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.