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A lazy Sunday, I think. We're noshing leftover smoked turkey and brisket from our takeout run and staring at nothing. There's a WWE PPV later tonight that we want to watch, though the weather might put the kibosh on that plan, as we're due for a storm this evening. If it doesn't, we've got the popcorn ready, and if it does, well, that's what the Network is for and we'll just watch it later.
I got a bit of streaming in yesterday. I watched a pair of horror movies, neither of which was any great shakes, and an episode of Whitechapel, which was fabulous. The Collector, the first horror flick I watched, turned out to be torture porn. If I'd had a brain and an ounce of self-respect, I'd've turned it off once visible intestines came into play, but Josh Stewart was so pretty and such a perfect bad boy with a heart of gold that I soldiered on. I did, however, end the movie once the little girl was rescued and he was in the ambulance because I had no desire to see the inevitable twist where the baddie isn't dead after all, ha ha, fuck you for thinking perseverance ever pays off, sucker. That "twist" was old twenty years ago; now it's just rancid, mean-spirited nihilism. No, thanks. In my world, Arkin and Hannah survived and recovered and built lives for themselves, and no hapless paramedics were slaughtered for the crime of driving the injured to the hospital.
Warning: Do Not Play was the other horror movie I watched. It was a subtitled Korean ghost story about a desperate indie film writer and director who tracks down a movie allegedly filmed by a ghost, oooooh. It's actually better than it sounds, if also a passel of cliches and tropes familiar to anyone who's watched more than three of these things. I'm sure some nuance was lost in translation and the lack of cultural context for someone ignorant of Korean folklore and death customs, but the ending was a confused muddle of gorgeous imagery whose ultimate intent flew over my head.
Does anyone know why so many ghosts in Asian horror have icy blue eyes?
Whitechapel was the perfect nightcap. It's a British police series about the hunt for a modern Jack the Ripper copycat. Opinion on the first season was evidently divided, with sniffy critics calling the plot imbecilic and the acting risible, but I loved it. Yes, there was a fair bit of ham in the squadroom scenes, but it never descended into hokey farce, and if that's what the Brits consider risible acting, might I have a spot more, please? Their dregs outshine our thespian embarrassments by several orders of magnitude.
I got a bit of streaming in yesterday. I watched a pair of horror movies, neither of which was any great shakes, and an episode of Whitechapel, which was fabulous. The Collector, the first horror flick I watched, turned out to be torture porn. If I'd had a brain and an ounce of self-respect, I'd've turned it off once visible intestines came into play, but Josh Stewart was so pretty and such a perfect bad boy with a heart of gold that I soldiered on. I did, however, end the movie once the little girl was rescued and he was in the ambulance because I had no desire to see the inevitable twist where the baddie isn't dead after all, ha ha, fuck you for thinking perseverance ever pays off, sucker. That "twist" was old twenty years ago; now it's just rancid, mean-spirited nihilism. No, thanks. In my world, Arkin and Hannah survived and recovered and built lives for themselves, and no hapless paramedics were slaughtered for the crime of driving the injured to the hospital.
Warning: Do Not Play was the other horror movie I watched. It was a subtitled Korean ghost story about a desperate indie film writer and director who tracks down a movie allegedly filmed by a ghost, oooooh. It's actually better than it sounds, if also a passel of cliches and tropes familiar to anyone who's watched more than three of these things. I'm sure some nuance was lost in translation and the lack of cultural context for someone ignorant of Korean folklore and death customs, but the ending was a confused muddle of gorgeous imagery whose ultimate intent flew over my head.
Does anyone know why so many ghosts in Asian horror have icy blue eyes?
Whitechapel was the perfect nightcap. It's a British police series about the hunt for a modern Jack the Ripper copycat. Opinion on the first season was evidently divided, with sniffy critics calling the plot imbecilic and the acting risible, but I loved it. Yes, there was a fair bit of ham in the squadroom scenes, but it never descended into hokey farce, and if that's what the Brits consider risible acting, might I have a spot more, please? Their dregs outshine our thespian embarrassments by several orders of magnitude.
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