Heathers ★★½

While I still remember fondly how some of the colorful dialog felt fresh and exciting when I was 16 years old in 1988, Heathers plays to my adult brain like a leaden exercise in juvenile reactionarianism. It's a satire with no real sense of what it's satirizing and no point behind its rage, and which thinks, as I did at that age, that funny murders were so dark and wild that they must mean something scathing about society, even if no one really knows what. I wrote things just like that at that age, so maybe Heathers is kind of brilliant at capturing a very particular type of muddled teenage cry of "Fuck you!" but, like most teenagers who dress all in black and flip off old ladies because it's "subversive," it's more about the posture than anything else.