My Bloody Valentine 3D
My Bloody Valentine 3D . . . so much gorier than advertised. I mean, I went expecting two things in large quantity: blood, and Jensen Ackles. I was disappointed on neither front.
Okay, a few spoilers, but none of any importance. There are some satisfying twists in the movie, some of which I spent hiding behind my friend Adam's shoulder, whisper-shrilling: "protect me, you big dumb bastard!"
Adam: "Dude, it's just movie-blood! Probably ketchup! Let go of my arm!"
Me: "Shut up, I can't hear the screams and squishes!"
So, um, what else . . . full frontal from some blonde chick with no attributes to speak of, and who then died horribly. There was a cute (according to my friends, I dunno, I'm no judge of cute unless its wearing quirky glasses and a cute pair of chunky ankle-breakers) dog, a little person (who also died) and I kept waiting for Jensen--I mean Tom to turn into Dean and start kicking a little ass. . . .
It happens, but not really in the way I expected.
And Jeebus, he's so purdy. Even bloodied up and un-Dean :)
I kept gasping: "run, Jensen! Run!" and my friends'd be, like, "Who the fuck is Jensen? Jesus, shut up!"
Hee, for the whole movie, I wavered about who the killer was, though there's one scene in the mine, where I was pretty sure who the killer was, then dismissed it completely, because it seemed too easy. I really wanted to be surprised by a horror movie, as I haven't been, since "The Descent".
All in all, highly seeable, if you don't mind a fat assload of gore. And I don't, in fact I prefer it, but Jesus date-raping Christ, even I went from thrilled, to overload, to mostly-numb-inside after seeing people take a rusty pickaxe to the skull for an hour and a half. And yes, the killin' starts from damn near jump street.
Gory moments aside--and me occasionally muttering: "Die, stupid bitch!" or "Run, you stupid bitch!"--we totally ripped into the film with a callous disregard for others patrons. We weren't yelling, just not-whispering. This was us at some of the . . . sillier bits:
And the other moviegoers would laugh with, or at us.
Okay, sure, there were some plot holes, but overall, nobody was expecting The Boys From Brazil, especially my group. We MiSTed the movie--lamely (not once did I get to intone "excuse me, can I borrow a cup of shirt?"), but also enjoyed it on its own bloody, snuff-filmish merits.
Also, our lameass theater wasn't showing it in 3D, which made my friends grumble, but was fine with me. I hate 3D glasses, they give me wicked headaches.
Ooh! And there was ample room left for a sequel, and I'd see it. And I'm not sorry I paid to see this one. It was fun. Hah! Jensen got an old man ass-kicking! Got hit a lot, and didn't bruise. Bled, but never bruised.
Three out of five stars. Highly entertaining on many levels.
/incoherent movie blather
Before the movie, the friend-units and I got chow at Buffalo Wildwings. Shortly after we get our food, a family-group-thing with many adults and children sat near us--which I thought was awesome, since I enjoy nothing better than the shrill pipings of childlike voices and having to curb my own filthy fucking mouth--and intermittently, I'd catch one of the rugrats staring at me. I thought maybe it was because of the swearing (which I should really get a handle on, for serious) or the tipsy laughing. I still don't know why they were staring, or why one of the boys drew me a picture of . . . I dunno wtf, and gave it to me, all shy and 'tarded-like. He must've been six.
Awhile later, he came back over, and asked me if I still had the picture. I said yes, and thanked him again for it. He asked to see it, then painstakingly signed his name at the top.
J-U-A-N, in bright pink crayon.
"Thank you, Juan. Now I know who made me this pretty picture."
::cue child-settling smile::
Pink-crayon Juan re-rejoins his family--his mother apologizes for him bothering me, and I say it's nothing, tip the brat a wink, and figure that's that. A few minutes after that, his little sister--four, maybe, draws a picture of me. A brown line with some circles.
I thanked her, and stood both drawings up at our table. And when Adam asked why the kids didn't give him pictures, I said "because you're creepy."
Adam: "But they totally ignored me."
Me: "Because you're creepy. Get that ketchup bottle off my art."
When the family was getting ready to leave, the mom-unit thanked me for putting up with her kids--the awful little monsters, I was so traumatized by their shenanigans--and I said no problem-o, thanked the rugrats again, and that was that.
For some reason, I taped the drawings to my dresser when I got home. I'll probably eventually toss 'em or lose 'em. For now . . . I'm a sentimental 'tard.
