Evil Dead (2013): A Review

It's no surprise, the excited chill I felt when saying "Two tickets for Evil Dead please" at the cinema on Monday.  Despite being a huge fan of the original Sam Raimi horror classic and its sequels, age forbade me from being there upon its original release.  To be present at and old enough to appreciate a new installment in the geeky franchise is simply a joy.
But that's just being there.  What about the film itself?
Evil Dead is both a remake and, as a familiar old car and a much-anticipated post-credits scene demonstrates, a loose sequel to Raimi's original.  Five young friends travel to a remote cabin in the woods with the intention of helping one of them overcome a severe drug addiction.  Unfortunately, after stumbling upon a sinister old book in an equally sinister old cellar, one of them foolishly unleashes an evil, demonic force that begins to overcome each of them one by one.  Cinema-goers unacquainted with the blisteringly graphic original would raise a skeptical eyebrow at how familiar this premise sounds, and they'd be right in doing so.
A horrific prologue in which a group of demon hunters capture and execute a possessed girl (the girls' father being among the executioners) serves as a promising start to the film, and it doesn't abandon its promise; Evil Dead continually outdoes itself on the gore front, veering constantly between slasher cliche and surprisingly inventive ways of torturing our protagonists that the original trilogy would be proud of.  Many of the demonic set-pieces are among the most delightfully sickening images committed to film in a long while.  Despite this, there is the constant, nagging sense that we've seen it all before, and not just in the parent series.  1981's The Evil Dead has been so influential toward the zombie/slasher sub-genres of horror, the end result is that 2013's effort is at times its own worst enemy.  There are echoes of other films, not least last year's terrific Cabin in the Woods, that prevent Evil Dead from being a truly original horror event.
Also surprisingly, for a film with such a simple premise and small cast of characters, is just how meandering the narrative is.  Aside from a third-act character twist that will no doubt surprise fans of the original, the film never seems completely sure of where it's really going, who the characters are and even what it's building towards. 
The late-to-the-party finale monster is surprisingly underwhelming and a somewhat tired effort, given that they bring nothing to the table that the possessed teens throughout the film haven't already achieved, so the end result is more of the same.  The long-overdue acquisition of the iconic chainsaw will undoubtedly illicit a rousing cheer from long-term fans, but the casual viewer is left in danger of wondering what the purpose of this film is; director Fede Alvarez wears his fondness for the original on his sleeve, but one feels he could have made a better effort of treading the line between nostalgia and originality.
That's not to say Evil Dead is a bad film; far from it.  The characters, while mostly one-dimensional and familiar to the genre, are refreshingly unobnoxious, particularly brother/sister protagonists David and Mia.  The absence of Bruce Campbell's legendary Ash serves to up the horror stakes; there is real peril in the knowledge that he won't be barging through the door, shouting "Groovy" and effortlessly gunning the monsters down any time soon (though he may turn up eventually).  The protagonist has to earn the right to 'be' Ash, and it's going to hurt.  The demonic entity is perhaps scarier than it's ever been, as are the possessed, with makeup that simultaneously pays homage to the original and has shades of The Exorcist.  Jane Levy's Mia is particularly unsettling, especially when taunting her captors from the confines of her basement prison.
Overall, Evil Dead is a mixed blessing; it is doubtful that the wider audience will remember it in years to come, while fans of the original will see it as a nostalgic, unsettling but ultimately pointless chapter in the horror franchise.  

The Nazis also coined rhetoric laws regarding invalid arguments.

