Kathryn Hore - Writer

Tag: movies

Endings. (In which I enjoy arguing over bad horror flicks while drinking too much wine.)

I’ve thinking about endings. Story endings. 

See, a horror loving friend had a movie night the other night and, as one does, decided to stick on an “old” and “classic” movie. Did she pick something like, oh, James Whale’s Frankenstein? What about Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Perhaps The Shining or The Exorcist, those 70s classics? But no. She didn’t even go Hammer Horror from that period, which I would’ve loved. Look, I’m not picky. I’d consider the original Freddy Krueger Nightmare on Elm St a classic. 

But my friend is significantly younger than me, so what she picked was… The Mist. From 2007. Hmmm.

Anyway, after having some severe words with her about what constitutes a ‘classic’, or even ‘old’, and after said friend mocked me in return for being middle-aged and out of touch – all undoubtedly true – we all sat down with several bottles of wine (necessary for this film) to watch it. Then we all got into semi-drunken arguments about the ending. As a bunch of horror readers, writers and pop culture consumers are wont to do. 

Oh, and before I forget: spoilers ahead. I don’t know if it’s possible to spoil a move that’s a dozen years old, especially in a blog post titled “Endings”, but I did see someone put a spoiler warning on an online forum discussion of Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo once, and that book’s well over 170 years old, so what do I know about modern spoiler culture?

Um… where was I headed, before I paused to roll my eyes at spoiler warnings?

That’s right. The Mist, circa 2007. If you don’t know the ending by now, here’s my rendition of it: after surviving the endless horrors that usually occur in a Stephen King tale, the protagonist and his plucky band of survivors (read: a nice older couple, a love interest, and his 8yo son, the protection of whom has hitherto been his entire character motivation), give up and he shoots them all dead. This is instead of letting the monsters get to them, or something. Even though they’ve risked far more multiple times than stepping outside of the car into the mist and seeing if they maybe can walk it. Anyway, thirty seconds after he literally kills his own child, the army rolls in and he finds they were all saved after all. Oh, the horror.

People hated this ending. 

I hated this ending. 

But my movie-night-hosting-friend *loved* this ending, and knows just how controversial that stance is, hence her desire to ply everyone with wine and stick this particular film on. She loves the ending because it’s grim and brutal and horror. She also loves a good argument. Her argument to those of us who hated the ending was we’re just not tough enough to cope with a downer ending and wanted some kind of happy fairytale finale. 

Let me tell you, in horror writing circles, thems fighting words. 

So I’m here to tell you why I hated the ending and it’s nothing to do with not being able to deal with grim, brutal, horror movie endings. It’s because that particular ending is entirely unearned in a storytelling sense. It makes no narrative sense. It is plonked on purely for shock value.

In a story, your ending has to be earned. That version of The Mist is a damn fine movie which I absolutely loved… right up until the end, which destroyed it. Because the ending was unearned and unrelated to the actual story. If the protagonist had been struggling throughout the film with a dark part of himself that didn’t want to protect or care for his kid, while still loving him, then having to shoot the child dead right when he’d finally embraced a protector’s role would have been a truly tragic, gut-wrenching end. 

That’s not what happened. There was no fatal flaw in the protagonist that he finally gave in to which provided our tragedy. It’s one thing for the external end goal to be survival, but they fail and all die. But story endings are wrapped up in the protagonist’s internal journey, their character arc, and this ending made zero sense to any character’s arc in the film.

Which is a shame, because otherwise it’s a note-perfect flick which shows that no matter what external monster horrors threaten on the outside, the worst horror will always come from inside human beings. 

Maybe that’s why I hated the ending so much. It destroys a film I otherwise loved. Anyway, I haven’t seen the more recent Netflix remake, nor have I read the original King novella it’s based on. I’m not likely to watch/read either after the scarring left by version 2007.

So here’s the lesson of the tale, folks… make your ending count for the characters, not merely for the external plotline. That’s where it’ll hit your readers with a real emotional punch. 

And for the love of the old gods, do not stick on this flick when having a semi-drunken movie night with a bunch of horror movie fans. Please.  

More than meets the eye

In my life, I’ve seen Optimus Prime die twice.

The first time was unexpectedly sad. I was about thirteen when the first Transformers movie came out and I’m not talking either big budget Michael Bay bit of explosion-porn. I’m talking the original, late 80s animated movie, back when the cartoon I grew up with was still actually playing.