But I will have arrived when I can play Primus on my banjo--either "Jimmy Was A Race Car Driver", or "John The Fisherman". Acing it on Guitar Hero impresses no one.
Okay, a few spoilers, but none of any importance. There are some satisfying twists in the movie, some of which I spent hiding behind my friend Adam's shoulder, whisper-shrilling: "protect me, you big dumb bastard!"
Adam: "Dude, it's just movie-blood! Probably ketchup! Let go of my arm!"
Me: "Shut up, I can't hear the screams and squishes!"
So, um, what else . . . full frontal from some blonde chick with no attributes to speak of, and who then died horribly. There was a cute (according to my friends, I dunno, I'm no judge of cute unless its wearing quirky glasses and a cute pair of chunky ankle-breakers) dog, a little person (who also died) and I kept waiting for Jensen--I mean Tom to turn into Dean and start kicking a little ass. . . .
It happens, but not really in the way I expected.
And Jeebus, he's so purdy. Even bloodied up and un-Dean :)
I kept gasping: "run, Jensen! Run!" and my friends'd be, like, "Who the fuck is Jensen? Jesus, shut up!"
Hee, for the whole movie, I wavered about who the killer was, though there's one scene in the mine, where I was pretty sure who the killer was, then dismissed it completely, because it seemed too easy. I really wanted to be surprised by a horror movie, as I haven't been, since "The Descent".
All in all, highly seeable, if you don't mind a fat assload of gore. And I don't, in fact I prefer it, but Jesus date-raping Christ, even I went from thrilled, to overload, to mostly-numb-inside after seeing people take a rusty pickaxe to the skull for an hour and a half. And yes, the killin' starts from damn near jump street.
Gory moments aside--and me occasionally muttering: "Die, stupid bitch!" or "Run, you stupid bitch!"--we totally ripped into the film with a callous disregard for others patrons. We weren't yelling, just not-whispering. This was us at some of the . . . sillier bits:
Click to viewAnd the other moviegoers would laugh with, or at us.
Okay, sure, there were some plot holes, but overall, nobody was expecting The Boys From Brazil, especially my group. We MiSTed the movie--lamely (not once did I get to intone "excuse me, can I borrow a cup of shirt?"), but also enjoyed it on its own bloody, snuff-filmish merits.
Also, our lameass theater wasn't showing it in 3D, which made my friends grumble, but was fine with me. I hate 3D glasses, they give me wicked headaches.
Ooh! And there was ample room left for a sequel, and I'd see it. And I'm not sorry I paid to see this one. It was fun. Hah! Jensen got an old man ass-kicking! Got hit a lot, and didn't bruise. Bled, but never bruised.
Three out of five stars. Highly entertaining on many levels.
/incoherent movie blather
Before the movie, the friend-units and I got chow at Buffalo Wildwings. Shortly after we get our food, a family-group-thing with many adults and children sat near us--which I thought was awesome, since I enjoy nothing better than the shrill pipings of childlike voices and having to curb my own filthy fucking mouth--and intermittently, I'd catch one of the rugrats staring at me. I thought maybe it was because of the swearing (which I should really get a handle on, for serious) or the tipsy laughing. I still don't know why they were staring, or why one of the boys drew me a picture of . . . I dunno wtf, and gave it to me, all shy and 'tarded-like. He must've been six.
Awhile later, he came back over, and asked me if I still had the picture. I said yes, and thanked him again for it. He asked to see it, then painstakingly signed his name at the top.
J-U-A-N, in bright pink crayon.
"Thank you, Juan. Now I know who made me this pretty picture."
::cue child-settling smile::
Pink-crayon Juan re-rejoins his family--his mother apologizes for him bothering me, and I say it's nothing, tip the brat a wink, and figure that's that. A few minutes after that, his little sister--four, maybe, draws a picture of me. A brown line with some circles.
I thanked her, and stood both drawings up at our table. And when Adam asked why the kids didn't give him pictures, I said "because you're creepy."
Adam: "But they totally ignored me."
Me: "Because you're creepy. Get that ketchup bottle off my art."
When the family was getting ready to leave, the mom-unit thanked me for putting up with her kids--the awful little monsters, I was so traumatized by their shenanigans--and I said no problem-o, thanked the rugrats again, and that was that.
For some reason, I taped the drawings to my dresser when I got home. I'll probably eventually toss 'em or lose 'em. For now . . . I'm a sentimental 'tard.
But I will have arrived when I can play Primus on my banjo--either "Jimmy Was A Race Car Driver", or "John The Fisherman". Acing it on Guitar Hero impresses no one.