Sardoodledom (n.) – Well-made works of drama that have trivial, insignificant, or morally objectionable plots.

The word was coined by George Bernard Shaw, who effectively manipulated Mr. Sardou’s surname in a way that can only be deemed as “fuggin’ hilarious” to describe Sardou’s own work, calling his plays, among other things, “empty of ideas.”

Sardou, in predicting the advent of torture porn a century later and being a total dick by doing absolutely nothing to stop it, stated that one of the best ways for a young playwright to become successful is to “torture the women.”

The fact that I discovered this word through a Spelling Bee tournament video clip is no less hysterical than the word itself.

…or, Brad watches twenty-eight horror films, one per day, and writes reviews of allllllllllllllllllllllllll of them.

I have no delusions to the magnitude of difficulty this seemingly unnecessary and ill-conceived plan holds. If you know me, and I’m fairly certain you don’t (but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends!), then you’re well aware that I have nary the discipline nor the wherewithal to complete such an endeavor. I will, however, try my hardest to squeeze in free time between working two jobs, sleeping, and being relatively attentive to my girlfriend to write out intelligent, humorous, and thought provoking reviews for my adoring fans (all thirty of you, if my WordPress stats are any indication of my popularity – or lack thereof). When a review simply is not feasible, due either to time constraints, writer’s block, or murderous robots taking over my fair city (which would RULE!), then a few brief words noting the high points, the low points, and whether or not we got to see boobs will suffice.

The first month will not be thematic in any way, due primarily to lack of preparation to acquire said movies through either Netflix or torrents clean, wholesome, legal methods; however, I am open to suggestions of themes and films throughout the month, provided I am given a day or two to add them to my Netflix queue.

I’m doing this for you, oh devoted readers. I promise I will give it my all in order to entertain you like you’ve never been entertained before.

As a side note, if that GOD DAMNED DOG doesn’t stop barking, I swear to Christ I’m gonna go all crazy nuts on it. Seriously.

The post-apocalyptic horror film Carriers has been privy to an abundance of coverage lately on major horror sites, so I figured I’d check out the trailer. Written and directed by Alex and David Pastor, the film follows a band of survivors heading to an isolated beach to wait out the pandemic. Little do they know the virus is the least of their worries.

The trailer gives off an air of pop-horror sensibilities, a fact made all the more terrifying by the dreaded PG-13 rating. IMDB states it was edited to give it such a rating, so fear not, we’ll probably get an unrated cut on DVD once it’s finally released. It also stars Christopher Meloni, who is good in pretty much everything he does, so I have high hopes for this one. Perhaps we can finally have a PG-13 horror film done right.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hgo7z5oc6bk&hl=en&fs=1]

Special thanks to Quiet Earth and Horror-Movies.ca for informing me of this.

I’ve made it no secret that I absolutely adore Brad Anderson. Since first seeing it six years ago, Session 9 has remained among my favorite horror films and if you have ever noticed, is encompassed in the design of my blog. So I’m really not surprised that Transsiberian, his most recent attempt at blowing my fucking mind with awesomeness, has been universally well-reviewed. A long-winded and irrelevant introduction is unnecessary, though I would be foolish were I to not include a giant SPOILER ALERT, as my discussion of this film is dependent on giving away some specific details not normally included in a standard review.

But mine are anything but standard, aren’t they? They’re more discussions than anything.

Alternating between the serene Siberian landscape and the cramped quarters of a railway car, our film rests the camera upon a couple travelling from Beijing to Moscow on the Transsiberian railway. Train-obsessed Roy and photography hobbyist Jassie decide to invigorate their relationship by hopping aboard the infamous railway for an adventure in the Siberian wilderness. Upon getting settled in for what looks to be the trip of a lifetime, their bunkmates show up. Carlos, the attractive and experienced traveler, and Abby, his quiet and suspicious looking companion, are welcomed with open arms by the outspoken and boisterous Roy, yet met with a quiet suspicion by Jessie.