Think I was sixteen the last time I watched it. Somewhere in that space where I was technically too old for cartoons, but too young to have discovered how cool anime or comic books were yet (I hit that in university), so watching a Transformers movie then was an exercise in irony. Like any good, precocious sixteen year old gal who thought she was smarter than she actually was, I wasn’t about to approach a movie-length cartoon straight and serious. Publicly, I watched it for the laugh. Privately, I watched it for nostalgia. Transformers was one of the cartoons of my childhood.

So maybe it was more the shock of them killing such a major character off or else the fuzzy distance of childhood memory, but I recall that film as being pretty bloody good and the death of Prime as… poignant.

Of course, I’ve noted before that my memory is a fickle beast which works to its own agenda, so I don’t recommend trusting it.

One thing I do recall is that it came off the back of another movie-version of a cartoon my teenage mates and me had all grown up watching. A live-action one which hadn’t been done so well. Which was, indeed, one of the worst bits of trash even the lovers of trash movies amongst us could not stomach. Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about the He-Man movie. The one with Dolph Lundgren. Surely that says it all.

Not seen it? Heh, just imagine the worst movie remake possible of an already dodgy children’s cartoon with dubious moral messaging and then give everyone in it late 80s haircuts. If you can do that, you just might start to come close to the horribleness that was the Masters of the Universe He-Man movie.

(Oh, okay, so I haven’t seen it since I was fifteen or sixteen, so who knows, maybe I’ve made it worse in my memory than it deserves… nah, it was truly dreadful. Just accept it.)

Anyway, back to the death of Optimus. If you haven’t guessed where this is going already, Dear Partner and I took the girl and boy childs to see Transformers 2 on the weekend. And before I totally bring down the positivity in the room with my actual opinion on the movie, I just want to say the twelve year old boy loved it. See, it clearly does have an audience, and he was clearly it.

What can I say? It was better than that He-Man movie. Mind you, so are most late-night tv infomercials in the plot and acting stakes.

The explosions were good. Yes, everything nicely exploded. And the animated cgi-y bits of robot movements and stuff were integrated with the live-action absolutely seamlessly. That was very impressive, actually. That and the explosions, yes.

Um… um…. What else… oh yeah, heterosexual teenage boys are going to love the female characters. Even the extras. Who knew that American colleges are filled solely with brash but geeky guys and inhumanly sexy women constantly hot for it?

Ah, fuck it, I’m all out of positivity when it comes to this flick. Let’s just say that somewhere a dog is going hungry, because his breakfast was turned into Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen. It was a jumbled mess of things exploding in your face and no way to tell the difference between them, nor much point in caring.

I generally like big bang flicks. Granted, I like just about any kind of flick, from European art-house cinema done with one hand held camera on a budget the first time director saved up from his childhood paper round, right through to big budget Hollywood spectaculars based on theme park rides and adolescent male fantasies. Which includes the first Transformers movie – I’m talking the first in this live action series – which was actually pretty good. Me and the twelve year old both enjoyed it equally.

So I’m pretty good at walking into a cinema with an understanding of what the couple of hours or so in front of me is trying to achieve and judging it on its own merits. And hey, Transformers 2 was hardly pretending to competition at Cannes. I dig it. Totally get you.

But even within its own big budget universe of empty and mindless explosions, this one didn’t gel. For starters, there was a wee problem with characterisation, as in there wasn’t any. Everyone was played shallow, as if the movie was populated by comical side-kicks all searching for a hero, up to and including the actual hero. A big chunk of emotional depth, or what passes for such in these blockbusters, was definitely absent-without-leave.

Now I know this was a blow-‘em-up boys-toy of a film, but even the biggest blockiest of big blockbusters plays on the emotional tranjectory of its protagonists. The blokier the movie, the bigger the emotional hook. Granted, the ‘emotion’ in such films is usually on the same scale as the explosions; sentimentalism writ large, over-played and over-hyped, but it’s still there. Think Tony Stark’s realisation he’s been arming the bad guys in Iron Man. Or the death of Batman’s girlfriend in The Dark Knight. Both excellent films, by the way.

Or for a trashy example – and this is one of my favourites, though the boys always seem to hate me when I say this – what about the death of Bruce Willis at the end of that comet flick Michael Bay did back in the 90s? Armageddon? Bruce sacrificing himself to save the world, doing the emotional goodbyes to sobbing and beautiful daughter via NASA hook-up, the official anointing of the boyfriend – who’s already proved himself with some earlier brave machismo – to now take care of her? Remember that ridiculous tear-jerker ending?

