Cult Movie Club

A young man accidentally intercepts a phone call that completely ruins what was shaping up to be a perfectly nice evening. Armed with information nobody asked for and seventy minutes to do absolutely anything about it, he proceeds to navigate a city that is—understandably—not taking the news particularly well. A love story. Sort of.

An Ohio man becomes increasingly convinced that something catastrophic is coming. The people around him aren't so sure. That's rather the point.

A Montreal model shows up to the trial of an accused serial killer every single day, as if it were her day job. It is not her day job. Her motivations are her own business, and she would very much like to keep it that way. This is NOT a horror film. It contains no jump scares, no gore, and no conventional horror elements whatsoever. It will get under your skin anyway. Possibly permanently. Pascal Plante's French-Canadian thriller is what happens when true crime culture stares into the mirror a little too long. The mirror stares back. It seems perfectly fine with what it sees. You will not be.

Three women across three generations discover that they share both a name and a remarkably similar solution to the problem of an unsatisfactory husband. A local coroner, who really should know better, keeps getting in the way. Or possibly helping. It's a Peter Greenaway film, so naturally none of this is straightforward.

Suspiria (1977) An American ballet student arrives at a prestigious European dance academy and almost immediately suspects that something is deeply, profoundly wrong. She is correct. Dario Argento then spends the remaining runtime assaulting your eyeballs with the most aggressively beautiful color palette ever deployed in service of something absolutely horrifying. A masterpiece. Wear sunglasses. Suspiria (2018) Another American dancer. Another prestigious European dance academy. Another coven of witches with extremely poor HR practices. This time Luca Guadagnino strips away Argento's neon fever dream and replaces it with something considerably colder, slower, and more determined to get under your skin in ways you won't fully process until approximately three days later. Same basic nightmare. Completely different experience. Tilda Swinton plays three roles, because of course she does. We'll be watching both. Come prepared to have opinions.

A grown man with the emotional development of a twelve year old refuses to accept that his childhood best friend has done what most people do upon reaching adulthood: moved on. What follows is one of the most quietly unsettling portraits of obsession ever committed to film, largely because the stalker in question is so genuinely, bafflingly sincere about the whole thing that you're never quite sure whether to be disturbed or heartbroken. Probably both. Definitely both.

A John Huston film starring Marlon Brando and Elizabeth Taylor about repressed desire, obsession, and spectacularly poor life choices at a U.S. Army base in the American South. Brando plays Major Weldon Penderton — rigid, tormented, and genuinely smoldering in a way that feels entirely intentional given what the film is quietly, carefully saying beneath its surface. Because underneath the military brass and Southern Gothic atmosphere, this is a remarkably tender and humane portrait of a man at war with his own identity at a time when that war had no good outcomes. It flopped magnificently upon release. Audiences in 1967 were not remotely prepared for it. Audiences today will recognize it for the quietly radical film it always was. Rehabilitated by time. Vindicated by cult status. We'll be the judge of whether it deserved either.