Throughout the trip, we learn a little more about our two pairs of travelers. Carlos collects souvenir matryoshka dolls, which he shows to Jessie and hides from Abby due to past problems with customs; Jessie’s shy and teetotaler demeanor belies her party-girl past, as she reveals to Carlos that she met Roy seemingly after a drunken accident; and Abby is a nomadic Seattle-ite who, at this point, is relatively unassuming. Roy, being the lovable but bumbling trainophile that he is, gets left behind in Irkutsk on a sightseeing excursion. After a mild panic attack, Jessie decides to debark at the next stop in order to wait for him to catch up via the next train. Joined by Carlos and Abby in what appears to be a relatively altruistic gesture of friendship and concern, the three check into a hotel. Dinner is had, stories are told, and a couple moments of lingering yet awkward romance between Carlos and Jessie wind down the evening. And then the shit hits the fan.

Unfortunately, the summary must end there so as to not give away any more of the plot, as a convenient stopping point was impossibly hard to discern through the evenly one hundred and eleven minutes; it never just plods along.

Visually the film is stunning. Much like other films set in a wintry landscape (The Last Winter, The Thing) the environment is a catalyst for the tension. Isolation leads to paranoia, paranoia turns to fear, and then the fear takes hold, escalating steadily throughout the film in an obvious throwback to Hitchcock’s thrillers. All this wouldn’t be possible, though, if Anderson weren’t so skilled at writing such phenomenal characters. Roy is nerdy and outgoing, the perfect complement to Jessie’s shy and reserved demeanor; this is mirrored in their new traveling companions. Abby, who early on appears to represent the post-college vagabond, is seen as a victim to Jessie and the antithesis to Carlos, and as such a major source of hostility between the two, bolstered in no small part by the sexual tension between the two. This interaction leads to an increasing level of paranoia made all the more real by the late arrival of Ben Kingsley as a badass Russian narcotics detective, who reveals that not all is at it seems.

This where Anderson shines: his ability to stray from the common conventions of horror and craft wholly unique characters, placed in extraordinary situations that elicit a level of fear in the viewer that isn’t dependent on jump scares or pompous string arrangements to let you know the danger is fast approaching. From the chilling music to the landscape, he uses every possible resource without lapsing into the techniques that beleaguer the bulk of mainstream horror.

Through it all, however, Anderson still manages to inject a modicum of pop horror elements in the form of torture to keep the genre crowd satisfied, yet manages to do so without it being over-the-top. “At one point, a knife is slowly run through the already existing wounds on one victim’s leg; this scene, at the risk of feeling out of place, is made relevant through the character’s relationships, slowly being built and manipulated throughout the progression of the film.

Brad Anderson’s films elucidate the differences between horror and thriller in a manner that transcends genre assignment; the external threat of man, a subject in which Anderson excels at representing though his multifaceted characters, collides with the internal threat of man’s own emotions and fears. The end result is not just a horror film or a thriller, but instead a dramatic character study that illustrates both the fragility of the human condition and the ability inherent in us all to crack when the pressure becomes just a little too great.

This is what makes Anderson such a phenomenal writer and director. The fear in most contemporary horror films or thrillers, when not dependent on cinematography, music, lighting and what have you, comes from what is perceived by the viewer as the physical threat; The Descent had the creatures, Dog Soldiers had the lycanthropes, and the fact that both of those films are by Neil Marshall is pure coincidence. Anderson subverts convention and makes bold and courageous moves injecting a human element in his movies, removing the need for monsters and ghosts to serve as the catalyst for fear. This is why Transsberian excels in almost every possible way.

…an apology to George Snow, the passionate writer and director of the cult indie smash Us Sinners.

In my review I incorrectly described a scene, wherein the main character “places a condom in [the] mouth,” of a dead prostitute, or something to that effect. He has since proven me wrong by uploading the scene in question to YouTube, which can be seen below.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9fvP9_c_bw&hl=en&fs=1]

Whether it was my own carelessness or the poor lighting in the scene (it was also quite pixelated when I viewed it), is a moot point now. Reviewers make mistakes, and sometimes their pride takes hold and prevents them from seeing the truth. In my case it was my desire to NOT watch the movie again.

I am, however, a man of integrity, and I admit to my mistakes.

Life goes on.

In response to my review for The Unborn, one kind individual had some rather harsh words:

I walked out of your review before getting through even 1/3. Horrible x 8.

Work on your writing skills, learn how not to ramble aimlessly, and read other reviewers to get a feel of what works and what doesn’t.

