Jason X (review)

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I’ve vowed not to review any more gross-out comedies, and now it’s probably time to declare a moratorium on reviewing Aliens thrillers. I mean, if you drop the line “I say we take off and nuke the site from space — it’s the only way to be sure” into your everyday conversations, then you’ve memorized the best of the breed and there’s really little point in enduring fourth-rate imitations. Which is all Jason X is. I guess it’s supposed to be “funny” here, seeing as how the Aliens movie has been crossbred with the teen-slasher movie — here, every horny summer camper’s worst nightmare, Jason “Hockey Mask” Vorhees, has been improbably cryofrozen and then defrosted in a generic future. But, hey, the whole “if you have sex you’re sure to die horribly” thing stopped being amusing around 1987, never mind 2002, never mind 2455. So all we’re really left with is the chance to squirm through some icky sexual shenanigans before the participants get offed in as gruesome a way as is possible in an R-rated film. Oh, but they’re icky sexual shenanigans in space, in the 25th century. Bleech. Game over, man. Game over.

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