Wednesday, December 17, 2014

I Am Doll Parts Bad Skin Doll Heart

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Although I wrote more about Sex (side-point number one: somethings never change, and side-point number two: write about what you know) more than I did Race, back when I was booming and bloviating with self-important opinions in college I would've dug a horror movie like Annabelle only because it is so clueless about what it's actually about - this is where the nation's seedy underbelly pokes its eyes out: not with a bang but a half-assed jump scare. So even though Annabelle's set in some version of 1969 America where Race doesn't seem to exist, man alive is it Saying Things About Race by the end. And horrible recidivist things at that - horrible recidivist things that it would take a sit-down by the director and a long conversation over several cups of coffee to convince me were intentional. 

And I don't see that coming - I can't actually foresee a world where the people making this inept movie had any idea what they were saying, or doing, or if they were holding the camera in the right direction. There is one good idea of a scare in here that's drawn out well for a moment (I speak of the broken elevator) which walks the fine line between being a Scooby Doo gag and actually kicking your knees out from under you, but they really go nowhere with it, and then it's back to another round of making me just feel bad for the lead actress, leaving her hung out to dry in some subpar Rosemary's basement, black things haunting other black things as her blonde hair exquisitely bounces.
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