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March 13, 2017 | movie reviews

A Cure for Wellness

Sean Kilpatrick

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“I look forward to the time when I shall refuse to learn another thing, having accumulated errors enough.” Charles Fort

My genre says fuck you in stratified echoes, a type of mean weaved between the meta quotation mark of the nineties, before postmodernism cashed in its aesthetics for namby pampy political backclappery. The culture was going into labor atop a fire hydrant back then. Bottomless brutalities were introduced. We kept laughing at the tissue paper inside of us. Likeability slit its own throat for a glorious while. Not everyone had such extravagant tabloid headlines under their profile. Depravity wasn’t another niche yet. The greater good proclaimed itself less often, because to be that openly benevolent with corny preponderances meant the joke was on you. My cinema of the impenetrably callous is crowned by Man Bites Dog. Everything mean seems to hold up by contrast of how feathery we’ve become. Why limit your cruelty to a medium? I'm forced into missing the 10 gauge beer burpers that ran the zines before the internet replaced them with a hilarious and simpering martyr complex, but if all you have to do to be a nazi now is spit on the fucking sidewalk, where’s my Romper Stomper reboot? I’m pretty sure that film was written on pavement with a mutilated fingernail. Hard to sound tough these days without coming off like the lounge lizard of fart jokes. A writer should always be able to reach the bottom of any accusation directed against them, false or otherwise, and come back with the afterbirth of a far superior crime glistening in their teeth. Not everyone has such an extravagant floor they can crawl on. Give me just enough platform to hang myself. Every gutter feels neck high. Note that Lester Bangs renounced his wilder talents (those early brilliant, offensive and manic reviews owing much to amphetamines) and died drunk anyway. He innovated the pointless public apology by spaying his mouth before it was popular. His heart ran down his pant leg, right where the politically sound proclamations wouldn’t flush. I don't care if a goddamn bar buddy's ODing turned your downstairs soft. That premature death could have really flattered him. As far as empathy is concerned, it is not my place to declare if I have any, and it is certainly not my duty to publically display sentiments panegyrizing the slew of mankind by slaking a kindly cause on paper. Butt pats abound, percolating in each declaration. You might as well be on Mars when the proper form of expression overtakes you. Fine if a contingency okays the aftermath, but the second you welcomingly address them from an online balcony, you’re a cunt. The second your art is surpassed by a fandom, one of them must kill you, or they aren’t your fucking fans. I am spoiled and made grateful for all the solitary hatreds against which every prosperous person endures in spite of good taste.

PS – In 2002, like a last hurrah of the canine tooth, fresh off a height of nasty spoils with New French Extremity, you could stumble into the cheap show, smirking at the idea of a PG-13 American studio remake of Ringu, before relaunched franchises became common practice, and get your unsuspecting ass whomped upon by what turned out to be an improvement over every aspect of the preceding Japanese attempt. Scarier, bleaker, more tautly executed, somehow lit beyond dim – who the fuck snuck this thing into teen laps? Especially the viral video short within, which holds up as Bunuel-level amazing. Who abandoned us for Disney pap without a word for ten years? Hysterical! Here he’s back. Go be one of ten people in a theater to witness the mainstream try to remember what mean looks like. To put this in contemporary terms: boo hoo and waah fucking waah! Big frowny face! Jacob’s Ladder used to have box office draw!

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