As you can see, the first third was background information concerning my disdain for Platinum Dunes. Not entirely irrelevant, but appropriate nonetheless. It was only eight times as horrible as whatever set the standard for horribleness. Then he read the rest, which was the review proper, and its level of horribleness was off the charts.

I accept your criticism with open arms, and I want more of it. This blog is above all a training ground, serving as nothing more than a means to improve my skills as a writer. Though word that escapes my fingers is done so with the utmost of care and precision, mistakes are made. Words have been used incorrectly; my love of tangents and often overtly verbose ways of explaining the most mundane of facts or opinions (see, like right now) sometimes get in the way of the bigger picture; and more often than not, I lack fluidity. Such is the folly of writing and self-doubt.

On a positive note, I have received much praise concerning the content and style of my reviews. Laudatory cheers and gifts of big-busted redheads are surprisingly absent on my editorials and academically-styled articles. This saddens me the most. In fact, save for this one negative review and the Grand Architect behind the unmitigated pile of crap that is Us Sinners, all reviews of my work have been positive.

I refuse to get a big head over this, but it feels good to have someone enjoy what I’m doing. In regard the angry commenter copy-and-pasted up above, to each their own.

New horror films will be made and studied and enjoyed without “film critics” jamming their buzz words and useless conglomerate machine’s terms down into the non-elitist throats of the populist. These terms are all encompassing and sad. They lump movies into specific categories which shows complete and utter narrow-mindedness rather than one ounce of something clever. It’s insulting to the fans and proprietors of the genre.

-PoppaScotch

PoppaScotch from Horror-Movies.ca, whose handle sounds like a wrestler’s whose gimmick is being old and drunk, wrote an interesting little editorial defending (or supporting – he was never clear on which one) the often maligned subgenre torture porn. Though he hits on many points that I still believe are culturally relevant, he’s dreadfully wrong elsewhere. Here is my response to both his points and the subject as a whole.

Despite the popular opinion, torture porn in all its gory glory exists, whether you enjoy it or not. While it may not have as much as impact as it once did, the term, however you choose to define it, is an appropriate designation for a series of films that were released over the course of roughly four years, beginning in 2004 with Saw. The progenitor of this often maligned genre has since spawned four sequels, with a fifth currently being filmed for a late October 2009 release date, so the genre’s popularity is not being called into questioned.

Torture porn’s meteoric rise from humble sub-genre to apparently everything that’s wrong with horror begins with critic David Edelstein who, after the success of Saw and Hostel, wrote an article for NYMag.com titled “Now Playing at Your Local Multiplex: Torture Porn.” In it he discusses a variety of things, such as why these movies exist, and especially our reactions to their “in your face” bravado. Unfortunately for us, Edelstein does little to actually define the term, leading to what I believe is its incorrect assignment to movies such as The Devil’s Rejects and The Passion of the Christ. In fact, save for its initial appearance in the article’s title, the term doesn’t appear anywhere in the article proper.

In order to appropriately apply the term to a film, one must first define it. But therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? Given the contentious, opinionated, and often volatile nature of horror fans, finding a trend in its usage that could help us glean a definition is incredibly difficult. What one fan thinks is torture porn another does not, while a third believes the genre doesn’t even exist. A few months ago I wrote an article similar to this one and farmed it out to a couple of message boards looking for insight, and the reaction was overwhelmingly similar across the board. Most either expressed their disdain for the genre or made the claim that it did not exist.

Their claims are justifiable. Ostensibly born ex nihilo and used under the assumption we’re not applying the term retroactively, there are only a handful of films that can seemingly be called torture porn, and their numbers are dwindling. Who, or what, gives Edelstein the right to create a subgenre?

We do. Edelstein may have coined the term, but we gave it credence not only by assigning it all too frequently to films that follow the same thematic intent as Saw and Hostel, but by vilifying it on a consistent basis. But I digress.

The key to extrapolating a clear definition from the term lies in its use of the word “porn.” Rooted firmly in the adult entertainment business, porn has transgressed its often vilified usage, evolving to encompass anything that possesses little to no artistic merit or meaning other than to tantalize, sexually or otherwise. The overall success of Saw and Hostel and others like it is ostensibly a direct relation to the explicit scenes of violence and torture found within. If someone went to see the any of these films for their compelling plot, please stand up and prove me wrong. But the fact of the matter remains, just as pornography is driven by the explicit acts of sexual activity, torture porn is driven by its violence, and their success is dependent on mankind’s sick curiosity. It’s pure voyeurism.

