The Green Inferno Review [exclusive] May 2026

★☆☆☆☆ (1/4)

There is a fine line between paying homage to the gut-squelching cannibal subgenre of the 1970s and 80s (the infamous Cannibal Holocaust and Cannibal Ferox ) and simply reviving its most grotesque, politically tone-deaf elements without adding any new insight. Eli Roth’s The Green Inferno —a title borrowed from the working name of Cannibal Holocaust —does not walk that line. It tramples it, falls face-first into the mud, and then expects applause for the mess it has made. the green inferno review

Unlike Ruggero Deodato’s Cannibal Holocaust —which was undeniably racist and exploitative but at least contained a meta-critique of media sensationalism—Roth offers nothing. He gives the tribe no language, no personality, no motive beyond ritualistic hunger. They are simply obstacles with machetes. For a film ostensibly about Western arrogance, it is ironically the most arrogant kind of filmmaking: using a real culture as a wallpaper of terror without a shred of anthropological curiosity. ★☆☆☆☆ (1/4) There is a fine line between

The Green Inferno burns bright on the surface, but underneath, there’s nothing but ash. For a film ostensibly about Western arrogance, it

The cinematography, too, captures the oppressive humidity and alien beauty of the jungle. Roth knows how to frame a landscape to make it feel like a cage. The fatal flaw of The Green Inferno is its staggering lack of self-awareness. Roth attempts to critique activist naivete, but his script is just as naive. The indigenous tribe is portrayed as a monolithic, screeching, one-dimensional threat—exactly the kind of "noble savage turned savage brute" trope that the genre should have retired forty years ago.

Furthermore, the characters are so insufferably stupid and self-righteous that their deaths elicit not horror, but relief. The lone comic relief character—a stoner who smuggles weed in a body cavity—delivers jokes that land with a thud. When the film tries to pivot to genuine pathos in its final act, the audience has long since checked out. The most damning issue is the film’s treatment of its female lead. Justine is subjected to a specific, extended threat of sexual violence that serves no narrative purpose other than to remind us that Roth has played in this sandbox before ( Hostel ). It is gratuitous in the worst sense: not shocking to illuminate a theme, but shocking because Roth seems to think that’s what "hardcore horror" demands.

On paper, this is a deliciously dark satire of "slacktivism" and white savior complexes. In practice, The Green Inferno is too busy slinging entrails to make a coherent point. To Roth’s credit, the practical effects are outstanding. The gore is visceral, sticky, and brilliantly executed. One early scene involving a quadriplegic character and a colony of ravenous ants is genuinely hard to watch. Another sequence—a full-body dismemberment accompanied by tribal chanting—has the queasy, hypnotic rhythm of a nightmare. For horror fans who value prosthetic artistry, there are moments of grotesque beauty here.