Peatree Bojangles reviews Boo and it very nearly drove her to madness.
Disregard every Netflix Nasty I’ve written to date. They are all cinematic masterpieces compared to this.
What elegance they exude when observed alongside this horrific culmination of shit. I mean, I watched it all. I sat down and watched every moment of this, and I suffered a pain I didn’t think I could feel. This was the first time I considered just hanging up my coat, turning away from the internet and waving farewell to Cultured Vultures. ‘I can’t do this’, I thought to myself, as I slowly proceeded to wipe the tears from my crotch. Then, something hit me and I suddenly knew. I knew what I had to do, and it was to tell you all to stay away.
Don’t press ‘play’, don’t fall for the cover, it’s a lie and not just a little lie; it’s the ultimate shittiest lie. Like your boyfriend fucking someone else while you were away, kind of lie. That’s what this film was doing. It was fucking your boyfriend.
I was hungover when I started this, so my inner turmoil had already peaked by the time I’d realised what I’d done. There are a group of teenagers who spend Halloween in a haunted asylum. Of course, the cynical one is the one who gets visions and you know this bitch is going to save the day and that’s the last thing you want. A gaggle of fucktards had gone in before them, and there also happens to be a middle aged black man sitting in a car outside, for a reason which I didn’t have time to comprehend. So off they go and bad things begin to happen. The bad I’m referring to is the acting, and they happen to come across things worse than that. The reasoning behind the haunting, the presence and the odd behaviour comes down to bad storytelling and that’s frightening enough as it is.
*SKIP TO THE END*
The spirit has the ability to take hold of people and possess them, turning their friends into frightful zombies. There was an air of Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead (if the air had a stench of the kind of hungover diarrhoea that follows a sambuca filled night). This air dwindled as quick as an insecure fart.
The end was in sight. Everyone was dying and coming back to life and then dying again in dramatic explosions, but it was okay, I was so close. The tingle in my toes were the pangs of freedom. I stop watching and instead, I closed my eyes and remembered being back in my room, a cigarette in my lips and the breeze coming in from my window. I opened my eyes and it was over. I’ll never know the ending. Or maybe that was the ending. To embrace life. Remember what you have, because it can’t be as bad as the shit that spewed so casually, pompous and uptight, from my laptop that night.
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