Still, due to the subjective nature of film, defining torture porn is difficult task. While I believe it can be defined, I don’t feel it can be in a manner that is universally accepted among seasoned critics and the most die-hard of fans. My attempt at defining it is as follows:

Torture porn [tawr-cher pawrn] -noun: Any big-budget, mainstream horror film that relies on the graphic and explicit representation of torture and violence instead of story as the sole method of driving ticket sales.¹

There are other underlying factors that I feel could help narrow down the definition. For example, if a film can remove all the torture or make it all implied and still have a movie worth seeing, then it is not torture porn. This of course is all subjective reasoning, as I’m sure someone out there believes Hostel to be a stunning tale of survival set in desolate Eastern Europe. The Saw franchise, Captivity, and the aforementioned Hostel, to name a few, are marketed solely on their levels of violence and torture and thus fall under its umbrella with plenty of room to spare. A few films have been assigned the moniker erroneously, such as The Devil’s Rejects, and serves as a perfect example of the liberal usage of the word among critics. While torture is indeed present, the film’s success rests on Rob Zombie’s ability to craft a masterful story with compelling, almost sympathetic villains, replete with incredibly catchy tunes and an almost perverted level of violence unmatched in any dismal torture porn flick released today.

All too often people feel the need to become exegetical in their analysis of a film, yet the defense of torture porn as more than just pornography rests upon it. Eli Roth, in what I feel is an obvious cop-out for the absolute inanity of the violence in Hostel and its sequel, declared it to be a commentary on the atrocities committed at Abu Ghraib. I fail to see the connection between the gross violations of the Geneva Convention and a young woman being hung upside down and sliced apart with a scythe by a woman meant to represent Elizabeth Bathory, but then again, I’m not Eli Roth.

Sadly, attempting to find metaphor in a torture porn film that goes beyond the banal is like finding a needle in a haystack. These films are created as a means to entertain and to exploit the inherent Schadenfreude found in everyone, not make some bold commentary on the dismal state of our society. I’ve been struggling to find a deeper meaning for these films, but I consistently come up empty handed. In the end, it’s nothing more than pure, unadulterated voyeurism, like witnessing a bloody automobile accident.

Finally, in his article PoppaScotch asks, “If these movies are so worthless, why are they selling big at the box office?”

I Love Horror asks, “Why is Paul Blart: Mall Cop the number one movie in America right now?

Ticket sales are not a good barometer for success, nor are they a clear indicator as to what makes a movie “good.” One only needs to take a look at the recent Golden Globes to realize this. Movies such as The Wrestler and Slumdog Millionaire received ubiquitous praise, with the latter winning four awards including Best Film. Neither of these films did well at the box office due to their limited releases, and in this case the success of the film had absolutely nothing to do with box office sales. In this, however, we see a clear distinction between entertainment and art, as well as in the intent of the filmmaker.

With the risk of sounding relatively misanthropic, mankind is comprised of brainless mouth breathers. They’re eager to consume the next big explosion-filled blockbuster by Michael Bay, among others, whose sole purpose is to slake the thirst of people who make no distinction between entertainment and art. Within the context of the film industry and any sane individual with half a brain, these two things are not mutually exclusive, and to separate the two for the sake of entertainment is to laugh in the face of artistic integrity. When taken within the context of horror, one only has to look at the recent release of My Bloody Valentine 3-D. Good acting and a decent plot are tossed to the side in favor of pick axes and eyeballs flying into the audience. Of course, what do you expect from the guy who wrote Jason X and The Messengers?

Perhaps my cynicism has overcome me. Should I just step back and appreciate the film for what it is, or should I expect Citizen Kane every single time? Of course not; but to sacrifice perfection for the sake of a few cheap thrills is dishonest, and frankly, a giant middle finger to the fans.

