It’s always fun to watch the first four (or rather, parts 2-4) of Friday the 13th, because it shows Jason Voorhees as a real human being. Kane Hodder, who played Jason from parts 7-10, once remarked that his goal in playing the part was to given Jason more emotion, something an unstoppable zombie who more or less can’t die has no need for. After The Final Chapter, the series just went downhill.

I still think a Friday the 13th musical would fucking own.

Bored with the real world and for some odd reason missing the sleepless nights and endless stress of academia, I’ve made the decision to apply to Ph.D programs in a variety of fields. I received my Master’s degree in Classical Civilizations, which is only slightly less useless than Art History, but since my interest in horror films has been rejuvenated by all the free time I have, I’ll be applying to Humanities programs and, God willing, Creative Writing programs. The former will allow me to focus on ancient history, religion, and film, while the latter will let me focus on whatever the fuck I want to focus on. Both offer no real income potential, but I resigned to that fact when I decided to major in Classics over six years ago.

To be blunt about it, applying to grad school fucking sucks. I’d rather pass a kidney stone, because at least once it’s gone, there isn’t four months of waiting to hear the stone is back and you have to go through the whole process of agonizing pain and dreams of suicide again. There are enough obstacles to drive a saint mad, and, if you’re like me, the payoff was definitely not worth the $43,000 in debt I currently have to my name. Sure, I can say I have a Master’s, which is a quick and easy to shrug off the fact that I’m twenty-six and work at a copy shop, but it’s an MA in a humanities-related field, and, well, that’s pretty damned pointless, now isn’t it? Hence the possibility of a Ph.D, which is pretty much the only way to alleviate the pain of knowing you spent a year’s worth of an average salary on something you could have learned if you just went to a fucking library for a few hours a day. One of the obstacles I’m facing is a writing sample. Sure, I can use my MA paper, but for a creative writing program? Even for Humanities it’s a stretch, as its topic clearly wouldn’t be my intended focus should a school be foolish enough to accept my underachieving ass into their ranks. As a result, I’ve taken to researching a variety of topics, all irrelevant, so I can a) hopefully write a paper to use as a writing sample, and b) name drop like mad in my letter of intent. The latter definitely seems more plausible, as I’m writing this instead of doing said research.

But I have done some. Not a lot, and most of it is relegated to outdated books on horror cinema, but enough for me to find someone to disagree with, which is always a good thing when it comes to stuffy academic papers that thrive on being contentious and so laden with circuitous reasoning that discerning anything that resembles a point becomes a seemingly insurmountable task (much like applying to graduate school where you get to write these types of papers). My paper topic has changed focus since its inception, a fairly common scenario. It took me four months to finally settle on a topic for my MA paper, and by then I should have had something that resembled a rough draft of the entire thing. This is not a deterrent; however, as I care more about horror movies than I do ancient religion and philosophy, and I actually enjoy reading old books on horror cinema more so than I do anything ever by Plato. Ever ever ever. God, fuck Plato.

One such book is Terror and Everyday Life by Jonathan Lake Crane. Crane’s thesis is that horror films today have departed significantly from their predecessors to reflect the prevalence and rising obsession with violent imagery in society today. Had this book been written in, say, 2007 instead of 1994, Crane would have had a fuckin’ field day with the glut of garbage that has become commonplace on the once silver screen, now painted red…WITH BLOOD!!!! Sorry, had to be done. If we are to believe Eli Roth, his Hostel series is a modern day Guernica (my analogy, not his).¹ I personally believe this is complete and utter bullshit, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. This, along with all the Saw films and Captivity and the dreadful Wolf Creek, would have been sufficient fodder for Dr. Crane, who, by the way, would make a perfect mad scientist with a name like that. But I digress.

The final chapter of Crane’s book deals with the beloved Jason Voorhees and, by extension, the plot of the first film. He opens the chapter with an interesting observation: mankind has become desensitized to the fears of the atomic bomb, and this apparently gave rise to a figure like Jason Voorhees. Or at least I think that’s what he was getting at. It was hard to tell through all the pretention and bullshit that permeated every sentence. After reading the introduction several times, I was still unable to discern anything relevant, though this mostly has everything to do with his terrible arguments and not his stuffy writing style.

Jason is neither male nor female: Jason is really an ‘it.’ He has no identity beyond the blank hockey mask that carries no gender markings.

