It’s rainy, cold, and dreary here today, Patty and I are tired, we want to just veg out and relax–but if we get another movie like the turkey we discovered yesterday, I am not answerable for the consequences.
House, starring William Katt–actually, I’m not sure “starring” is the right word: more like he was shanghaied into it by people who hate him a lot–is one of those schlocky horror movies from the 1980s that seems to have been the work of half a dozen writers writing bits of it without consulting among themselves and just tacking it together somehow. It also features chintzy special effects that wouldn’t scare anybody who hadn’t blown good money to see it.
So first the ghost is all-powerful and then, suddenly, for no reason at all, he isn’t; and first the haunted house is in the middle of the suburbs, and then it’s right on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, and the monsters are all made of cheap foam rubber, and… ah, fanabla! It is as if the writers had declared war on continuity.
And then we read that this fiasco, this abomination… won awards! And people said they liked it!
Who can understand such mysteries?
Whatever we wind up watching today had better be good.