I could not stop laughing. Truly hilarious. Truly trashy. It was so bad it was… well, not good exactly, but definitely worth the laugh. The boys just must like all that kind of emotional stuff in their films, I guess.

Anyway, back again to the big red truck. Without any sense of emotional investment in any character in the film – except perhaps for some extreme irritation any time anyone opened their mouth to spout some of the worst dialogue since George Lucas attempted to write love scenes – it was hard to actually care when one of them died. So when Optimus Prime bought it, well… I just kind of shrugged my shoulders and waited for the next explosion.

Suffice to say, I didn’t have to wait long.

They brought him back, anyway. There seemed to be a lot of resurrection going on here. At least the 80s animated flick had the guts to kill off characters and let them stay dead.

Though I did find myself hoping they might go a little Pet Sematary on old Optimus, there. Wouldn’t it have been good? They brought him back, only to find… oooh… something came back with him. Or he came back… wrong. Darker, nastier, more evil. If only they had mixed in a little Exorcist with the robotic transforming…

Anything, really, would have been an improvement. Oh well.

‘Till next…



Being a self-confessed obsessive lover of horror movies and ghost stories and all things which go bump-rip-stab-scream in the night, I have something of a shame-faced confession to make:

I have a really, really weak stomach. 

Oh, stop laughing.  It’s dreadful.  I keeled over in a first aid course once.  Trusies.  It wasn’t even like anybody was even pretending with fake injuries or anything, the instructor was simply talking about some of the kinds of injuries a first aid person might have to deal with.  It was a conversation, for chrissakes.  ‘Cept there I am, trying very hard to maintain my dignity while my head pounds and my muscles shake and my vision spins and… well, next thing I know, I’m on the floor with a bunch of strangers trying to help me up.

It is Seriously Embarrassing.  Yes, with capitals.  A couple of girl friends once decided, for some idiotic reason, that when out to lunch in a swanky expensive city café its a great moment to compare cooking injury stories.  You know, the kind involving great big cooking knives and really hot stove tops.  There we are, surrounded by the young and trendy set of black-clad Melbournians who all look very swish, except me, who was increasingly appearing paler shade of zombie green. 

Now you might be thinking, oh, that’s not all that bad.  It’s hardly a lethal allergy to an otherwise yummy foodstuffs or a crippling phobia of, oh I don’t know, sunshine or something, keeping one entirely housebound.  What’s she complaining about?  But you try growing up a proud teenage tom-boy chick prepared to take on the world and everyone in it, only to have to hide the dark secret that you can turn into a stereotypical nineteenth century damsel in distress with barely any warning. 

It’s the ‘f’ word I can’t stand:  faint.  Argh.  I’m an independent, modern, fully twenty first century gal.  It does not do me any favours to be suddenly overtaken by involuntary fits of swooning at entirely inopportune moments, let me tell you.

How did this happen? How did I get like this?

I asked my mother, but she only said I was always like it.  As a little girl I couldn’t care less about broken bones, but would burst into hysterics if I grazed a knee.  It was the blood, you see; I would freak out at the blood.  But I can happily gaze at reality tv showing open chest surgery with loads and loads of blood without a worry.  The insides of people aren’t the problem.  It’s the actual cutting, the wounding, the twisting and breaking and, yes, the pain of it all that just sticks in my head and WON’T GO AWAY.

These images stay in my head.  For ever.  So cut something or burn something or break the skin in any way and be stupid enough to tell me about it, and I Freak Out.

And no, that is not an invitation.  Don’t even think it, smartarse.

Anyway, I was well into my thirties before I ever admitted to this publicly.  It was Takeshi Miike who finally made me confess.  Never heard of him?  He’s an insanely excellent Japanese film maker who makes very brilliant, and occasionally unwatchable, films.

Now, I grew up watching horror movies and it was a matter of pride that I could, and would, watch every celluloid inch of them without the slightest flinch.  Sure, Eli Roth and his torture porn mates hadn’t even started making films back then and I was more likely to be cheering at the comical excess of Evil Dead 2 than coming across anything real enough to make anyone squirm.  So even though I’ve got this little… uh… issue… with more bloody scenes of wounding, I never had a problem with even the most disreputable of horror flicks. 