Godwin's Law, the purported inevitability that, during a debate someone will eventually bring up Hitler or the Nazis in order to make the point that something isn't good, is always smugly declared when said reference is made, as if to say "Ha, you've just committed a Godwin, your argument is invalid."  But why is it invalid?  Just because a man named Godwin turned these prolific comparisons into a law with his name on it?  I gave up eating meat a couple of weeks ago.  I've stopped ignoring the unethical, mass slaughter of animals purely to satiate my own personal desires.  It's been common knowledge for a while now that a diet including meat is not essential to the body's well-being, so we eat meat purely for pleasure.  Just as we smoke, drink, listen to music etc.  My way of thinking is 'if it's bad, or if I can do without it, it goes.'  Meat, as far as I'm concerned, fits both of those criteria, so it's gone.  If there isn't much incentive to give up things that are bad for us, we tend not to give them up.  That's why people that smoke and snort cocaine give up chocolate for lent.  As meat isn't just damaging to me, it's easier to give up.  Anyway, I'm going off topic.  Do you know who else committed mass slaughter purely for their own personal desires?  The Nazis.  Is my decision to not eat meat now invalid because I've "Committed a Godwin?"  No, of course it isn't.  Therefore it isn't enough to just say something is invalid, the invalidity has to be proven.  Sometimes there are huge gaps in logic when Committing a Godwin, for example a staunch carnivore could tell me that 'Hitler was a vegetarian' or, as I'm an atheist, 'Hitler was an atheist' (although interestingly neither of these were true) and that would be an invalid usage of the trait, because me not eating meat doesn't suddenly turn me into a Roman-worshipping Jew-hater.  But by and large, this is not the case.  In the majority of arguments I've heard, Godwin's law is applied justly.  Once again I find myself returning to that age-old topic that continues to fire me up on this blog and on that addictive blue and white mini blog thing everyone uses; people not thinking.  This has been the theme of my rant about Thatcher's-dead-parties (Would I lambast people for celebrating Hitler's demise, were I alive at the time?), Soldier hero worship (Does that mean the Nazis were heroes?) etc.  This instance is a bit more trivial, but it's obviously grating enough for me to pen a blog about it.  Short answer; next time I bring up Hitler in an argument and somebody calls me out for Committing a Godwin, I shall reply:
"So?"

Ways in Which Opinions are Like Arseholes

Or, 'I See Where you are coming from, Goatse, but this is what I think.'

The mere exposure of one can outrage
If you side with someone else's, often someone will call you 'Gay'
They are more active when under the influence of alcohol, and less articulate
The more shit you willingly take in, the more shitty they become
Everyone has one, you'd be unable to function as a human being without one
People keep posting them on the internet and despite how much we are disgusted by them, we can't help but look
In certain cultures, displaying them can land you in prison
Using them for anything other than what is considered 'the norm' will raise an eyebrow or two
The overwhelming, media onslaught of those that differ from ours makes the less secure among us question whether ours is right
Expressing them in public can be embarrassing
We pay for magazines just so we can see them, then pretend that we don't
Bottling them up can be harmful
They begin as hereditary, but are fashioned by the environment as we pass through life
If you stick two fingers up to one, expect a violent reaction
Really look into one and you can learn a lot about that person
They are shaped and manipulated by the papers we purchase
A friend's can be really offensive, but if you ignore it the relationship can be sustained
The media has convinced us that we should cover them up
Sit on them for too long and they go numb
It is ill advised to keep them contained when you really need to let them loose
They can disrupt meetings
Expressing them in enclosed, crowded spaces can cause upset
Calling someone 'opinionated' is as offensive as calling them an 'arsehole'
If you keep prodding someone else's, you're probably a dick
If a loved one suddenly expresses one during an intimate moment, it may lead to an awkward conversation
If you dedicate yourself to the science of studying them, your career choice will be mocked
Writing long lists about them is childish and pointless

Ways in which they differ:
Nobody ever says 'thank you for your arsehole'