^{1 My friend came up with a much more eloquent variation of this once before. I tend to agree with him, so this footnote serves to give credit where credit is due.}

A friend of mine was telling me the other day of a Nike commercial that parodied slasher films, wherein a young woman, attractive and for some reason alone in a house in the woods, is chased by a masked psychopath wielding a chainsaw. Lucky for her, she’s wearing Nike shoes and easily escapes the villain, who gives up after she leaves him in the dust.

This commercial was taken off the air due to the perceived theme of violence against women, which is absolutely ludicrous and just another example of the pussification of America.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IdXzT6Zenw&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1]

A Spanish Direct TV commercial featuring Dracula, Freddy Krueger, Darth Vader, and Jason Voorhees skipping through a field to a beautiful rendition of Silent Night while a Chucky rip-off plays with a young boy who subsequently falls off his pogo stick, prompting the Mummy to bandage his wound. In the end, Hannibal Lector and a housewife have a peaceful Christmas dinner together.

They’re not evil, just misunderstood.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GiXOpZ_ypOE&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1]

Thiis PS3 commercial is just fuckin’ twisted, and does little to alleviate my hatred for babies, even if they are just dolls.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJaGScKpZuU&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1]

It has been stated (by me, many times) that the real world and the many maladies that plague our daily lives have the potential to serve as a greater inspiration for horror films than vampires, zombies, and vampire zombies combined. These terrifying realities of life – disease, terrorism, republicans (Red State) – that welcome us every morning do little to diminish the paralyzing fears that greet us as we drift off to sleep, as a whole host of nefarious things can occur whilst we sleep, blissfully unaware that there is a very real chance that you can wake up completely unable to move.

It’s in italics so you know it’s scary.

Sleep paralysis, a physiological condition in which the body remains in the state of paralysis that accompanies REM, is a very terrifying and real phenomenon that I would not wish upon my worst enemy. Kind of like Shiny Happy People. Having experienced it, the sensation is accompanied with a fast mounting panic that segues quickly into unmitigated fear. Though I was not unfortunate enough to experience it, sleep paralysis is often accompanied by a wide variety of hallucinations, leading people to believe they are still in a dreamlike state.

Various noises or visions may be present, many of which are found in dredg’s epic sophomore album El Cielo, but the most terrifying is the feeling of being crushed, as if an invisible entity is sitting upon your chest, weighing you down and squeezing the air out of your lungs. Of course, there’s nothing actually sitting on your chest, unless you own a cat or a really affectionate dog. A very heavy dog.

But don’t tell the Chinese that. Or Hungarians. Or the Yoruba of Southwest Nigeria. Or Henry Fuseli. I mean, he’s dead, but still.

Fuseli immortalized sleep paralysis in The Nightmare, an epic and morbid oil-on-canvas painting that quickly became his most famous work. Currently residing in the Detroit Institute of Arts and measuring a massive forty inches by fifty inches, The Nightmare depicts a prostrate woman in the midst of a nightmare, embodied in the form of an incubus and a mare, two symbols often associated with nightmares in folklore.

Though Fuseli himself provided no commentary, many modern critics have interpreted the painting as overtly sexual in nature. This is not surprising. There is an incubus sitting on the woman’s chest, after all, who looks suspiciously like Ed Asner, and one scholar actually goes as far as to argue that the painting’s intent is to show the female orgasm.

Apparently women associate orgasms with impish figures. Who knew?

The painting was so popular, it was reproduced at least three more times by Fuseli himself and has been duplicated and parodied many times over.

It is with this and a whole host of other relevant information that I propose a horror film based conceptually around the ideas and themes expressed in The Nightmare. Though nothing more than a loose collection of ideas at the moment, this epic film of total badassery would center on a young woman who is assailed by bouts of sleep paralysis, blurring the lines between what’s a dream and what’s real. Thematically similar to The Machinist and a mish-mash of analyses put forth by critics, this film will be heavily psychological, though not without extensive imagery and cultural relevance. It will be more awesome than you can possibly imagine, despite the terrible summary I have provided, written in between the annoying drone of customers prattling on and on about the most mindless of bullshit problems that can be solved if they just exercised a modicum of common sense and logic.