Until I tried to watch Miike’s Audition

(Odishon is the original Japanese title, but there’s meant to be an accent thingy above the ‘O’ and I can’t figure out how to do that on my English language keyboard, so lets just stick to the English translation this time, okay?)

So, hands up who’s seen it, then?  Keep your hands up if you managed to watch the entirety of the climactic scene towards the end, you know the one… yes *that* scene…  without looking away, or perhaps vomiting, even once?  Heh, didn’t think so.  See the notorious scene – it’s a torture scene and it’s a long one, if you aren’t actually aware of it – is excruciating to watch for even the hardest of stomaches.

Imagine what it did to mine.

Never before have I had to watch a movie through my fingers.  I actually ended up fast forwarding through the last half of the scene.  For the first time in my life, I had to admit I just couldn’t watch it.  It was either that or faint and I don’t do the fainting thing willingly, let me assure you. But hey, I figured I’m over thirty now, I don’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore.  And so I fast-forwarded the bugger.

Which brings me to the point of this long ramble… yes, there is one (I warned you once already,smartarse, one more time and you’ll be sent to visit the principal, got me?)…  I was reading about another flick the other day, one I haven’t seen yet and probably won’t now.  You may have heard of it, apparently it caused a bit of a splash at Cannes.  Von Trier’s film Antichrist, which seems to have a bit of a notorious “scene” of its own.

Now the article I was reading gave plenty of warning.  It even said “and those of a gentle disposition should look away now.” 

Gentle disposition, grrrrrrr.  But I know myself too well, so I looked away, despite being decidedly unhappy at the company it put me in.  I really did refuse to look.  But…


Oh, what else did they think would happen, if they warn someone like me not to look? 

It was bad.  I now have my own imagination’s version of that scene in my head for ever more, linking up in that great hyper-linked network that is my subconscious with other such horrendous scenes of real horror I’ve read about.  And my imagination is worse than anything Von Trier probably put together.

Anyway.  I want to know why the likes of me is prone to swooning (notice I don’t use the ‘f’ word.)  I want to know what makes that happen, why, when, how.  I’ve fought against this tendency all my life, I refused to acknowledge it until I was in my thirties, I have absolutely no control over it, no matter how hard I try.

Surely there has to be someone out there in the cyber-ether virtual world who has an answer for me?  Huh?

Okay, that’s it for today.  Go away and play, boys and girls.  But don’t forget to think hard.  Your homework has been set and you all know what happens if you don’t return it to Lady Kath on time, now…

’till next


Something shoddy I watched recently… (or Confessions of a bad movie lover #278)

I watched Die Hard 4 the other day.  Yes, I know, don’t blame me, it’s not like I chose the flick.  The 12 year old part-time resident of the household left it lying about and his father caught sight of it before I could hide it under the couch. 

I believe the full title was something like Die Hard 4: Die Career, as in Bruce Willis’ must have been doing just that when he agreed to make this film.  Or maybe that’s just my prejudice against bad 80s action heroes trying to relive the grandeur of their youth by traipsing out yet another instalment in better-left-dead ancient movie franchises.  I keep telling myself that just because I think it’s totally ridiculous for a guy who must be, what, 90 or something by now, to still be trying to save the world by beating up on his designated bad guy, that doesn’t mean the rest of the movie watching world does too. 

Hey, there’s always going to be a willing audience for truly shoddy DVDs.  What’s more, I’ll probably always be a happy part of it.

Truth is, I’m a sucker for a seriously dodgy movie and bad over-budgeted Hollywood action flicks are some of the dodgiest around, so I didn’t really mind.  Sure, I would have preferred a good zombie flick or maybe something from the 80s starring Kurt Russell, but as DH4 was what happened to be lying around the house, then so be it, I’ll risk a watch.  And, you know, it was rather well done, in the Hollywood action movie stakes.  Didn’t come anywhere close to The Shooter for really shoddy Hollywood action enjoyment value, and at least the latter was (*gulp*) original (well, it didn’t have a number following its title), but you know, DH4 it was fun. While it was on. 

It was what you might call a One Night Stand movie:  rent it, watch it, forget it.

See, I’m something of a player when it comes to shoddy DVD flicks, I have to admit.  I love ‘em and leave ‘em, onto the next before I’m barely out of bed with the last.  You can’t afford to think beyond the surface superficialities of a shoddy DVD, nor offer any interest beyond the 89 minutes of run time up on your screen, or else you’ll suddenly realise exactly what kind of shite it is you’re watching and choke on your own wasted education. 