The Pigeon

Sleep took me, and for a blissful, unfathomable few hours of absent consciousness that was all that could be conceived of the world.  But then I regained regrettable awareness as I reawoke and reeled around glaring at my surroundings.
It was a watery, semi-present stream of images in my bedroom.  I was where I should be but I was elsewhere.  Nonetheless I could identify everything, and something was horribly amiss.
From a terrible, darkened corner something stirred.  The scenery didn't overtly change but the most eerily delicate of manipulations happened among those walls, somehow.  I jolted up with alarm at what I'd not seen, and it appeared, as I frozenly beheld that horrible sight, that something was emerging from it.  Something shapeless, something evil.  Shadow bled out of the corner and infected the dull light of the room as it made its ungodly, silent approach.  It had no face but I knew it could see me.  And I could see it.  I didn't know what to
CRACK
A noise from the opposing corner.  I instinctively flipped over under my duvet; my television had been turned on.  The immense shock of it stole me from my gaze at the horrid thing and even allowed me to momentarily forget it.  There it was, bright and ugly, pulsating its glare and trebly noise at me.  Had Jade turned it on?  It is a habit of hers.  I checked to see if she was awake.
She wasn't there.
Where had she gone?
Had I turned it on?
No.
I felt a terrified grimace form.  Defying my paralysing fear, I swung for the remote control and switched the intrusive thing off.  A low, dull giggle sounded I think from the previous corner.  I looked around; the shadow was still in the room.  But it was a shadow that should have been there, and it ceased to unsettle me.  Nothing was approaching anymore, nothing was gazing malevolently at me from that darkness.  I was certain of
CRACK
That bloody awful TV again.  I would do well to hurl it into the street.  It was on again.  How?  My hand still gripped the remote and where was Jade?  Why was her side of the bed empty?  I'd set to working that out later.  Off went the TV again, at my command.  I huffed and slumped back onto my pillow and closed my eyes.
That dull giggle again.  A shiver abseiled down my spine.  I opened my eyes; a horrid, contorted face; inhuman and animalistic, stared deeply into mine.  It had dead, empty eyes and a murderous grin of a thousand black fangs.  It giggled again and leered into me.
Gasping in terror, I cowered into my pillow.  It laughed again and lunged further at me.  I shut my eyes tightly and turned away.  The TV cracked on again.  A grisly, morbid giggle filled the room.  The blackness I'd force-fed myself was not comforting.  A terrified voice beside me bellowed;
'JOE!  JOE!  OH MY GOD IT'S IN THE ROOM!  OH MY GOD! JOE!'
My eyes sprung open.  Daylight reigned.  The yell was Jade's.  She had returned!  My senses were clear.  A dream!  All of this came to me in a nanosecond.  Now, why was she screaming?
I turned my head to the window; a blur of cold, round eyes, the furious flap of black wings, the indescribable screech of bestial terror; something ever more dreaded than what I dreamt up before had entered my sanctuary and roared bloody terror at me from its winged, demonic form.
I sat up and screamed.  I screamed for so long, I didn't know what to do.  My macabre nightmare was simply a foreshadowing for this infinitely more unimaginable and terrifying ghoul.
My scream lingered on.
The pigeon cooed with fright and continued to flap its wings as a pathetic act of defence.  It scuttled back through the opened window and took flight into the morning sky.
'It's gone' Jade sighed, breathlessly.  'I think it's gone.'
'It's gone' I said.

The "Witch" May be Dead but the Monsters Live on.

That was 1939.  I always assumed human morality had achieved a bit more nuance since then.  My mistake.

I awoke today with a hangover and the news that Maggie had passed away.  The sun was shining and my hangover didn't last long at all.  It really was a beautiful day.
But not for the Thatcher household.
My first instinct, being the useless social-media slave that I have no qualms about admitting to being, was to post a status about the news, as did everyone.  For the record, mine read 'Thatcher is dead.  RIP someone else' and you'd be forgiven to assume that I'd quickly hopped on the celebratory bandwagon for my choice of words.  But, despite everything, not least my hatred for class-minded, right-wing politicians, I'm not one to find glee at the passing of anyone, especially an elderly woman suffering from dementia.  My ill-advised, drunken rants about soldiers are proof enough of that.
I was understandably dismayed to learn that many of my friends are cheering and celebrating (and even directly quoting the aforementioned musical number) at this news.  Why is that, exactly?  A hatred of Thatcher is largely based on deliberate class-divide, aggressive military tactics and her strive for a return to Victorian values.  A fondness for any death is not extraneous to those ideals at all.  Thankfully I have friends who, like me, were bemusedly questioning this monstrous response.
Everyone has values, everybody loves to think they sit comfortably within a collective way of thinking, marginal or otherwise.  Few, however, are reflective and meticulous enough to question why they believe what they believe.  Why is this woman's death good news?  Has it undone the things she did to the country before you were born?  Has it made the current state of life in the UK any better?  Go away and think up answers to these questions, think of why on the Flying Spaghetti Monster's green Earth you'll be watching the televised footage of her weeping loved ones with a grin on your stupid, uneducated face.
I wrote 'RIP someone else' because lots of people have died today.  I wasn't alive for the majority of Maggie's reign, although much of her leadership caused ripples that bled into my lifetime.  She had a hand in banning and criminalising some of the films I love; I never received a glass of milk at school (nor did I lose much sleep over that ommission); and Northerners still hate me.  Am I sad that she's dead?  No.  Am I happy?  Of course not.  I'm not a monster.

