Last week, I had a bad dream. I was startled at first, sleep coming back to me in fits and starts. A few days later, the details were hazy, at best. And today, I can only remember that I had a bad dream. Next week, I'll have forgotten that the whole thing ever happened.
That's how I feel about Bay & Co's Friday the 13th: It's all seems like a really horrible dream. And here I sit, two weeks later, still unable to muster up enough energy to tell you about it. I've innumerable reasons why I hated the movie, some of them now a little nebulous, but I've no interest in explaining why. Horrible, I know, but I don't care.
I'll fall back on my standard mantra: Michael Bay is the Devil, and Platinum Dunes is hell. I take some solace in the movie's record 81% second-week drop at the box-office: It tells me that not many were willing to shell out the cash for a repeat viewing, and I hope it hurt Michael Bay's ice-cold heart. I hope it hurt him for letting us down. Unfortunately for many of us, Friday the 13th happened nonetheless, and we are (according to the lukewarm-to-vitriolic reception on the blogs) still reeling, desperate to forget the bits and pieces of something awful that happened to us in a recent nightmare.
It'll go away, eventually; I know. And soon enough, I'll have forgotten that the whole thing ever happened. I hope.
Friday, February 13, 2009
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