But while it’s on, it’s on.  Go with it baby and enjoy the ride, heh.

Anyway, I did struggle a bit to get into this one, for all it fulfilled its brief rather well (brief: explosion, shooting, explosion, contrived sarcasm from hero, explosion, more shooting, car chase, explosion, bad guys killed, happy ending.)  Despite what I was seeing on screen, I couldn’t quite ignore the niggling thought at the back of the head that Bruce Willis could actually, well, act – and to think while watching a movie such as this is entertainment suicide.  But I swear I remember him acting at some point, back in the late 90s I think, around the time Shyamalan was still making good films, and so was Tarantino.  (Oh, okay, so I haven’t seen a Tarantino film yet which I haven’t liked… then again, Inglourious Basterds isn’t out, but the trailer for it has me genuinely worried.) 

And, oh, can I confess that I did really love Last Man Standing?  Sure, I’m probably the only one in the world who saw it, and yes, it was a remake of a remake and the previous remakes were better, not to mention two of my favourite movies of all time (A Fistful of Dollars and Yojimbo respectively), but hey, they were truly certified all time classics and I thought Last Man Standing did a pretty good job.  Seriously, all Bruce Willis bashing aside, I guess what I’m trying to say is that the man knows how to make a good action flick and he’s also appeared in film’s where he’s actually had to act on occasion and he’s generally been able to do that too.  I’m usually entertained and sometimes even engaged with his movies.  It’s a bit of a dark confession, but it’s true.

Anyway, I digress.  Wandered off the garden path and stopped to stomp on the roses, so to speak. 

The one thing which stuck with me most through the entire watching of DH4, the big thing which kept my brain active and thus stopped me from just enjoying the ride, was the thought that I’m watching a 90 minute version of the last thirty seconds of Escape from LA.  Only sans Snake Plissken.

Seriously, when watching this flick I just could not get Snake out of my head, which was unfortunate for DH4, as it was never going to survive such a comparison.  Okay, so I’m a tragic 80s movie geek and Snake just happens to be the sexiest of all movie characters ever and I’m talking even sexier than both Captain Jacks.  (Sparrow and Harkness, which is a big statement to make for a girl who’s been lusting after Johnny Depp since he first appeared in the original Nightmare on Elm Street, and don’t even get me started on what I’d like to do to John Barrowman’s Capt’ Jack Harkness, especially if we could bring in one of his boyfriends or two, mmmm…)

Oh, sorry, distracted again.  Um.

But we’re talking Snake Plissken.  We’re talking black-eye-patch, boots, permanent three-day stubble and gravel voice mumbling “call me Snake”, with just the right emphasis on the ‘S’.

We’re talking the greatest anti-hero, who gives a fuck, the world doesn’t deserve saving and I don’t care to save it anymore, cynical loner bad-boy of all time.

You see, that was the difference between Die Hard 4 and Escape from NY/LA.  That was why DH4 will only ever be a one-night-stand movie and not ever a certifiable classic, not even a classic bad movie.  In DH4, lead character John McClain attempts to be a cynical, smart arse, who-gives-a-rats loner who spends 90 minutes trying to save the world.

In Escape from NY – and LA – Snake Plissken has been screwed over too many times to give a shit about saving the world, and only does so only because he’s forced into it to save his own life.  But he does save it anyway, when no on else possibly could.

And then, having saved the world, he just turns it off anyway.


Still, Die Hard 4 did have an impact on my life.  On my Visa card to be exact, because having watched it I immediately jumped online and purchased new copies of both Escape from NY and Escape from LA.  And not even for Bruce Campbell’s cameo in the latter.

Now, Bruce “Groovy” Campbell, aaahhh…  oh, okay, I’ll leave him for an entire other blog…  

‘till next


And the geeks will inherit the earth

Here’s where I reveal my uber-geek credentials.

Just in case you hadn’t noticed, you know, like maybe you’ve been living in the bowels of an Amazonian cave with a long lost tribe of media-shy natives who considered the stone-tablet to be catering to the lowest common denominator, they released the Watchmen movie the other day.  Just a little bit of hype, shall we say.

Well, I should know.  I’ve watched every iteration of the trailer and read every interview with the director Zack Snyder since they announced that, unlike the twenty-thousand odd times before, this time it actually was going into production.  I’ve participated in all the online forums, especially the ones with words like Squid!, Changed Ending!, and Big Blue Penis! in the thread titles.  The fact is, that hype was made precisely for the likes of me and I lapped it up like a necrophiliac let loose in the mortuary.

