Longlegs

five greasy, ominous, lipstick-smeared stars. i no longer fear god, but i do fear nic cage whispering sweet nothings in tongues while looking like he crawled out of a texas basement in 1972. this movie lingers. it slithers into the soft, porous parts of your brain and makes itself at home, smoking unfiltered cigarettes in the back of your subconscious. it’s cold, clinical, but also sweaty. damp polyster type shi. maika monroe is PHEEEENOMENAL, sharp angles and a just-shaking energy, like she knows something we don’t (she does), and oz perkins directs like he’s daring you to sleep with the lights off ever again. and the sound design. jesus christ. i swear to god, if i hear those backwards whispers one more time, i’m calling a priest. or a therapist. or both. actually, no, i’m just going to watch it a fifth time.