The Dead Don't Die

Here it is. The ensemble cast that makes Quentin Tarantino seem like a has-been and a reputation that accurately describes the disdain this movie has for the current... political? Societal? Generational? State? 

I’m copping out by not giving this a rating. Shamefully, I’ll admit that I didn’t hate everything about this. It also doesn’t help that there was a woman who laughed so hard at a decapitation scene that she may have peed her pants. The laughter was contagious, and on that level, made it a rather enjoyable theater experience. However, this is laughter between aggressively gnawing my popcorn and rolling my eyes so far back into my head they fell out of my ass...

So— here’s the critical core folks— In case you didn’t know, Jim thinks all of us are absolutely moronic. We won’t understand his movie. We won’t understand his humor. We won’t get the references. And we definitely don’t understand how we’re all going to die from social climate change political anarchy!! Good lord!! 

Jim visually creates decent scenes, decent tension, and decent homages to horror. If the movie only existed on a tongue-in-cheek 80s horror nostalgia and the zaniness of b-movie worship, this may have had something. The dynamic between Driver and Murray really worked for me — their homey, small town Stoicism. Classic dark-wit Jim right there. Listen though, it didn’t always work. Sevigny and Buscemi were embarrassingly underused. Swinton as martial arts goddess was expected. There’s scenes I honestly really enjoyed (see above) and moments so soured by the too-on-the-nose commentary to ever feel like a cohesive whole.

Jim won’t listen to me and frankly, Jim thinks he’s better than all of us anyway so what the hell do I know?

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