(Sorry.  Think I might have left the bad-taste sensors disconnected after watching a Peter Jackson marathon of his early films at my place last night.  The flicks he made before Hollywood found him.  Meet the Feebles back-to-back with Braindead.  Ah, it just doesn’t get better than that.)

I’ve been a comic book geek since, oh, university.  No, I didn’t grow up reading them, in fact as a teenager I never picked one up, I was too busy trying to impress those older than me by carrying round the year 12 literature syllabus as if I was actually reading it, or something.  But I did go to uni in the 90s, right about the time Neil Gaiman was writing Sandman and thanks to him I fell in love with an entire medium: the graphic novel.

Well, I was studying cultural studies and literary theory, so what did you expect?

Suffice to say, I was awaiting the Watchmen movie with the kind of anticipatory dread usually seen from the protagonists in the better class of zombie movies.  Kind of hoping it would be as brilliant as the novel, but knowing, just knowing, I was going to have to spend the next six months cornering everyone I knew, and most of those I didn’t, and lecturing them on the brilliance of the novel just to counter-act the horrendous disaster the movie was probably going to be.

Good news – the movie is actually pretty good.

But, you know, the book is better.

Look, I mean that, it’s not just an old time geek talking.  The book is a baroque opera of a novel, with layers of counterpoint playing in and out amidst a myriad of tiny details, all weaving in and out of central themes, with everything working in perfect conjunction with one another.  It’s the comic book which deconstructed all comic books, filled with complex visual imagery and a narrative structure so grand, so majestic, that you come away in sheer astonishment at the perfect whole all those layers draw together to create.

The movie is not like that.  But it tried so, so hard.  Snyder is clearly a huge fan of the novel and he kept as faithful as possible.  Even the changed ending was almost faithful.  Almost.  Well, New York still copped it, even if it wasn’t from a giant, telepathic, inter-galactic Squid.

(Trusies.  Go read it and find out for yourselves.)

To make this into a movie they had to simplify the narrative, but in doing so they lost, well, the layers.  The texture.  The sheer complexity and grand scale of the thing.  Mind you, they kept the lengthy and more awkward parts of the dialogue, some of which really could have done with some sprucing up, (oh gods, did they really have to retain the line: “whatever happened to the American dream?”  Did they?  Did they really?)

You know, dare I say it, but perhaps it might have been better if a less-than-obsessive fan or even… shh, don’t let the fan boys hear us or we’ll not make it out alive…  a non-fan (argh!) make this film?  You know, someone who was going to be more interested in pushing film to the limits of its creative possibilities, rather than simply creating an offering at the alter of the almighty novel?  Not that I’m complaining… and well, thinking of the butchered, stinking pile of festering corpse meat that was the likes of Constantine (argh!!), I probably should just be thankful somebody with as much respect for the source material as Snyder was involved at all.

But it did strike me that all those trailers I had obsessively consumed as if they were a canvas water skin and I was staggering around in the desert like Clint in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, well they lied.  The trailers, I mean.  They had made the movie look like it was going to be a far more conventional superhero fare, hence spiking my earlier mentioned anticipatory dread, though no doubt drawing a much larger, non-comic-geek crowd to the cinemas while they were at it.

Still, the kids in our party, who were no doubt expecting something different, at least got to giggle incessantly at Dr. Manhattan’s big blue willie.  There’s nothing like the laugh of a twelve year old at a giant glowing penis up on a massive multiplex screen to make you grin.

Anyway, I’ve banged on about this for long enough now and you’ll not only have got my point, but grown bored of playing with it, packed it back up in the box and stuffed it to the back of the top shelves in the hall cupboard by now.  I’m not reviewing the movie here, there are plenty of other reviews about and it’s not like this world is lacking in people with publicly stated opinions about Watchmen, movie or book. 

I just happen to be one of them.

So, verdict #1:  the movie is worth watching.  Really.  It’s very good, so go see it.

And verdict #2: the book is a work of true genius, so drop whatever you’re holding now and go find a copy.  (Perhaps wash your hands first, though.)  You must read it.  Without delay.

Right.  Mission accomplished.  Now I’m off to go find that Greedo Shoots First vid on You Tube again.  Hey, I told you I was an uber-geek.



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