Tag: cinema

Blair Witch (2016)

Blair Witch Casts a Spell of Dazzling Originality

Reviewed by Joshua Champlain for HumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Film critic Joshua Champlain has recently awakened from a 27-year coma. Please keep this in mind when reading the following review.)

It’s easy for film critics to be cynical. So many movies completely lack originality and artistic integrity. So many movies are nothing more than the generic repackaging of well-worn filmic tropes, clichéd storylines, and established pop-culture brands. So many movies are clearly molded by the greedy hooves of capitalist swine in search of a quick buck without having to innovate or bear the burden of any creative risk. So many movies rely solely on storytelling gimmicks and archetypal characters to shamelessly pander to a well-established target demographic in order to put butts in seats on opening weekend. So many movies are so insultingly predictable, so reliant upon this paint-by-numbers philosophy of filmmaking that you just can’t blame critics for the unmistakable air of frustration so prevalent in their reviews.

Which is why I’m so pleased to report that I’ve just seen Blair Witch, a film so startling in its originality that I’m shocked it was allowed to be produced at all, let alone publicly exhibited.

First and foremost, Blair Witch is a horror movie—but not just any horror movie. It will likely be remembered as the single greatest achievement in the hallowed history of horror. The basic story involves a collection of millennials coming face-to-face with unspeakable terrors in the deep, dark woods. And why exactly are these youngsters trudging through the woods? Because the main character, James Donahue, decides it’s time to search for the sister he lost in these very woods 22 years ago, when she led her own expedition of intrepid youngsters on a search for the mysterious Blair Witch, a terrifying apparition with a reputation for disappearing local townsfolk, even children. That alone permits this film to stake its claim as one of the most innovative horror stories of all time. I mean, come on … Good-looking young people killed off in a forest—genius! From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Vertigo Entertainment and Lionsgate for having the balls to tell such an imaginative story. But that’s just the beginning. Check this out: The story is conveyed through a narrative device in which the characters record their own experiences. That footage is then assembled by someone else and presented to the movie-going public as a kind pseudo-documentary. What! Who could have ever imagined such an ingenious method of presenting a story? Only superhuman mega-geniuses, that’s who.

I don’t want to give away any of the surprises (and, trust me, there are just so, so many really startling revelations in this movie), so I won’t say any more about the story or how it is told. However, I would like to say that I am just so proud of you, Hollywood, for respecting ticket-buying audiences (who often have to shell out as much as $20 or more per ticket) for not simply regurgitating the stinking pile of inept, infantile, brain cell-destroying eye cancer you normally fart onto movie screens each weekend. Not this time. No, this time you delivered Blair Witch, rather than insult film fans with yet another half-cocked prequel, sequel, or reboot featuring a gaggle of cardboard characters heedlessly meandering through a mind-numbing cinematic wasteland of cheap set-ups, clunky expositional dialogue, and poorly executed jump scares. So, again, thank you. You had the courage to respect both your craft and the fans by releasing … Blair Witch.

So … I humbly doff my cap to you, mainstream Hollywood. Your integrity and inventiveness know no bounds.

I give Blair Witch a 10 out of 10, and I wait with bated breath to see what glorious creations Hollywood has in store for the future. May God bless this movie and all who see it.

(Blair Witch is rated R for adult language, violence, nudity, and for being such a pioneering, groundbreaking work of art that younger, less-experienced viewers’ minds would implode should their eyes gaze upon its brilliance.)

Don’t Breathe

Don’t Breathe; Moreover, Don’t Buy a Ticket to This Dreck

Reviewed by Doris Goldfarb for HumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Film critic Doris Goldfarb is an octogenarian who rarely sees modern films. Keep this mind when reading the following review.)

Don’t even get me started! Oy gevalt, what a terrible movie Don’t Breathe is. I mean, my God, with the violence and the potty mouth … What the hell happened to movies anyway? This one is even worse than that disaster with the foul-mouthed cartoon hot dog. Ah, the whole thing’s a shanda, I tell ya’. If my Irving—God rest his soul—had seen this movie, he would’ve plotzed, hand to God. Now, I may just be a yenta who loves to kvetch, but I’m sorry, this movie caused me great tsoriss, and I want restitution. Thank God I didn’t have to pay for my ticket. But thirteen dollars for popcorn and a Coke! Thirteen dollars it cost, hand to God. For a nosh? Are you kidding? What am I, made of gelt? Ah, the whole system’s fercockt.

So, anyway, Don’t Breathe tells the story of a troubled shiksa named Rocky (what a pretty name for a girl, am I right?) whose parents neglect her and her baby sister. So now Rocky wants to run away with her sister, but she needs money. By the way, what is it with these young girls today? Rocky dresses like a real nafka, always with the shirts that expose her pupik and the tight pants that highlight the roundness of her tuches. And don’t even get me started on the tattoos. Hand to God, these girls today look like walking comic strips. These little pishers should show off their healthy skin while they have it, not hide it beneath a layer of vulgar graffiti hastily carved into their hides by a bunch of derelicts with electric needles. But I digress.

