all, it’s a damn good time. Whatever Drew Hancock does next, I’ll be there for it.

The film aspires to explore weighty themes but ultimately falters, drifting aimlessly between concepts without ever finding a solid grounding. It begins with an exploration of the isolating nature of parasocial relationships, only to veer awkwardly into the hollow chase for influencer fame, before devolving into a hazy rumination on the human condition in the face of infinite time. What could have been a poignant narrative instead feels scattered and, at times, indecipherable. Just when it appears poised to offer something profound, the film evaporates into a haze of uncertainty, leaving a lingering sense of frustration rather than illumination. The humor, too, seems misguided, with jokes that feel more like calculated algorithmic afterthoughts than genuine attempts at levity—most egregiously in the form of a relentlessly persistent Blue Apron ad that seems more a product placement than a punchline.

At its core, the film suffers from a lack of focus. Its lofty ambition to tackle complex themes overwhelms the narrative, resulting in an experience that feels both underdeveloped and drawn-out. Had the ideas been more contained and sharply focused, maybe in a short film, they might have had room to breathe, but as it stands, the film stretches its modest insights to the breaking point, culminating in a flat and contrived ending. There is no sense of punctuation—only a hollow, artificial conclusion.