Death to All Superheroes
Batman is a fascist. Superman is dead. I'm bored.
Batman is a fascist. Superman is dead. I'm bored.
Richard Linklater’s Everybody Wants Some!! assumes we'd all like to return to the days when the boys ruled campus.
The new Ghostbusters isn’t a feminist triumph. It’s just a bad movie.

American cinema was once full of formidable, charismatic older women. What happened to them?
What we liked about Carrie Fisher was that she seemed inclined to tell the truth, and almost nobody does that, certainly not Hollywood stars.
Meryl Streep’s speechifying at the Golden Globes was the worst thing to happen since Trump’s election.
A new translation of the 1970s horror novel The Twenty Days in Turin is an eerily resonant read today.

John Adams and Peter Sellars’s Girls of the Golden West is bland, poorly staged liberalism.

Ridley Scott’s The Dog Stars is a postapocalyptic thriller without thrills, resting on the shoulders of a mopey Jacob Elordi, who’s far from up to the task. What the film does have is a frontier fantasy it can’t stop indulging.

The Criterion Channel’s Southern Gothic collection gathers a century of films about a region that set out to make its slaveholding past look civilized. Instead, it produced a body of work steeped in rot, delusion, and violent religiosity.

Sofia Coppola’s new film gets rid of everything that made the original interesting.

Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk is short, action-packed, and not as bad as it could have been!

The new slasher film Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma promises “a frenzy of psychosexual mania.” What director Jane Schoenbrun delivers is tamer but considerably funnier.

Fred Rogers was a wonderful human being who tried to use his influence for good. I just couldn't stand his show.

Boots Riley's Sorry to Bother You captures the crude madness that we live in every day under capitalism.

BlacKKKlansman is a messy, unfocused film. But it's also one of Spike Lee's best.

The new Halloween is a serviceable remake of a truly great horror film.

Despite generations of imperial murder, torture, rape, and plunder, the British ruling class still gets the brown-nose treatment in historical depictions. Not so in The Favourite, where the royals are shown as the disgusting creatures they were and still are.

In If Beale Street Could Talk, the ugliness of oppression and persecution stand in tense contrast with Barry Jenkins' lush, color-drenched cinematography.

The Academy Awards were even more of a shitshow than usual this year. This is Jacobin’s last Oscars article, because we will find better things to do with our lives than watch that garbage.