So as you know, I don’t usually do movie reviews.
In fact, minus my initial infatuation with Avatar and the occasional sentence or two of bitching, there really haven’t been any movie reviews in the nearly two years I’ve been doing this blog.
Let’s stop to pause on that tidbit.
I’ve been doing this for almost two years.
Which safely estimates to 800 or more hours.
33.33333 entire, 24-hour days of my life have been spent blogging.
And for what???
God only knows.
Probably something along the lines of the explanation suggested by my German friend: I didn’t get enough attention as a child.
It seemed like an insulting ‘observation’ at the time, but he’s probably right. Why else spend two years (or at least several hours a week for two years) talking about yourself to people who don’t actually know you (for the most part)? We could devolve into all kinds of self-psychoanalysis on that topic, but why?
Moving right along, I am 99% sure I read a really good review – and maybe even a couple really good reviews – of this movie called Drag Me To Hell.
And although the trailer seemed impossibly stupid – and it struck me even then as really, really unfair that some lowly bank employee gets nailed with a nasty gypsy curse because some icky old lady can’t pay her mortgage – I decided to trust said positive review and rent it.
How did this fate befall me, you ask?
Well, the other day I was at the Redbox (my new favoritist thing), and there was nothing new I wanted to see, but the box contained – you guessed it – Drag Me To Hell, so I figured for a mere $1.09 (we have some serious sales tax in this state) how could I go wrong?
There’s where Redbox gets you. The illusion of convenience. The self-deception that they’re strategically located somewhere you are every day anyway – the grocery store, the Walgreens – so what’s the harm in picking something up? It’s practically free!
But then the next day comes, and you decide to scrape something together from the aging items in your fridge, and then the next day comes and you realize you don’t REALLY need to fill that prescription, and then the next day comes and you forget to put the movie in the car, and then the next thing you know, you’ve spent $13.08 renting Inglorious Bastards and never even watched it.
And don’t even get me started on the lines when all you’re there to do is return. It’s like a law of the universe that when I make an actual move to finally return a movie, ten other people are magnetically drawn to the very same RedBox and then inexplicably compelled to read the reviews of every single item contained within it. Twice.
Until there’s a Redbox in my kitchen, it’s not really as convenient as you’re led to believe.
So on that note, naturally I have already had Drag Me To Hell for four days. And I had it in the car to return. But I didn’t feel like dealing with the machine. Or the inevitable wait. And then the “In for $4.36, in for $5.45” logic starts in, and I decided to keep it one last night. But instead I watch Celebrity Rehab and The Best of I Love the 80s and House Hunters International and then it’s 8pm, and I decide to finally sit down and actually WATCH it. Just sit on the couch and pay attention.
And then I pick the Director’s Cut over the theater version.
Probable fourth mistake, but seeing as I never saw the theater version and now never will, I can’t say for certain.
It’s at this point that I’m reminded that my dad always drew the line at movies where they stuck a big bug or alien creature into someone’s ear wherein it inevitably crawled inside and took control of their brain. The classic line-in-the-sand moment occurred during Wrath of Khan. And although I was rather young and wasn’t particularly bothered by the imagery, I vividly recall how much he was.
However, now I have found my own equal, and henceforth I am going to take a commensurate stand against abusing my eyes with the sight of projectile vomit or blood or insects or brownie batter flying out of the mouth and nose of one person and into the face (and usually open mouth) of another person.
If I were suddenly plagued by a noteworthy and unpredictable digestive disorder, I would just start carrying a big bucket and handing out cards explaining the situation. Forewarned is forearmed.
At the same time, should your new nemesis not be so considerate, there are some obvious self-defensive techniques.
- When you see dark brown or insect-based projectile vomit coming your way, close your mouth.
- When a horrible gypsy monster old lady person is up in your grill, do everything possible to turn your head because when it comes, it’s coming hard, and it ain’t gonna be pretty.
- When inundated with three? four? such scenes (I lost count), go ahead and start laughing. Like when she hosed down her boss with what I guess was blood or black coffee or the aforementioned brownie batter? It was so horrifically. unthinkably awful that it was, well, funny.
But don’t take the fact that I giggled at the projectile puke as an endorsement.
I think probably it was a defense mechanism.
Because it’s really nothing I would want to see again any time soon. Or ever.
And as for the rest of the plot, who the hell knows?
Something about a really pissed off gypsy lady who loses her house and decides to punish the girl from Matchstick Men. And the guy from the Mac ads tries to help her, but he’s too wimpy and milquetoast to be of any real good. And the nasty gypsy lady somehow manages to break into the girl’s car and hide in the backseat and offer up a seriously vicious fight for such an old lady.
And despite all the violence, the worst was when the old lady was sucking and gumming on the Matchstick Men girl’s chin thinking she was biting her because she didn’t realize her dentures fell out.
And you do have to wonder what kind of crack dentist made dentures that look exactly like chipped up, browned out 75-year old rotten teeth?
Definitely turn that guy into the ADA.
Anyway, it was not all a loss.
Drag Me To Hell taught me a thing or two I never knew about the banking business.
And that lesson has been duly noted: The next time I need a loan or want to request a third extension on my unpaid mortgage, I’m going to dress up like a monstrous gypsy with bad fingernails and even worse teeth and hope the loan officer has seen the same movie.
If all else fails, maybe I can hope to at least projectile vomit on someone?