After a lengthy plot synopsis, in which he at least makes one valid point (the characters in the first film are nothing more than fodder, and the audience has no emotional attachment), Crane finally turns to the figure of Jason, whom he deems an ‘it,’ as opposed to a he or she. This attempt to strip the figure of any semblance of humanity does little to help his case. First and foremost, Jason is most certainly a he, a little boy who drowned one fateful day at camp because the counselors were too busy engaging in carnal desires to notice him drowning. Crane’s description of Jason’s mask as a means to sever all ties to an identity is merely plagiarizing the concept of Michael Myers, whose expressionless acts of obscene violence at the beginning of Halloween parallel the expressionless mask he wears throughout the film. He is the personification of pure evil. Jason is nothing more than a little kid who drowned, elevated to the status of super villain by the money-grubbing studio execs who felt it necessary to start a franchise and ultimately bury it through the use of lackluster scripts, awful acting, and JASON IN FUCKING SPACE!

Only in the penultimate climax does the audience discover that Jason’s spirit has used his mother’s body to cleanse the camp of human beings; yet it would be wrong to call Jason a she – especially when, after Friday the 13th concludes – Jason will do most of his lonely work with his own form, although other bodies will, from time to time, don the enigmatic mask and be transformed into a murderous black hole.

When Crane finally reveals that Pamela Voorhees is the killer, he attempts to assign her motives a supernatural bent, insisting that the spirit of Jason is forcing her to murder. Later on he proclaims that Jason, not Mrs. Voorhees, killed everyone in the film. What Crane is doing here is assigning a deeper significance to what is merely a revenge story. An interview with Victor Miller, who wrote the original screenplay, reveals that Jason was “a victim, not a villain,” and Mrs. Voorhees was “working from a horribly twisted desire to avenge the senseless death of her son.”² The end of the film features her uttering “Kill her mommy,” and, “Don’t let her get away,” mimicking Jason’s voice, and Pamela’s back story reveals that she heard voices shortly after the “death” of her son, prompting her to kill, so his idea isn’t that far-fetched. This, however, can be explained away by simply conjecturing that Pamela Voorhees has just gone insane, a not unlikely scenario considering her son drowned and this is a horror movie. Jason “speaking through her” at the end of the film can, when taken in context with what Victor Miller said, simply be seen as the nadir of her madness. This wasn’t a ghost story, and for Crane to assign it as such cheapens the overall concept and effect Miller intended the film to have. This, of course, says nothing of those who chose to make Jason the primary antagonist of the nine sequels that eventually followed, but that’s for an entirely different article altogether.

Crane’s attempts at breaking Jason down into nothing more than an unstoppable killing machine devoid of emotion completely ignores both the intent of the original film and the scope of the franchise, which slowly devolved into nothing more than a means to show tits, ass, and gruesome murders. In the end, his lengthy discussion of Jason is unwarranted when you take into account the fact that Jason has almost nothing to do with the original film, serving merely as a catalyst for his mother’s wicked deeds. Horror films need no deeper meaning to have an impact on the viewer. The psychological and the visceral are presented on the surface of Friday the 13th, and no amount of academic analysis is necessary.

<sup>1. http://www.alternet.org/reproductivejustice/80134/?page=2
2. http://victormiller.com/faq/index.html#q14</sup>

Despite my distaste for Platinum Dunes remakes, this poster for the Friday the 13th remake is flippin’ awesome.

Whenever I write something substantial, I submit them link to Digg, Reddit, and FARK in an effort to increase traffic. While this might seem kind of underhanded, it’s the only way anyone is ever really going to see my work. It is done with the intent of people liking what they see and returning, so in the future I won’t have to submit my own work.

So yes. In less than a day I have had close to 400 hits. The funny thing is, all of them have been on one post, the review I made of The Passion of the Christ. Granted, that WAS the review I submitted, and I felt guilty submitting the blog proper, so I expected that. Regardless, it does feel nice to know that people are reading my work, whether they like what I write or not. So far it’s been up voted on Reddit about 18 times and down voted about 11.

While I’m hesitant to assume more people will visit my site on a regular basis because of all of this, I am going to make a concerted effort to update with something substantial at leastb four times a week, and post something period every day. I’m currently working on big things….BIG THINGS I TELL YA! and I hope all who read this will check back periodically to get a dose of horror academia and other nonsensical ramblings about blood, guts, and cheap thrills.