My hangover has already passed.  What a day!

"Comforting, thought-provoking and hilarious throughout." Jet Tea Reviewed.

The Life and Loves of Jet Tea has been reviewed for the first time, which is an event I've been secretly dreading for the few weeks since the novel went on sale.  As it turns out I had little to fear.  While I've received plenty of word of mouth praise from friends and family, whose opinions I unquestionably respect, to read the positive, written opinion of an intelligent writer/reader/critic is very humbling.  And to be compared to Douglas Adams (Jet Tea was released on what would have been Adams' 62nd birthday, incidentally) is nothing short of an honour.  An actor friend of mine was once compared to Gary Oldman in a review from Time Out magazine.  Upon reading the comparison, he quite literally ran to the publication's office building and maniacally hugged what ever members of staff he could get his hands on.  Were I to know where this review was written, you can rest assured I'd act in kind.  Anyway, here it is;  

'Jet Tea is a man plagued by the twenty-first century. Stuck in a series of jobs which don’t really do justice to the years of ability he has built up, and dumped by the first real love of his adult life, he bounces from pillar to post, and pub to pub, trying to find love and answers at the bottom of a pint glass.

The joy of The Life and Loves of Jet Tea is in how English it is, therefore how relatable. There is an element of Douglas Adams to the prose, the awkward nature of not really being completely comfortable with the way we feel about our surroundings. Set against a backdrop of West London it’s a literary A-Z of the places to head if you want to face the arseholes you spend so long avoiding and confront everything which disenfranchises you from the world you are unfortunately a part of.

Accompanying Jet Tea on his voyage of self-discovery are his two sole friends, Maurice and Hayden, who for the most part are the cooler sect of the tripod. While they are all able to make a mischief of themselves, there is the image that Jet Tea isn’t able to deal with these things in the way his friends do. His dyslexia and distance from the world make him a target on top of his outwardly expressed ‘geeky’ appearance, and there is the concern he will never come out on top. Faced with rejection at every turn he continues unabated for the things we all want in our mid-twenties.

The book is comforting, thought-provoking and hilarious throughout, displaying the kind of aforethought only someone who has been there could have achieved. It’s a must read, and can be picked up through Amazon.'

Paul Schiernecker is a writer who will soon be releasing his first book.  His blog can be enjoyed here.  I'll be returning the favour and blogging about Paul's release when the time comes.

The Life and Loves of Jet Tea

Would you believe it?  I've only gone and written a novel.  Those of you who have been following this blog since its inception three years ago will already know that I have been working on The Life and Loves of Jet Tea - a fantastical opus in tribute to my best friend - for a long time.  Well, they said it'd never happen (possibly) but here it is.  My debut novel; available to purchase here!

The novel is also available on Amazon UK.

In the wake of a traumatic break-up, Jet Tea takes to the high streets of suburban West London to drink away his troubles with his society-hating friends.

While his friends are content to get their genitals out on dancefloors, bash commuters' heads in with golf clubs and find ever-more creative uses of the C-word, Jet Tea quickly realises he needs to find love, and will look everywhere for it... except for where he should be looking.

And what exactly is a vagrant claiming to be a wizard doing amidst all of this?

So if you like what I've written thus far, or like me enough to pretend you do, then I strongly recommend you check it out.  I hate comparing my own work to others but if I had to I'd call it a cross between Terry Pratchett and Withnail and I.  It's semi-biographical, but I can confirm that nobody I know personally has been portrayed (outside of the three lead characters, obviously).

Trust me, this is the safest way to get to know Jet Tea.

Also available on Kindle!