To experience sleep paralysis audibly, watch the following video by the art-rock band dredg. An excerpt from the website traversing.net explains why this video is appropriate:

Wind that blows, and tickles our skin: These lyrics relate to Sleep Paralysis due to the many reports of feeling and hear wind blowing over and around one’s body. This wind is said to tickle the victim at times, and at other times the spirit that haunts the sufferer, known as the “incubus”, is said to tickle the victim, which is said to start our playfully but can become painful.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BMOqbFOXVk&hl=en&fs=1]

Director: David Goyer
Year: 2009
Country: USA

For a long time I’ve railed against Platinum Dunes and the atrocities they have committed in the name of entertainment. Their shameless exploitation of the stupidity of the American moviegoer and their deluded notion of what constitutes good horror has resulted in some of the worst horror films in recent memory and what I feel is the continued debasement of the mainstream horror industry as a whole. It irked me to the point where, four months or so ago, I created a petition at petitiononline.com that stated with the utmost pride that Platinum Dunes and the diabolical three, Michael Bay, Andrew Form, and Brad Fuller, were essentially committing crimes against humanity. Absolutely insane hyperbole aside, I still feel that way, though I’d like to add a caveat.

Though not explicitly stated in the petition, the fact that Platinum Dunes remakes classic horror films is really not a big deal to me. I despise remakes in almost every facet, as they usually miss what makes the original so special, so Platinum Dunes is just one of many upon whom I heap my unbridled anger. They also just happen to be a production company solely devoted to horror films, the majority of which comprise high profile remakes, and as such they receive the bulk of my anger. However, in the end, a remake of a classic horror film can be good, and given the rate at which they’re released the laws of probability say it has to happen soon. It just so happens that every single remake that Platinum Dunes vomits out every other year or so is woefully terrible, and that, my friends, is the sole purpose for the petition.

I have also labored against remakes (specifically those produced by Platinum Dunes) under the platform that the oodles of money invested in these films should go to original endeavors. This way, when we’re disappointed, at least we’re disappointed in an original attempt as opposed to a loose reimagining of a classic. Of course, the film could also be to the left of pretty damned good, which is what I had hoped for when I initially discovered that David Goyer wrote and directed a film starring Gary Oldman about Jewish folklore. Its production under the Platinum Dunes moniker aside, I had relatively high hopes for this film.

So, with that and about four hundred billion negative reviews in the back of my brain to lower my expectations, I made my way to the local movie house on a cold Monday afternoon (cold by Florida’s standards) all by lonesome to watch this fearsome, 88 minute, PG-13 supernatural thriller by a well-respected screenwriter.

And color me surprised, but the movie was actually pretty damned good.

….

Ok, that’s a lie. A big, fat, terrible lie, one that would no doubt be accompanied by stifled laughter, followed by a gut busting wail that would ultimately end up with me peeing a little.

The Unborn was without a doubt one of the worst films ever spawned by anyone ever. And I’ve seen Bats.

If I had to describe The Unborn, I’d say it’s closely resembles an American remake of a Japanese horror film that has yet to be made. This sort of description does little to drum up support, unless you’re one of the few people who actually thinks the Grudge series, Dark Water, One Missed Call, Premonition, etc are, by any stretch of the imagination, good horror films. The influence of these films is prominent, and I think at one point I almost shouted out “This is just like Ghostbusters 2!” VIGGO WILL CRUSH YOU ALL!

Casey is your prototypical attractive post-teen attending what appears to be college in an unnamed city that appears to be New York. Or maybe Chicago. Wherever it may be, snow seems to magically appear then disappear from scene to scene, its existence only confirmed when dependant on the story. Casey has been having a series of bad dreams, plagued by the likes of dead fetuses in jars buried in the earth, dogs wearing masks, and a creepy kid with bright blue eyes and a white face.

Dreams become the least of Casey’s worries, as the young boy she babysits the night she has the dream decides to smash her face in with a mirror, but not before whispering “Jumby wants to be born now.” This is totally normal and no cause for alarm whatsoever. The next day, after hallucinating in class, she takes a shower for some reason and her token black friend alerts her to her eye, which has miraculously started to change from brown to light blue.

Then shit starts to get real, yo. She, like, totally finds out she has an unborn twin. And get this: its little fetus nickname was Jumby! Oh crap! She’s also Jewish! Holy fuck, Jewish! Her grandmother, an Auschwitz survivor, totally killed her brother in a concentration camp ‘cause he was possessed by a dybbuk, which is some sort of Jewish spirit or some shit like that. So now the spirit’s all pissed and wants to possess Casey to gain entry into this world because she accidentally killed her brother in the womb, who was the original vehicle for the dybbuk.