Note: This is meant to be a joke. Any outward expression of hatred or ignorance is meant to be taken within the context of the overall piece and does not reflect my own personal beliefs.

Over the past several years a deluge of films have turned basic zombie tropes on their head, and in doing so opened the doors for those who feel the need to scratch the itch of change within a genre filled to the brim with overzealous fans who fear it. The zombies made famous by Romero’s trilogy were pushed to the wayside by Alex Garland and Danny Boyle in 28 Days Later, the French brought us the walking dead who just want to go on with their lives in Les Revenants, and Zach Snyder put a new spin on the slow, lumbering zombie with his remake of Romero’s Dawn of the Dead, which featured hyperfast zombies seemingly propelled by caffeine, speed, and about thirty Red Bulls. In the midst of all of these is Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, wherein we are treated to an alternative zombie film the likes of which have never been seen.

The Passion of the Christ is a zombie film without actually being a zombie film. Instead of depicting the aftermath of the zombification of Jesus, its focus lies more on the events that lead up to it and the characters. One has to give Mel Gibson credit in attempting a film of this caliber. Though not a zombie film on the surface, it contains levels of violence and gore that border on the extreme. As all of the violence is more or less relegated to one individual, the film borders on exploitation and reveals itself in some ways to have the attributes of an ancient snuff film. Based on the events found in a single chapter of the New York Times Best Seller The Holy Bible (2002), The Passion of the Christ follows the torture and subsequent death and emergence as a zombie of one Jesus H. Christ, a poor, humble carpenter who has acquired a cult-like following of men he calls his “Disciples.” He is captured by the priests of the city Judaea, a fascist theocracy not unlike that of present day America, where he is subjected to torture and embarrassment for claiming to be the Son of God. It is not until the end of the film do we see any trace of a zombie, and it is only for a brief moment before the credits roll.

As stated above, unique to this film is the manner in which they approach the subject matter. Though zombies are conspicuously absent, the blood and violence that pervades nearly three quarters of the film is enough to rival that of some of the more gruesome films of this kind, such as Dead Alive and Cannibal Holocaust. Jesus is whipped and beaten mercilessly, chunks of flesh flying off his body all while throngs of people stand by and laugh gleefully. The blood flows and bones are broken as the film straddles the fine line between torture porn and exploitation film, its engrossing story and compelling characters allowing the film to skirt the much derided moniker.

Mel Gibson succeeds at making this cult leader a sympathetic character and an anti-hero in the same vein as V from V for Vendetta and as he endures more torture than one human being could handle, his stoicism begins to fade and his emotions take hold of his frail, battered body, until finally, three dies after succumbing from his wounds, he rises from the dead and wreaks havoc throughout Judaea. While this was filmed, it was given an epilogue treatment reminiscent of the end credits of Snyder’s Dawn of the Dead remake, and can only be found on the DVD, as it was deemed to gruesome for theater. The remaining characters provide a major draw for the viewer, as they allow us to see another side of the story. While most zombie films focus on the blood and violence and all manner of ever-present grotesqueries, this one gives us frequent glimpses into how the loved ones of those infected react to such a catastrophic event. Gibson goes one step further and places the emphasis square on the shoulders of one man and a few close relatives. In this approach we are able to not only see the violence horror fans crave, but also to be drawn into an in depth character-driven story filled with emotion.

It is well known that Mel Gibson is an anti-Semite, and given this, in an age where horror films are heavy on the metaphors and allegories (George Romero anyone?), it is entirely possible that the “virus” in the film that turns Jesus into a zombie could be the Jews that condemn him to death. In a recent interview, Gibson stated that, “Given the content, I knew the film would be controversial, so I had to leave several things open to interpretation.” Though I disagree with the message Gibson is seemingly trying to convey, I believe this is a breath of fresh in the world of zombie cinema, in which we’re inundated with hordes of dead people reanimated by a virus, or the dust from a comet’s tail, or something equally as implausible. No explanation is given, as none is needed. Whether or not one was intended is anyone’s guess, but part of the magic is formulating our own opinions concerning the content of the film.

Though Jesus does not appear in zombie form until the very end of the film, throughout the scourging, zombie-like characteristics start to seep through the cracks, attempting to overpower all the good that he is attempting to preach. Gibson here employs very, very subtle film techniques in order to show this, such as intermittent reddening of the eyes and his apparent super-strength, as an ordinary human being not infected by the virus would have succumbed to the injuries sustained by Jesus long before they forced him to carry the cross. Several times he emits a wail not unlike that of a typical Romero-esque zombie, though this is often subdued by the maniacal laughter of his Jewish adversaries.

