An open letter to James Gunn.
Dear Mr. Gunn;
You don't know me. You've never met me. Odds are good that if we ever do meet, through the slow, strange tides of modern fandom, we'll exchange perhaps ten words, and five of them will be 'hello', followed by 'I love your work'. We aren't friends, we aren't neighbors, and we are highly unlikely, barring truly strange and unexpected circumstances beyond our control, to wind up fighting off a zombie invasion together. I know all this, and I want you to understand that I know all this, because otherwise, I'm afraid this letter might come off as vaguely like my stalking you.
Also, you should know that I'm aware that you're a happily married man, with the sort of wife who willingly allows you to dip her in gore, slime, and animatronic alien slugs. And there is no way I could even try to compete with that.
All of the above being said, I think I'm a little bit in love with you.
When I first heard about Slither, I was, I will admit, unenthusiastic. Too many recent 'horror' movies have been PG-13 schlock-fests featuring the latest pretty people from the WB cavorting prettily while trying to look threatened, engaged, terrified, and anything other than, well, pretty. Most of the time, they have failed, leaving me, and others like me, shrieking our indignation at the uncaring silver screen. So Slither sounded like just another exercise in 'ways to give Seanan an ulcer'.
Then I started hearing more about the movie. Then the first sneak peeks at the effects started to get out. Then Nathan Fillion showed his sheer, unadulterated glee in interviews for all to see. And most importantly of all, then you used up all the astroglide in Canada. On such tiny foundations is true faith anchoured.
For Slither to have been more perfect, more ideal, more exactly what I wanted it to be, it would have needed to include a man who rubbed my feet all the way through the movie, and a theatre that had Diet Dr Pepper on tap. Since those are things I really don't expect from my movies, I have to say that you have, despite early trepidation, despite my worries, despite the terrible, no-good badness that was the recent remake of The Fog, produced my perfect horror movie.
Looking over your resume, I really don't understand why this is a surprise. I mean, your track record practically reads like the universe was grooming you to make me happy. First you worked with Troma -- a great way to teach somebody not to take themselves too seriously -- and then you wrote both the Scooby-Doo movies (which I actively loved, largely because of the witty, fast-paced, and above all, compassionate writing). And then you remade Dawn of the Dead without pissing me off (and that, sir, was no easy task). The fact that Slither is perfect was practically inevitable. But that doesn't mean I'm not grateful.
Looking at your resume, however, also caused me to realize something about you. I know your secret; I know the truth of what you have done, and what you're trying to do.
You're Uwe Boll's arch-enemy, aren't you?
I support you fully in your inevitable destruction of this foul villain, and pledge to assist you in any way that I can, including seeing Slither in the theatres at least three more times, and blazoning the title across my breasts for all the world to see. You give me hope for my favourite genre, sir. You give me hope for the future.
Now kick that bastard's cinematic ass.
Love,
Seanan.
You don't know me. You've never met me. Odds are good that if we ever do meet, through the slow, strange tides of modern fandom, we'll exchange perhaps ten words, and five of them will be 'hello', followed by 'I love your work'. We aren't friends, we aren't neighbors, and we are highly unlikely, barring truly strange and unexpected circumstances beyond our control, to wind up fighting off a zombie invasion together. I know all this, and I want you to understand that I know all this, because otherwise, I'm afraid this letter might come off as vaguely like my stalking you.
Also, you should know that I'm aware that you're a happily married man, with the sort of wife who willingly allows you to dip her in gore, slime, and animatronic alien slugs. And there is no way I could even try to compete with that.
All of the above being said, I think I'm a little bit in love with you.
When I first heard about Slither, I was, I will admit, unenthusiastic. Too many recent 'horror' movies have been PG-13 schlock-fests featuring the latest pretty people from the WB cavorting prettily while trying to look threatened, engaged, terrified, and anything other than, well, pretty. Most of the time, they have failed, leaving me, and others like me, shrieking our indignation at the uncaring silver screen. So Slither sounded like just another exercise in 'ways to give Seanan an ulcer'.
Then I started hearing more about the movie. Then the first sneak peeks at the effects started to get out. Then Nathan Fillion showed his sheer, unadulterated glee in interviews for all to see. And most importantly of all, then you used up all the astroglide in Canada. On such tiny foundations is true faith anchoured.
For Slither to have been more perfect, more ideal, more exactly what I wanted it to be, it would have needed to include a man who rubbed my feet all the way through the movie, and a theatre that had Diet Dr Pepper on tap. Since those are things I really don't expect from my movies, I have to say that you have, despite early trepidation, despite my worries, despite the terrible, no-good badness that was the recent remake of The Fog, produced my perfect horror movie.
Looking over your resume, I really don't understand why this is a surprise. I mean, your track record practically reads like the universe was grooming you to make me happy. First you worked with Troma -- a great way to teach somebody not to take themselves too seriously -- and then you wrote both the Scooby-Doo movies (which I actively loved, largely because of the witty, fast-paced, and above all, compassionate writing). And then you remade Dawn of the Dead without pissing me off (and that, sir, was no easy task). The fact that Slither is perfect was practically inevitable. But that doesn't mean I'm not grateful.
Looking at your resume, however, also caused me to realize something about you. I know your secret; I know the truth of what you have done, and what you're trying to do.
You're Uwe Boll's arch-enemy, aren't you?
I support you fully in your inevitable destruction of this foul villain, and pledge to assist you in any way that I can, including seeing Slither in the theatres at least three more times, and blazoning the title across my breasts for all the world to see. You give me hope for my favourite genre, sir. You give me hope for the future.
Now kick that bastard's cinematic ass.
Love,
Seanan.