Sorry. Needed a bit of levity there. Time for the fun part.

Several major plot points weren’t quite clear to me. Whether this is due to Goyer’s inability to write a horror film or my stupidity is unknown, though I’m more inclined to believe it’s the former, since I’m brilliant. And modest! Was the dybbuk trying to possess Casey, or was it the spirit of her unborn twin brother? Given the title of the film, the latter would make the most sense, but throughout the explanation of what the dybbuk does and how it gets introduced to the story, that notion gets thrown out the window. As such, the aforementioned summary was the closest I could get to a discernible plot. I have no idea if it’s right, so please tell me if I’m wrong. Not that it matters, ‘cause nothing can save this film. Not even Odette Yustman’s totally awesome cameltoe and backside.

This says nothing of the endless plot holes and monumental gaps in logic, surefire evidence Goyer just got lazy. Why didn’t the grandmother, who harbored such an intense belief in the dybbuk, try and warn Casey after her fucking mother died? What kind of stones does an eight-year old or so child need to have to not even so much as flinch when a Nazi is slowly bringing a seven-inch needle (my estimates) to his eye in an effort to change his eye color (see the absolutely ludicrous pattern here?)? And how the crap is the child who slammed the mirror into Casey’s head not in some sort of psychiatric facility for being a mirror-wielding Antichrist?

The characters were stock, and relatively typical for this type of production: beautiful and untalented. Odette Yustman was obviously cast for her looks and not her acting abilities, as she delivers a terribly unbelievable performance on all fronts. She received no help from the dialogue, which seemed to be compiled by a dozen monkeys on a dozen typewriters and scattered at random throughout the script to supplement the prominent inclusion of stock horror phrases. She’s overtly eager to have an exorcism performed on her, and, to quote a brilliant comment on the imdb message boards, believes a good cup of coffee with her boyfriend is the best way to get over seeing her best friend murdered by a possessed child before her very eyes. The supporting cast was no better, though more of James Remar, who played the incredibly underutilized role of Casey’s father, would have been acceptable. Gary Oldman didn’t appear until the latter half of the film, and despite being one of the best actors alive today, did little to inject any sort of believability into the film or his role as Rabbi Sendak, who is apparently quite comfortable performing an exorcism on a young woman he just met with the help of an Episcopalian priest/basketball coach. And he did it all without that glorious moustache from The Dark Knight.

Central to the film and picked up on by the myriad of reviewers who wasted a few brain cells watching this drivel is the influence other films had on Goyer. This is to be expected with any film, so my mentioning them here doesn’t necessarily constitute validation or disapproval; I just think they should be mentioned. I have mentioned the obvious Asian influence, something in which others have expressed their agreement; bits and pieces of The Exorcist crop up as well, both stylistically and thematically, most notably in a wickedly creepy looking spider-walk scene, the only scene that didn’t make me want to punch a puppy. The final exorcism scene emulated that of The Exorcism of Emily Rose in approach yet lacked the intensity and emotion of Jennifer Carpenter’s performance and the mood achieved by Scott Derrickson.

The only fear that The Unborn elicits comes from the fact that halfway through you’ve finally come to the realization that you actually paid money to see it. Whispering children, cheap jump scares, and that ubiquitous fucking kid did little to foster fear and everything to make me roll my eyes in utter disappointment. The score and direction did little to help, and were uninspired and just plain boring.

To call The Unborn a monumental disaster of epic proportions would be incorrect. It is much, much worse than that. This film offers absolutely nothing new to the world of mainstream horror, and indeed is a blight on what once looked to be a solid year for the genre. It is not only an insult to the industry, but to the collective intelligence of every single horror fan as well. What little hope I had for anything Platinum Dunes releases in the future has been destroyed.

Oh, and should anyone criticize me for being a hypocrite and aiding in the film’s success by purchasing a ticket, well, shut up. As a horror blogger I have to stay on top of things, and if this means shelling out $5 to see a crappy movie, so be it.

Oh, am I the only one who saw the exorcism scene as nothing more than a giant metaphor for an abortion?