It is rare for a movie within a genre that is so derided among the mainstream movie-going populace to achieve such critical and financial success, but The Passion of the Christ managed to do so and more, obliterating box office records and causing a wealth of controversy in the process. Many claimed the film was anti-Semitic, lending credence to the idea that the “virus” can be perceived, at least by Gibson, as the Jewish threat. Despite this, I believe Gibson crafted a masterful horror film, and it remains to this day a fresh take on such a beloved subgenre among dedicated horror fans.

If I were to write a zombie Jesus film, this would happen:

Note: I don’t recall who made this image, but it’s brilliant and the creator deserves mad props.

[digg=http://digg.com/comedy/Passion_of_the_Christ_reviewed_as_if_it_were_a_zombie_film/]

Decided to try a little humor. Written hastily in about twenty minutes.

I’m not going to beat around the bush with this review. The Exorcism of Emily Rose was a shitty fucking movie, replete with every fucking cliché you can think of, and devoid of anything that can remotely be considered suspenseful, save for maybe a minute’s worth of actual film. Let me give you an analogy that I think sums up the movie in its entirety.

Say it’s your birthday and you’re going out to a Mexican restaurant with your friends. The reviews of the restaurant are bad, but you love Mexican sooooo much, so you just had to give it a shot. You arrive and get settled in, but are treated to bad service, flat sodas, and stale chips. The food finally arrives, yet it does little more than tear a hole in your stomach lining and cause the most violent diarrhea you have had in your entire life. You get home quickly and stumble to the bathroom, the excruciating pain in your lower abdomen making you want to put a bullet in your fucking brain. You get to the bathroom and let it all go, with only one or two periods of relaxation and peace in which the waves of nausea and burning asshole disappear for a brief moment, only to return a few seconds later. A half-hour later you stumble out of the bathroom, asshole raw and bloody from the shitty sandpaper-like toilet paper your roommate bought when he KNOWS you only use the Aloe-infused Cottonelle that makes it feel like you’re wiping your ass with a cloud.

That’s what watching this film felt like. Two hours of disappointment and excruciating torture with one or two brief moments of respite. This is a Christian horror film that tries to do more than it should, telling upwards of three stories at one time and clearly confused as to what genre it belongs in. Is it a drama? A thriller? No, it’s the aftermath of a three-night bender of John Grisham books and a English-Swedish-English Babelfish translation of Catholic exorcism rituals .The supposed true story angle is shit upon by the fabricated and completely unnecessary epilogue describing the influence Emily’s case had on the rest of the world. Now, this would have been acceptable had the director, Scott Derrickson actually referenced the events upon which the film is based, but that would have cluttered up his last ditch attempt at showcasing his Christianity to the people he duped into watching this abortion of a film. All it probably did was make people look for a grave that doesn’t exist.

All this says nothing about the acting, script, dialogue, News flash: Laura Linney fucking sucks at almost everything she does. Her one redeeming performance was dying in The Life of David Gale, but even then we still had to suffer through two hours of preaching on why the death penalty is such a bad idea. The one redeeming aspect of this film was Jennifer Carpenter, who portrayed Emily Rose in a way that was genuinely terrifying for about thirty seconds. The remaining cast was unremarkable like Anna Nicole Smith’s anus.

And Christ, the ridiculous fucking subplot about Linney’s character’s faith and personal demons, and blah blah blah. Why not include a scene where a key witness in the trial gets hit by a car that just totally comes out of nowhere. Oh, wait. You did? Well, par for the course I guess.

Gah, fuck you, Scott Derrickson. I now have no faith in your Paradise Lost adaptation.

While this is apparently old news, Scott Derrickson, the man behind The Exorcism of Emily Rose and the director of the upcoming The Day the Earth Stood Still remake, is at the helm of what I can only presume is the first real film treatment of John Milton’s Paradise Lost.

Word has it that the movie is going to have an epic feel to it, with a $100+ million budget attached to it. This is both good and bad, though I have the feeling we might have another Troy on our hands, and honestly, I don’t think anyone wants that.

Scott Derrickson discusses the film with MTV.

