We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to issue this important public service warning.
I’ve already explained why I have an issue with Twilight as a franchise; long story short, it’s insulting to anyone with half a brain and/or testosterone levels or male loins.
I would never, of free will, watch said cinematic abortion; any of the 3 parts. But alas, I have a vindictive niece who can hold grudges longer than fundamentalist terrorists. So it was that I found myself at the tickets and concession stands watching her buy the tickets (Yes, I let my niece pay. I have standards.) as I ran prayer beads through my fingers asking God to tell Scotty to beam me up before it was too late.
When the nice lady behind the counter asked if I wanted anything to take with me in the movie, I said I’d like a sharp razor blade.
She repeated while giggling “Food or drinks. Something edible.”
I said “I was going to eat the razor blades. But now that you mention it, I’d like some cyanide to wash it down.”
She was less amused “We don’t have cyanide or razor blades.”
“Fine.” I exhaled. “Then give me some battery acid and a plastic spoon so I can scoop my eyes out.”
My niece dragged me into the room with the loudest “Nkt” ever heard to man. This was the beginning of the end. All I could hear while walking in was the stone mason chipping my name into my tombstone.
“Here Lies iCon: The First Man to Die From Sh***y Cinema.”
You know what firing squads, hangings, guillotines and lethal injections have in common besides being gateways of legal murder? They promise imminent doom in such a fashion that the suspense and terror are both flat and bland. Think about being blindfolded up against the wall, or with a noose round your neck, or your head in a guillotine brace, or strapped to a chair, waiting for the Reaper wondering whether he’ll tap your shoulder or just slap the bejesus out of you. Either way, you’re sodded. This movie was like a combination of all the above; I was in a chair with nowhere to turn waiting to lose my head and for the certain painful death that would ensue.
The movie begins with the sparkly vampire guy turning down that chick that’s been wanting to bone him since he threatened to eat her and then abandoned her. Why she still thought he was a dream man is something only the patient, desperate and naive can comprehend. Anyway, they’re lying there in the grass and flowers talking about sex and marriage. Then some stuff happens in the middle of the movie and there’s one
cool scene where a vampire gets decapitated and glitter spills out as a werewolf gets bearhugged and that chick stabs herself(I’m really not making this up). Anyhow, at the end of the movie, guess where they end up? Right back in that damn meadow having the same bloody conversation they were before. Nothing changed. For 2 and a half hours – about 2 months in their timeline – NOTHING CHANGED!
Woe be the literary mind that actually had to review this book; the movie is supposedly better than the book but I fail to see how. Especially since this book is really just the
author lady penning some fantastic wet dream she had.
The only thing worse than this would be getting castrated with a hot salad fork or having to artificially inseminate two crocodiles and a hippo at the same time. Actually, that last one pales in comparison to the outlandish ridiculousness that is this “movie”.
None of the people in the movie can actually act(which is why I called them “people” not “actors”). The plot is thinner than greased baby hair and so basic that that the baby in question would probably have walked out halfway through asking for a refund. The effects are basic and the cinematography is … All in all, just gawful.
But that’s not why you shouldn’t watch it. The reason why NOBODY should watch this movie is because you are putting money into undeserving pockets. Stephenie Meyer is yet to pen one interesting sentence; Robert Pattison has the emotional range of a comatose earthworm, that redheaded chick looks like a bird trying to swim and that werewolf dude looks like an alpaca.
And none of them can act, yet all of them earn more per movie than the kingdoms of Lesotho and Swaziland see in a year.
My fear is that if we keep giving Steph et al. money, she’ll get it into her head to make more movies or write more books. Likewise with those faux-actors. And that, really, is no different than re-electing current government officials: it’s pricey and counter-productive. And the movies are actually dangerous to one’s health. I stumbled out of that theater bleeding from my eyes and ears but after a few nights in the hospital, I survived.
Now, with renewed purpose in life, I pen this letter.
We have 2 options. We can chalk Twilight-mania up as a misguided hormone driven miscalculation, count our losses and move on so that real books can inherit the spotlight.
Or we can round up all the concerned parties and leave them in Roman Polanski’s basement for the next decade or so.
Either way, this must end.
This does not apply to anyone under age 16. You guys can watch whatever you want, ironically.