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COVID-19 Lockdown, Day 110
Yet again, I'm struggling to find something to care about and failing. The President is senile, the country is a dumpster fire, and no one seems inclined to improve our prospects. In light of these truths, I fail to see why I should be roused by anything. All I can do is keep ahead of the bills that never stop and shore up my own crumbling house.
I tried to watch Ju-On: Origins yesterday because I enjoyed the movies, but I lasted eighteen minutes into the first episode because I had subzero desire to watch a grown man beat a six-year-old girl with his fists or to hear about incest or to watch two teenage girls lure a third into a house to be raped. Horror had long treated with taboo subjects, but too often these days, it prefers to wallow in them, not to explore them or raise questions of ultimate good and evil and collective versus individual responsibility or self-determination, but to fling them against the screen like clods of feces like an overstimulated toddler eager to share the fetid contents of its diaper. Too often, directors take a lack of constraint as permission to go as far as possible without stopping to consider whether or not they should, and their work suffers. In this case, creepy, croaking ghosts bent on vengeance would have been A++, but a pedophile pummeling a screaming little girl hard enough to rock the car was an embarrassing abomination.
I wish I could say this pageant of edgelordry will be roundly panned, but I have no doubt that the fifteen-year-old cretins to whom this panders are eating it up with double-fisted spoons and salving their stunted consciences by dubbing it transgressive horror instead of a fever dream of misogynistic violence conjured up by dudes who think they should've gotten more blowjobs in high school.
I tried to watch Ju-On: Origins yesterday because I enjoyed the movies, but I lasted eighteen minutes into the first episode because I had subzero desire to watch a grown man beat a six-year-old girl with his fists or to hear about incest or to watch two teenage girls lure a third into a house to be raped. Horror had long treated with taboo subjects, but too often these days, it prefers to wallow in them, not to explore them or raise questions of ultimate good and evil and collective versus individual responsibility or self-determination, but to fling them against the screen like clods of feces like an overstimulated toddler eager to share the fetid contents of its diaper. Too often, directors take a lack of constraint as permission to go as far as possible without stopping to consider whether or not they should, and their work suffers. In this case, creepy, croaking ghosts bent on vengeance would have been A++, but a pedophile pummeling a screaming little girl hard enough to rock the car was an embarrassing abomination.
I wish I could say this pageant of edgelordry will be roundly panned, but I have no doubt that the fifteen-year-old cretins to whom this panders are eating it up with double-fisted spoons and salving their stunted consciences by dubbing it transgressive horror instead of a fever dream of misogynistic violence conjured up by dudes who think they should've gotten more blowjobs in high school.