“In the movie, Satan goes from being a completely good being [an angel] to becoming the most heinous kind of evil, and you really have a hard time knowing exactly where he crossed that line because you were with him,” the director said. “What is interesting about that story, in the way Milton laid it out, is that people jump off with him at different points and some never at all. Properly done, it’s a story that tells readers a lot about themselves.”

In my vain attempts to proselytize this blog, I have attempted many, many things, none of which I’m particularly proud of. Submitting my articles to Digg, Reddit, and Fark are among the top three, though I have dived down into the belly of the beast and started posting on the Bloody Disgusting and Fangoria forums. I figured this would be the best way to get my work read, even if it doesn’t drive people to my blog. all in all, the feedback is what I want, and I’m grateful to receive it from whatever the source may be.

It is common knowledge that internet message boards are populated by some of the most vile and insipid human beings known to man, with maybe two to three percent of them actually harboring enough intelligence to carry on a conversation that doesn’t include a litany of expletives and acronyms that require a Rosetta Stone to translate. So I guess in retrospect it probably wasn’t a good idea to post my writing on a series of message boards populated by some of the most rabidly opinionated fans in the world of entertainment. but still, it had to be done, and I’ve learned a few things.

The fans on the Bloody Disgusting message boards are, well, quite opinionated. I consider myself kind of a dick on certain types of message boards, but I at least stay clear of ad hominem attacks, as they serve no other purpose than to illuminate your inability to form a coherent verbal attack based on logic, reason, and intelligence. So far I’ve had someone wish my balls would get cut off (or at least I think it was directed toward me), and an overall attack on my writing as being “too little too late” (it was the post I made a month or so ago regarding torture porn).

Of course, this might be a tad unfair, as I really have spent not even one day on the boards, but in the end, less than a day and already several attacks on the one real article I’ve posted. Apparently most fans really do not believe that “torture porn” exists, and despite the evidence I give to the contrary, they refuse to bend. But that’s ok. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, and I knew that it was a contentious subject when I undertook the article in question. I can only hope future articles that I post there will be more well received.

Conversely, the members on the Fangoria message boards are quite welcoming of new-comers, and I have received some minor praise for my writing and the blog itself by a few select members. Of course, I haven’t provided fodder for ruthless attacks. Does this mean Fangoria is better? Of course not. My current perception of the two boards is that Bloody Disgusting’s is the most active, yet is comprised of an entirely different class of horror fan. This might have something to do with the supposed feud between the two, but who knows. Maybe I’m just making snap judgments, but only time will tell I suppose.

Currently I’m embroiled in an argument over my torture porn article and whether or not the genre actually exists. To this point I have made no headway, despite my fairly clear and what I can only presume valid arguments, but I welcome the ability to defend both myself and my writing. One such member has been quite beneficial in that department, and I thank him.

That said, thanks B-D and Fangoria! You guys are swell!

I’m not going to go on a profanity laced rant over how mainstream horror films are ruining the genre, only to segue into a review of another foreign film that once again makes your favorite Hollywood horror remake look like Bring It On. I’m not going to bitch about how much I hate so and so as a director, or how torture porn is an affront to my sensibilities and intelligence. No. I’m tired of this, and I’m sure everyone else is as well. Instead, I am going to simply say this:

À L’Intérieur is an amazing film, and no self-respecting horror fan should go without seeing it.

Directed by newcomers Alexandre Bustillo and Julien Maury (Bustillo wrote the screenplay), the story is genuinely original yet flirts on standard horror tropes. A young woman named Sarah loses her husband in a violent head-on collision, and all that she has left is her unborn baby, a scarred face, and her job as a photographer. Four months after the accident and still grieving, she is visited at her home on Christmas Eve by a shadowy woman who will stop at nothing to acquire Sarah’s unborn child. And I mean nothing. The introduction of the unknown woman sets into a motion a film that is, simply put, a complete onslaught on the senses. It is one of the most brutally violent, disturbing, and utterly gut-wrenching horror films I think I have ever seen. The movie was an eighty-eight minute long crescendo of soul-crushing violence and bloodshed weaved around a story of desperation that makes you feel like you just watched the crucifixion.

Some, however, might be quick to point out that the excessive violence and bloodshed would require this film to fall under the umbrella of torture porn. This would be a mistake, and what I could only consider a monumental insult to the filmmakers who no doubt poured their heart and soul into making a movie truly deserving the moniker of horror. Aside from scenes of explicit torture being completely absent, films that are often referred to as torture porn lack the masterful storytelling and raw emotion that are required to make a horror film truly effective, and À L’Intérieur presented all of this in a manner that would make its absence a detriment to the film and the impact it has on the viewer.

