X

One fucked up horror flick.” That’s how a cop describes the film inside X. But really, that’s exactly what X is. A fucked up horror flick. It’s raw and sweaty and mean and weirdly beautiful. It’s a movie about sex and death colliding and exploding all over the screen. It never hides what it is. It’s sexual, freaky, filthy, and kind of fascinating. Everyone in it is chasing something, pleasure, money, love, attention, and it all starts to blur together until you can’t tell which one is more dangerous. The movie treats desire like a monster you can’t quite kill. It just sits there breathing beside you, waiting. What’s wild is how smart it is about it all without ever pretending to be. It isn’t preaching, it’s just showing. Like, this is what people do, this is what they want, this is what happens when wanting turns rotten. It never feels cheap though. It’s uncomfortable, yeah, but in that way that makes you keep watching because it’s too tense, too charged, too alive to look away. The tension doesn’t fade even when you know what’s coming. Every shot feels tight, like you’re trapped inside a heartbeat. It shows you enough to make you squirm but never enough to let you relax. Mia Goth is on another level here. She’s mesmerizing, the kind of performance that makes you feel like she’s the only person in the room even when she’s covered in blood. Jenna Ortega’s scream could cut glass. The old couple, they feel too real. I couldn’t tell where the makeup ended and the skin began, and that uncertainty just made it worse, in the best way. X isn’t just about sex or death. It’s about how close they are. About how both make you feel something you probably shouldn’t. And that’s what makes it so damn good.