film criticism by maryann johanson | handcrafted since 1997
The deep, honest emotion undercutting the performative toxic masculinity of these young men is beyond charming and vitally essential, but the melodramatic randomness of the plot ultimately lost me.
Riveting and repulsive, with a claustrophobic perspective that mirrors its subjects: all id, all in the moment. But it’s also shallow, all on the surface.
If I had been introduced to this film at a more impressionable age, I might today have pleasant adolescent memories of it that would color my grownup response to it today, and perhaps I could be kinder to a movie considered a comedy classic by some. But I wasn’t, I haven’t, and I can’t.
Writer-director Adam Green has been hailed as the future of horror: The future of horror is the past of horror, apparently.
It’s been almost a quarter of a century since this groundbreaking series graced our screens so briefly, but my memories of it have never faded, so great was the impact it had on my nerdy young brain…
Made of spoilers. Don’t read until you’ve seen the episode unless you don’t care to have it spoiled for you.
Riotously awful and simultaneously vile, this orgy of sexualize violence with no point except to give itself something to jerk off to…
Here’s the thing about Tucker Max: He’s a child. A toddler. A three-year-old screaming, ‘Poopie, poopie, POOPIE!” at the top of his lungs in the middle of the supermarket in the hopes of getting a reaction out of his embarrassed mother.
The concept sounded potentially intriguing to me, but, well, it turns out to be quite bizarre.
Obviously, I haven’t yet succumbed to a foolish bias that predisposes me to lap up *anything* just because it sports a British accent.
