Rats in paradise! Rats in paradise!
"There are moments when we cannot believe that what is happening is really true. Pinch yourself and you may find out that it is."
Axioms of terror and of God being dead.
The sun as hatred, beaming down in sweltering rays of torturous heat, so hot that the sweat dries before it can evaporate rendering the function cruel. Paint peels from bubbles formed by boiling when wet. The old lake is gone with nothing but dust left, waiting to stick…
There is no fire, there is no brimstone. It is not tangible and it is not a place. Hell is a mystic infection, left benign behind a gate of clay. A crude mausoleum of black magic marked only with the symbol of Eibon and containing the swirling pulse of an evil purity clinging to a destroyed corpse defiled by liasons of metal and blood inside the open flesh of gaping wounds, preserved in solidified lime.
"Jesus Christ is the answer"…
Something somewhere between something and something else Cage once again flaunts with prowess and almost arrogance his unrivalled knack of elevating the something that woulda been nothing back to status of something by doing something je ne sais quoi-y.
Anyone else ready and willing to take this role would've had Kinnaman drive straight to the supermarket dos quid basket by way of Netflix Filler Crescent, but instead Cage rolled up with bright red hair matching the dinner jacket he's donned…
Pure absolutely distilled schlocky bullshit. Like an episode of NCIS where the perp is Brandon Lee from The Crow as a parkour contortionist electro-ghost for about an hour, then it completely jumps off the rails like them good old Duke Boys traversing a river with a broken bridge to evade the coppers, only instead of having moonshine stashed in the footwell, they've got stolen Frank Henenlotter scripts.
James Wan has made this for a specific audience, and it is not 90% of the modern general horror-populae, evidenced by everyone else in the cinema actively hating it. Go in blind.
Fucking masterwork. Every single realm of hell you could possibly imagine plus 100 more manifested in painstaking, meticulous and intricate details and made relentless. A 30 year journey that Tippett himself said ended up in mental breakdown and let me tell you this is the mental breakdown and its populated by landfills of other mental breakdowns killing for fun, pleasure and through sheer routine. I could write thousands of words with paragraphs containing 60 adjectives, and I want to and…