Tits and Gore

What I experienced tonight was truly amazing. Sure, Mike and I were both worried even before we decided to see it. We like Neil Marshall. We like Dog Soldiers. We really like The Descent. So, yeah, we were worried. It’s the same way pregnant women get excited but hope the kid’s not retarded or ugly.

For awhile everything was going fairly well. Not great. But not horribly. Things were rolling along in that not too uncomfortably scary way that The Descent started, and I was expecting Marshall, in M. Night Shyamalan-style, to replicate the format that had worked for him before—to twist it up a bit, pull out all the stops half way through, rock me to my core, and make me crap my pants a little. And then it happened. And I wanted to crap my pants, but for a different reason. Somehow, in some sort of ill-advised homage to Lord of the Rings, 28 Days Later, and Braveheart, Marshall instead, and unfortunately, delivered a mixture of Nothing But Trouble, Waterworld, and Queen of the Damned (remember? with Aaliyah? yeah…). Right, I’m embarrassed for Neil Marshall. And I feel a little cheated. Why, Neil Marshall, why did you do this to us?

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