A Letter

Dear The Unborn,

Since the day you made the rounds at press screenings, I'd been warned about you. "The Unborn is no good, Stacie," my friends said. "Stay far, far away." It always bums me out to hear this about a horror film- I mean, I want all of you to be the love of my life- but I had to listen. When you were in theaters, I stayed far, far away.

Don't take that too personally, though. I tend to stay away from theaters because 1) umm, expensive and 2) umm, to go to the theater I have to leave the house and that directly conflicts with my career goals as a shut-in.

I figured you and I would eventually cross paths someday. Maybe after I'd been drinking and my resistance was low- you know, at a Halloween party or something when I'd had too many gin & tonics and deviled eggs and it was late and you were there and I said "Eh, the hell with it- it's Halloween." But time went on and that never happened, and...I'm sorry to say this, but when I encountered you in stores, there was always something else to rent and you were always too expensive to buy on a whim, and then there were those warnings from my friends. I'd pick up your DVD case and think, "Well, maybe..." and I'd hear a voice echo in my head- like when Luke was about to blow up the Death Star and Obi-Wan Kenobi chimed in to remind him about that whole Force thing- saying "Stacieeeee...it's terribbblllllle..." and I'd have to put you back on the shelf.

Okay, I'm being nice here to spare your feelings. The truth is...for fuck's sake, The Unborn, you're a Platinum Dunes movie. No, you're not a remake out to poop all over a classic, but still- you were brought into the world by horror's Unholy Trinity of Michael Bay, Brad Fuller, and Andrew Form. I try not to judge someone by the company they keep, but I do have limits.

Last night, however, circumstances led to our being in the same room at the same time...and I'd had some wine. My inhibitions were lowered, The Unborn, and you took advantage! I gave you the benefit of the doubt despite having oh so many reasons to ignore you...and you swept into the DVD player like you owned the place. When I said, "How bad can it be?" you should have, like, snapped yourself in half or something to stop me from giving you a try. When I said "Gary Oldman is in it!", you should have shot down my hopes with "Yeah, but he's wasted in a stupid cameo." But you didn't, The Unborn...you didn't.

Now here I am, a day later, wondering what the eff I was thinking. I'm full of sorrow and regret, and I'm ashamed to tell my friends what happened. Sure, they'll be supportive, but I know they'll be thinking "I told you so..."- and I know they're right. If Luke didn't listen to Obi-Wan, that fucking Death Star would still be sitting out there, waiting to zap planets into dust like nobody's business. Have I learned nothing from Star Wars??

I don't know why I'm being nice about this, The Unborn. You really don't deserve a polite, gentle scolding...or a well-thought out critique.

Quite frankly, you suck. You're lethargic. You're lazy storytelling...yet somehow, you're also no storytelling. You don't make any fucking sense. My new daily struggle is trying to overcome picking apart your plot holes, lest said picking apart completely consumes my life. You are nothing but the cheapest of cheap jump scares. Scenes full of jump scares. A movie of jump scares. You're derivative of 50 better horror movies I'd rather watch.

To get all Nancy Thompson about it, you're nothing. You're shit.

I never want to see you again.

Love,

Final Girl