In order to get the money she needs to run away, Rocky commiserates with her boyfriend, a real shmegegge named—get this—Money. Anyway, Money’s brilliant idea is to break into the house of a blind man who, rumor has it, has a safe just waiting to be burgled. So, with the help of Money’s friend Alex (a total schlemiel, hand to God), Rocky and Money set out to steal their fortune. One problem: the broken-down blind man they’re supposed to steal from is no shmendrick. He may be old and blind, but he’s tough as balls and steady as a moyl at the moment of truth. Soon these ungrateful little bastards are running for their pathetic little lives from this blind gonif with a pair of balls like a Holstein bull and the shvantz of a Triple Crown winner. Sure he may be a violent psychopath, but he doesn’t take crap from teens and he doesn’t sweat the small stuff, and that’s a nice way to live. Good for him.

So, anyway, there’s really no reason for anyone to sit through this whole megillah. It’s really nothing but potty-mouthed kids and violence, and I can see plenty of that any day of the week on the D train, and for free. Bottom line, Don’t Breathe stinks like my friend Gerda’s water closet after a brisket-and-beets lunch from Katz Deli—you know, the one on 53rd across from that place that makes all the pies. Anyway, my point is, don’t bother wasting your time and your money on Don’t Breathe. Just thinking about this movie makes me grepse.

I give Don’t Breathe zero stars, and may it bring shame to those who aided in its creation.

(Don’t Breathe is rated R for just horrible language and some of the most ridiculous violence I’ve seen. Is this really the kind of thing people find entertaining? If so, it’s time for me shuffle off this mortal coil and be with my Irving, hand to God.)

The Neon Demon

The Neon Demon Should Possess a Better Filmmaker

Reviewed by Clark Savage for TheHumbleHeckler.com

(Editor’s note: Film critic Clark Savage is currently pursuing a rigorous 12-step program in an effort to treat his ongoing issues with anger management.)

So-called “writer” and “director” Nicolas Winding Refn needs a serious beating. No, I’m not kidding. I have never—EVER!—wanted to punch anyone in the face as much as I want to punch this clown after seeing The Neon Demon. Talk about pretentious: This film is stuffed to the gills with monologues that I sincerely believe Refn and his alleged “co-writers” stole directly from bumper stickers they saw on the freeway from the backseat of their Tesla. Oh, and by the way, this film is appropriately titled: Every single frame of this cinematic turd absolutely pulses with neon. The constant reds, blues, greens, violets, and oranges are enough to drive Gandhi to slap on a bib and skeletonize a live Holstein bull with his teeth. This film could seriously endanger the lives of anyone prone to seizures. Hell, the guy next to me went cross-eyed and shit his pants. Come on, Nic. Didn’t they teach you about chiaroscuro in film school? For the love of God, man, find a dictionary and look up the word “subtle”—and try to do it without monologuing about it, you half-baked potato.

And what’s the deal with the electronic score? The music in this film sounds like it was composed by constipated robots who learned to score movies by only watching movies directed by this lug nut. Where’s the humanity? Everything looks and sounds utterly synthetic, and don’t you dare try to tell me that it’s supposed to look that way, or I’ll find you and dunk you in an acid bath and then feed your bones to my cat, Nero (which exactly the kind of crap you’re likely to see in one of this moron’s movies).

The Neon Demon is another exercise in style, totally lacking substance, in which a collection of dead-eyed mannequin-people wander through an ill-conceived fantasy world of debaucherous sex and depraved violence. And for what? What’s the point? There is no point. Refn is just stupid enough to believe that filmgoers are so stupid that they will think this noxious puddle of rhinoceros vomit is deep and meaningful. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, this is the same preening peacock that brought us Drive and Only God Forgives, two of the biggest time-sucks ever projected onto movie screens.

Just thinking about The Neon Demon makes the bile rise in my gullet. I’ve actually written to my congressman imploring him to create legislation that will keep atrocities such as this movie from ever infecting the public again. I lie awake at night wondering what impact this abomination will have on society. I mean, if this movie exists, can there really be a God? How does someone explain this brand of evil to their children? Is there any point in exercising or eating healthy if, at any time, you could end up watching a movie like this? When I finish this review, I’m going to smack myself in the head with a hammer until there’s no trace of this unfortunate chapter of my life left in my brain’s memory center.

So, basically, if you’re thinking about seeing The Neon Demon, don’t. You’ll be better off tying a bloody pork chop around your neck and picking a fight with a great white shark. Or maybe you should just grab a shovel and ask a buddy to beat you senseless with it. I’d bet every dollar in the bank that this is the movie Satan forces damned souls to watch on the plane ride to hell. Anyone who willfully pays to watch this dreck needs to be removed from society, sterilized, and abandoned on the edge of an active volcano.

I give The Neon Demon .0001% of one star and 100% of my bloated corpse the second I die.

(The Neon Demon is rated R. It is intended only for simpletons who lack taste, self-respect, dignity, and the ability to NOT flush their hard-earned money down the nearest craphole. It also contains adult language.)