two hundred and seventy words since last update, and with them, BaBR IV is done.
I watched The Blair Witch Project the day before yesterday. As the granddaddy of the found-footage subgenre of horror, it deserves a place in the modern pantheon, but this is a film that doesn't hold up on subsequent viewings. Its success hinges on the tension of not knowing what might happen next or when the witch of the wood will reveal herself, and once you know that the witch never appears, and that the movie is a lot of trudging through the damp wood and shivering in tents, the tension breaks, never to be recovered. I spent most of this viewing thinking of how much I hated Heather and wished Josh, the only decent human being among them, would have told her to go fuck herself and gone back to the car the minute she tried to go off-trail.
The stick men in the woods and the final scene in the abandoned house still pack a wallop, though.
Yesterday, I watched Abominable, a delightfully cracktastic indie about a paralyzed dude taking on the cheesiest sasquatch monster ever. It was sublime, the best of the hokiest worst, and I will love it forever just because the paralyzed dude gets to be the hero and the abusive PCA gets his comeuppance. Got your face crunched by the sasquatch, did you, asshole? That'll learn you to backhand the paraplegic out of his wheelchair because he...touched your arm. Ha.
This baby was a throwback to the best of the 80s cheese. Nubile coeds getting crunched by a creature that looked like an enterprising effects artist stuffed a hose up a My Pet Monster and inflated him to the size of a Macy's parade float. An improbable climax. An inexplicably douchey sheriff who ignores repeated calls for help. It's an unapologetic romp through the tropey tulips.
The one sour note came when Preston, the bewheeled hero, interrupted the grand climax to explain to the terrified teenager he has rescued just how he came be be in his wheelchair. NEWSFLASH: She doesn't give a fuck. She's just seen three of her friends crunched like meaty Cheetos by Junior Gorg on steroids and narrowly escaped the same fate. You could have been paralyzed in a freak porno accident involving a trapeze and a misplaced elephant boner for all she cares. She just wants to get away from the monster creeping not-so-stealthily around your house, but instead, she has to kneel and listen to you recount your trauma and deliver a treacly speech about miracles and second chances and survival. Suck wind and roll your ass, you moron.
Minor quibble aside, I love this movie and will pet it and love it and call it George.