Annabelle

I'm too tired and filled with snot to write a proper review of anything today. However, I'm in the perfect frame of mind to trash a shitty movie. So here ya go:

Ah yes, the 1960s. When everyone was white, every car doubled as an aircraft carrier and every female was a Breck girl. Our pasteurized and homogenized protagonists are clearly carved out of mayonnaise. I have no idea what their names are, but her hair is neither stiff enough nor high enough to convince me that this is the late 60s.

For some reason, Mrs. Mayo has started collecting dolls for her unborn baby. Whose sex has not yet been determined. And since this is the sixties, I have a hard time believing that her husband would encourage - let alone supply - his wife in her doll hoarding. God knows if she squirts out a boy, the presence of all those dolls might turn him gay in utero.

In this case however, I think the presence of so many life sized ugly fucking ghoul dolls in wedding dresses with murder lipstick would turn any baby, regardless of sex, into Jamie Gumb.

And the film quickly establishes that milk white, suburban Republicans are the Good Guys here, and anyone with even the slightest bit of interest in the hippie culture will turn into a full blown Charlie Manson Helter Skelter druggie dropout who will break into your house and slaughter anything and everyone that moves, or doesn't, because SATAN. Yeah, okay.

Neighbors runaway hippie daughter returns to kill Christian parents with her hairy, beardy biker boyfriend and his demonic belt buckle. Lard white cops show up and shoot the smelly hippies. Smelly hippie female dies clutching ugly Annabelle doll, bleeding all over it in the process. Blood cannot possibly make this fucking doll look any creepier. Seriously, if the American Girl series had released Little Quadroon on the Bayou, complete with voodoo pins and incantations, this thing couldn't have been less attractive.

First jumpscare: a sewing machine running by itself. Wow. Horrifying. Yeah, look, we know that Mrs. Mayo is going to run her slender, alabaster finger right under that needle, so just do it already. Thank you.

Second jumpscare: housefire via Jiffy Pop.

Well lets see; not reacting to the home invasion which nearly resulted in my death, my husbands death and the murder of our unborn baby seemed to work out okay, so I think I'll just gaze stupidly at my flaming kitchen for a few seconds instead of reaching for the fire extinguisher or running for the phone. Emotions are for ethnic people.

Baby girl is born. Bring on them lacy bonnets and bootie socks, alright.

Throwing creepy, bloodstained doll into steel trash bin is a surefire way to ensure that said same doll will magically reappear in baby's bedroom and be seen as harmless and utterly benign by mom, who clearly never stopped taking the Xanax prescribed for her after the whole PopCorn Trauma Incident.

Eek! Attacked by a gauzy curtain!

So, hippie girl died in regular clothes, comes back as a ghost in white baptismal gown? How does that work? Is there a standard issue uniform handed out in the afterlife?

Introduce black female character in attempt to make white couple look Hip and With It. No racism here, soul brutha.

Cue thunderstorm.

Geez, I know this is now the early seventies but a green velvet couch against purple floral wallpaper? Did The Joker decorate your swingin' pad? Tack-eeeee! Where are the earth tones and the macrame owls?


Ugh, you know, give me one good goddamned solid reason why I shouldn't dick-punch everyone involved in the making of this film right the fuck now? I am SO SICK of this assembly line shit. It's the same goddamned plot over and over and OVER again! Trauma prologue, normality resumes, subtle threats pop up, sanity is questioned, truth is discovered via a skeptical but degree holding professional, menace is dealt with by a mystical minority wild card, order is restored, all is well, and one last Jack-In-The-Box pop in your face to leave room for a sequel. This is not how you make movies. This is how you mass produce a product. Movies are not supposed to be products. If I wanted a bland handful of tasteless, nutrition void filler, I'd buy a fucking Twinkie.

Bloody scrawl left on wall by dying hippie devil worshipper is mark of Belial or some such shit.

Nope. No emotion can enter your face at any time, regardless of the situation. That garbage truck that just slammed into your baby carriage and which could have pancaked said baby into mush puddle if she'd been in it at the time? Nope. Nuthin'. Just hold that glassy stare, mama.

Oh great. They're being haunted by Bette Davis in Whatever Happened To Baby Jane. Now that's horrifying.

Cue obligatory meeting with parish priest who looks vaguely like F. Murray Abraham.


Okay movie, you've stolen from Rosemary's Baby, Pin, Silent Hill, The Omen and Child's Play. Are you done? Can you now make an attempt at originality? You've got eighteen minutes left to redeem yourself.

Thirteen minutes.
Six minutes.

Yep, make sure to kill the black character.

The End.
Fuck you movie.