I saw two movies this weekend, and one was a hateful bit of crass tripe, stitching together bits of other better movies into a shoddy mass-produced mash-up, with a migraine-inducing soundtrack and not a whit of honest human compassion or sympathy.
And the other was Doomsday.
Thank you. Thank you very much. I knew I would love Doomsday when, out of a crowd of terrified Scots trying to escape the plague through a quickly closing security wall, one man reaches his hand forward, and we see not one but three separate shots, from different angles, of that hand brutally squashed off, blood and gristle spurting everywhere. I knew I would not love Dan when, after an opening which established the bare bones of silly-grieving-father trying to control his three sassy daughters while forgoing his own life, there were not three separate shots of Steve Carell’s hand brutally squashed off, blood and gristle spurting everywhere as the emo-indie-folkie on the soundtrack noodled away on a guitar only to be moments later exploded under the wheels of an armored personnel carrier.