Matt Cale is stuck in the shithouse…
When Jonny said that the surest sign of a horror film without horror is its PG-13 rating, could he have imagined Cursed?
Overall, his rule holds, but the R-rating here seems to signify nothing more than a few attacks from a CGI beast, rather than anything resembling genuine fright. Perhaps my failure to be brought to a state of fear had something to do with two trips to the bathroom (where I defiantly refused to hit pause), a quick gallop to the icebox for a drink, and six uninterrupted loads of laundry, but I’ll never really know.
So this is a werewolf picture, huh? How does one know one is becoming such a creature?
The usual signs: enhanced senses and reflexes, nude strolls through the woods, unsightly body hair, unusual strength, a lack of concern about one’s appearance, unexplained irritability, and the sudden appearance of pentagrams on one’s palms. Courtney Love, we hardly knew ye.
So how does Christina Ricci figure into all this?
Somehow, she works for Craig Kilborn’s now-defunct TV show and while driving home with her nerdy brother one night, she hits a wolf, which also causes her to force another car off the road. The other car contains a terrified and trapped hottie, but she is taken away and slaughtered by the wolf. Of course, the nerd is the only one to actually see the creature, so Ricci thinks he’s insane when he starts eating raw meat and reading books on the subject. But she’s also a werewolf, only it takes her a lot longer to face reality.
A geeky werewolf? I suppose he, as a werewolf, takes revenge on the bullies who have been tormenting him?
Indeed he does, although the comeuppance occurs in a gymnasium during wrestling try-outs. But back to a central issue — why is that hot chicks always defend nerds, yet continue to suck jock cock? They’ll always say to their boyfriends, “You’re such an asshole,” but if that same nerd were to ask them out, well, that would be the worst fucking crime imaginable, now wouldn’t it? I mean really, if…….Sorry, high school flashback. Where were we?
Wrestling try-outs. There’s a lot of that in this movie. So, is it true what they say? And more importantly, is this the new Teen Wolf?
What, that high schools will endorse wrestling as a legitimate sport, yet disallow more overt expressions of homoerotic love? As for the latter question, that was basketball.
Fine, then. Perhaps I was thinking of Teen Wolf Too?
Asshole, that was boxing.
Okay, what’s with Kevin Williamson? Does he, like, owe Joshua Jackson money or something?
That’s one explanation for Jackson’s career, but I’d rather believe that he has as his number one goal in life to appear in an uninterrupted string of the worst films imaginable. If the script is only partially completed and lacking a buyer, he’ll take it. If 36 writers need to be brought in to touch it up, he’ll believe in the project that much more. And if it’s sure to lead to an anemic opening weekend and quick turnaround on home video, he’ll catch the first available flight.
So why does he appear in this tale of woe?
He plays some dude who runs an effects studio, and it’s his job to be all sweet and kind until revealing the secret of “the curse,” which is some sort of plan to transform the world into werewolves, cause they can, like, live forever and eat flesh and shit.
Wonderful. And I imagine there’s also a scene where the nerdy werewolf guy opens his bedroom window and, upon seeing the collection of neighborhood dogs at his door, howls at the moon and sends the whimpering pups home with their tails between their legs?
Uncanny, I must say. And, more predictably, there’s a sequence where the nerd breaks up a vicious catfight by grabbing a sword from a wax figure of Xena.
I’d like to understand all this, but I’d rather hear a little bit about that big-titted chick in the leopard costume. Is she everything I imagine her to be?
While walking through a parking garage, she’s chased by a werewolf, tossed 50 feet through the air, cornered in an elevator, and eventually devoured like so much Angus beef. The cheap whore.
Any lines to leave us with a lasting impression?
After confronting an especially bitchy lady, Ricci’s co-worker remarks, “The woman’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!” Oh, and a freaky fortune teller cries, “Beware the moon!”
Oh, before you go, was that really Scott Baio in a cameo?
Say what you will about his acting, project choices, and messy personal life, the fucker hasn’t aged a day since Charles in Charge. Perhaps the anti-aging secret we’ve all been waiting for is called “chronic unemployment.”