One of the aspects of this film that sets it apart from the gore-infested tripe we normally see is the characters. Throughout the film Sarah, portrayed by Alysson Paradis (who is apparently Johnny Depp’s sister-in-law), displays alternating bouts of intensity and capitulation, giving to the character a sense of realism not often seen in horror films of this caliber. The interspersing of scenes in utero display the motivator for surviving the horrendous ordeal – the baby might seemingly represent the last vestiges of a life taken from her four months prior – while at the same time showing her to be a woman who at times has simply reached the threshold of what an ordinary human can handle. This is all juxtaposed by the alternating bouts of utter rage and placid determination displayed by the unnamed intruder, la femme, who will stop at absolutely nothing to make Sarah’s unborn child her own. In contrast to this, a beautiful dichotomy is seen in the characters’ contrasted appearance: Sarah wearing a white evening gown, and la femme wearing a long black dress and a corset throughout the film (an interview with the directors revealed they were inspired by Pinhead and Michael Myers in the look they chose for her).

Visually the film is stunning. It’s dark and brooding atmosphere, accentuated by the genuinely disturbing performance by Beatrice Dalle, is offset only by the red hue given off by the impressive and stunning deluge of blood (quite literally at one point) that pervades the latter half of the film. The soundtrack is impressive, alternating a string arrangement with a cacophony of noises to heighten the mood of the scene, though at times I did feel that it was inappropriate, and seemed to be more of a hindrance to the overall effectiveness of the scene that a benefit.

No film is truly perfect, and À L’Intérieur suffers from a few issues that I feel don’t necessarily detract from the overall impact of the film, but are prominent enough to where they make the viewer scratch their head or roll their eyes. A scene involving a little bit of CGI made me cringe over how fake it looked, and toward the end logic gave way to absurdity in a scene that was quite possibly one of the most brutal in the film. One reviewer, in what featured quite possibly the greatest number of instances in which the word “fuck” was used to review one movie, cited the supposedly incredible absence of all logic throughout the course of the film (why did Sarah not scream for the cops? – note: maybe she was in a state of shock? scared shitless? who knows?). While I agree with most of the points he attempts to make, I myself attempted to reason away some of them in the comments section.

À L’Intérieur has been making the rounds on festival circuits and pulling in tremendous amounts of praise, being hailed as one of the best horror movies in recent memory. Alysson Paradis and Beatrice Dalle won the Carnet Jove Jury Award at the Sitges – Catalonian International Film Festival, a true testament to their phenomenal performances. The film was picked up by Dimension Extreme for a stateside release, and has since become a favorite among horror fans everywhere.

From À L’Intérieur to Frontieres to the upcoming Martyrs, the French seem to have a stranglehold on the genre, and there seem to be no sign of letting go.

Upon hearing the news that Michael Bay and his production company, Platinum Dunes, are in talks to remake the classic horror film Rosemary’s Baby, I nearly shit myself with anger. I was consumed with even more rage when I heard that Jessica Alba and Lindsay fucking Lohan were names flying around to play the part of Rosemary. Hearing this, I immediately had nightmare’s of Verne Troyer being cast as the baby, who in this cinematic equivalent of an abortion will probably be shown propelling from a wrecked vagina and bite the head off the doctor.

Now, I probably shouldn’t jump to conclusions, and this might seem unfair to the writers and directors of these films, but Michael Bay and his roving band of movie marauders have a horrid past when it comes to producing horror films, and I suspect nothing but the same from all future projects. For too long classic horror films have been desecrated, causing a blight on the industry as a whole and serving as an insult to the intelligence of devoted horror fans, writers, and directors worldwide, and this shit has to stop. Good horror films are being pushed to the deepest, darkest recesses of horror movie websites and magazines in favor of an overload of unnecessary coverage for big-budget Hollywood monstrosities, and I’m sick of it.

While I’m aware this will never stop, I feel it is my duty as a horror fan to create the following petition to get the word out and hopefully shake things up. If you are a fan of truly good horror films, sign this petition in an effort to make Michael Bay and Platinum Dunes leave these classics alone and stop the embarrassment that is the horror movie remake.

Thank you.

Click here to sign the petition!

[digg=http://digg.com/movies/Petition_to_Stop_Michael_Bay_and_His_Horrible_Horror_Remakes]