About
Let’s get this out of the way: I’m nobody important. I didn’t go to film school. I never interned at Variety. Nobody has ever flown me to a junket in Burbank to eat shrimp off a tray and ask an actress about her “process.” The closest I’ve come to the film industry is getting thrown out of a multiplex for heckling a trailer, and that trailer had it coming.
Here’s what I am: unemployed, which means I have a shitload of time, and broke, which means I spend it watching movies on a ViewSonic portable monitor propped up against a stack of mail I’m not opening. It’s 15.6 inches. ViewSonic is very precise about that number because it’s the only impressive thing about the screen. When a studio spends two hundred million dollars on a monster flattening a city, I watch it at the size of a slice of bread. Jump scares land about as hard as somebody sneezing across the room. So if a movie still gets me on that screen, it fucking earned it.
I don’t go to theaters, because theaters cost money. I stream. I’m subscribed to whichever service I could afford this month, I’m logged into a second one on a password I got from a guy at the bar who swears it’s his cousin’s, and I’m in the middle of canceling a third one before the free trial runs out. I’ve canceled the same service four times. They keep letting me back in, which tells you everything about their business model and nothing good about mine.
I watch mostly horror. Horror is the one genre honest enough to admit it’s cheap. The good ones know their premise is ridiculous and have a hell of a time with it anyway. The bad ones scream at you for ninety minutes, flash a strobe light, and call it dread. I’ll tell you which is which. When I can’t find anything scary, I’ll watch whatever else is on, and you’ll hear about that too.
The Rabbit’s Feet
My bar is the Rockin’ Rabbit. Behind the register there’s a rabbit’s foot on a keychain that the bartender says is lucky. Lucky for who? Not the fucking rabbit. That’s the rating system: one to five rabbit’s feet, and every one of them came off somebody who had a worse night than you.
It promised me something and delivered every bit of it. I’d watch it again on an even smaller screen.
A good ride. Maybe it stumbles near the end, but I’m glad I spent the evening on it.
Worth your time, but somebody had a better movie in their hands and dropped it.
I can see what they were going for. They didn’t get there.
This isn’t a movie, it’s a product. Somebody in an office looked at you and saw a wallet.
Hate Mail
If you think I’m wrong, write to [email protected]. I read every message, usually out loud at the Rabbit, in a voice I’ve been told is not my best quality. If you’re writing to tell me the director’s cut fixes everything, I don’t have the director’s cut. I have a portable monitor and a dream. If you’re writing to tell me I can’t review the sequel without seeing the first three, I can, I did, and you’re reading it.
The Fine Print
The Crude Critic is a character. The opinions are real. The language is foul, the jokes are low, and nothing here is meant for kids. If profanity bothers you, you’re on the wrong website, and honestly I’m impressed you got this far.