Welcome to the inaugural Drunken Monkey Movie Reviews column. As this is its maiden voyage, I can’t be certain the format will remain written. Just looking at transposing my notes, I dread the task ahead of me as this is gonna take a while. So I might switch it up to a short podcast review like I’ve done for another website. Now, whether I record WHILE I’m still drunk after the first viewing (giving no time to reflect on the film’s wonders or craptastic nature) or the next day, after getting drunk AGAIN, is up for debate.
Like I said, it’s all very fluid right now. Ha! Fluid, alcohol, drunk – get it?
Troglodytes, all of you.
My rating system will be as follows: 5 Monkey Margaritas for the best and 5 Monkey Hangovers for the worst. I have a feeling a lot of these will end up on the lower end of the scale because I become an angry little monkey when I’m drunk AND disappointed in even the smallest measure. I do giggle a lot, though.
Let’s just pop this damn cherry already. WARNING: As I do get drunk (let’s be honest – buzzed is more like it since I’m a total lightweight and start getting sloppy after one thimble of tequila) the ability to censor myself before revealing spoilers will probably be damn near non-existent. You have been warned.
For my first review I bring you #Horror. Christ Almighty. Of COURSE we have to have something with Gods damned social media. I don’t know why it bugs me so much but this is lame ass horse shit. However, I do like a couple of the actors, Timothy Hutton and Balthazar Getty – who is the first to die. Fucking figures.
And the sound is awful. Effects are so loud they’re painful and the dialogue is barely above a whisper. That’s awesome.
The opening of the movie is filled with every emoji known to man and the graphics of that stupid Candy Crush and other online games. Dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. All the credits are whipping by so fast you don’t know who does what. And the hashtag is animated, holding a knife that slashes at the audience. What. The. Fuck.
#Horror is about a group of pre-teen girls (gods help us) who are addicted to an on-line game that turns them into a gaggle of fucking spoiled cyber-bullying spawn of Satan and you wonder how the hell they function in society or have ANY friends at all. Because of their on-line antics, and in-person asshattery, someone begins stalking and killing them.
Good fucking riddance, I say.
That’s the entire premise of this film. The story, or as I like to call it, donkey shit filler, is all about how awful rich white people are in their cold mansions with their piles of jewels and their haughty attitudes toward EVERYONE NOT THEM and the general idea that parents just don’t understand their kids. How can they? The only things important in life are good grades, what college you get into, and enjoying your youth before you get old AND DIE.
Yeah, the Fresh Prince already covered that topic in 1988. Way to bring the retro, writer/director/producer Tara Subkoff. Or, if you prefer, the ever-present obviousness of life. Either way, it’s trite as fuck.
I hate every character in the film. Every fucking one of them. No one has any redeemable qualities. No one is salvageable. All are spoiled, delusional, entitled, shallow, manic caricatures of what the writer/director must think they are in real life. Throw in some random undeveloped idea that one of the girls has visions or some shit like that and that the main location was supposed to have been built by a crazy artist over some kind of psychic vortex (seriously, what the ever-loving fuck?) that made him kill a bunch of people and the whole movie becomes a jumbled pile of inarticulate ridiculousness in a big glass house.
(Fuck a duck! Someone in my neighborhood just lit off a GINORMOUS firework. And I caught it in the recording. This is the kind of bullshit I have to deal with on a regular basis around here. Now my dog is terrified and I’ve got to calm him down. Fucking asshole jag-off mouth breathers who can’t hold their fucking water for anything involving fireworks.)
And now back to our newly scheduled rant, I mean review…
Aside from developing epilepsy at the intermittent flashing graphics, the desire to punch myself unconscious 20 minutes in, the chaotic uneven feel of the whole film, the obvious ‘trying so hard to be artsy’ camera angles and settings, and the overall lazy and sloppy writing, this film has one redeemable aspect – the scene where Tim Hutton has a fantastic meltdown and loses his shit in epic fashion over his missing daughter.
Not sure the other 90 minutes is worth it, considering how I wanted to flog myself for a week just for considering to watch this monstrosity. Say what you will about this being a statement piece (oh for fuck’s sake) on narcissism in society or women’s issues or the precarious landscape of childhood. THIS WHOLE MOVIE SUCKED MAJOR DONKEY DICK AND SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN CATEGORIZED AS HORROR. Or even made for that matter.
Only Tim Hutton keeps this from being a complete failure.
4 Monkey Hangovers (out of 5)