The Thing ★★★★

First goddamn week of winter.

Don’t trust anyone but standing frostbitten in Sheer Terror…The shivery nervousness makes the hands tremble ever so violently, tremulous voices, your heart begins to beat faster especially when being tucked inside a room alongside people who are not what they appear to be. Drops of sweat, battered with anxiety, slide down many doubtful faces as they are trapped in the skin-cutting cold, cut loose from outer world. “You might be one of them.” Torturously, the sound of each person’s accusation fills your ears, fucks you in the head with paranoic chills meanwhile growing a palpable feeling of dread that might freeze the muscles to blocks of ice and numb the legs so you wouldn’t be able to escape the oppressive trepidation. This is suspense in its most nihilistic form, staring at the retina-wrecking polar blues with occasional bursts of orange flare, turning the aura into a deadly creature. Its issues may lie within some human characters that are thinly penned as if they were there just to be taken over one by one. Gooey tentacles ripping out of mushy tissues, meat-splattered carnage, grotesquely hybridized thing: Arachnid head, bloody pulps, insectoid freakishness, men and dogs jointly contorted - the practical makeups (by Rob Bottin) are grossly put together with imaginative details, timeless and unparalleled when comparing to modern day and age’s effects. Ennio Morricone’s tension elevating score pervades the icy pressure and unremitting suspicions from the men integrate into a mutated beast of a horror that is gnarly unforgiving. The frigid ambiguity got so severe that a glass of J&B Scotch did nothing to give me any sort of comfort, not in the slightest bit. Macready, come blood test me man.

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