I was secretly hoping “Confessions of a Shopaholic “would by #1 this week but Jason was nowhere near as lucky as gettig to spend 2 hours with everyone’s favorite psycho Fisher. Instead:
I think I’ve seen this movie before.
Have you ever seen a tribute band, dear reader? There are tons of them out there. For most people across America, going to see Sabbra Cadabra, Rain, or Bjorn Again adequately simulates the experience of seeing Black Sabbath, the Beatles, or ABBA. And, for the better bands of this genre, it sounds and looks eerily similar to the real deal. But there’s something just a LITTLE bit off. It’s hard to suspend your disbelief when you realize that Ozzy or John Lennon were never 250 pounds, and probably never played a biker bar in Dale City. But these bands DO serve a purpose. Nobody has been able to actually see the Beatles play live since 1966. So Rain fills that void. Let me ask you this, then: in these heady days of Netflix, what void is anyone filling by remaking classic horror films, besides the void in their bank accounts*?
It’s one thing to take a classic character like Batman, and remake him into a version that hasn’t been explored, as in the recent Batman Begins and Dark Knight films. It’s another to trot out Jason Voorhees or Leatherface and make pretty much the exact same fucking movie.
And that’s exactly what Friday the 13th is: a poor copy of the original. It’s like translating a sentence into Italian, then into French, then back into English: like the generating children of Michael Jackson: it hardly did not mean**.
Sure, you have all of the things the original had: frisky topless co-eds and their equally horny and idiotic Tool Academy boyfriends, illicit drug use and drinking, camping, and Jason Voorhees in a hockey mask slashing everyone in sight to little bits. Unlike the original, most of the tits are fake and gross***, the deaths are neither funny or especially scary, and the only person you actually feel sympathy for is Jason.
How could you not feel sympathy for him? Jason is essentially a retard who misses his mom, lives in a cabin in the woods, and just wants to be left alone. So when the troupe of douchebags invades his space, what’s a retard to do with all of his rage and retard strength? Hack ’em to bits, that’s what.
And who would NOT want to kill these assholes? If I had to hang out with any of these characters for more time than the length of an elevator ride I would start putting meat hooks in their backs, too.
I’d like to say that watching a masked machete-wielding killer hack LNSers to bits for 90 minutes was satisfying, but it wasn’t. So if you want to see Friday the 13th, just friggin’ rent the original**** already. It’s much better and you won’t have to leave your house. In other words, going to Whitlow’s and watching a chick in a cover band sing Pour Some Sugar On Me is somewhat entertaining, but give me Joe Elliot with his raging mullet and ridiculously ripped jeans in 1988 any day of the week.
My reaction: Worthless (1 out of 5)
Next week: Fired Up: boys who are cheerleaders? ZOMG That’s just crazy!!! Til then I’m sharpening my machete and hanging around Georgetown. Stay vigilant, kids.
*Before the film, there was a trailer for a new Last House on the Left, and they are also remaking A Nightmare on Elm Street. WHY?
** I actually did that with the following sentence: like Michael Jackson fathering children: it just doesn’t make sense.
***Especially the first boobs you see in the movie. I was horribly repulsed by the sight of them. They looked like two hard, scarred slabs of silly putty about to burst. I would think someone getting a boob job would actually spend some cash on getting them to look good, but what do I know? I grew my tits naturally, through the time tested methods of pizza and beer.
****Or put it in your Netflix queue if you’re Cale.