Unnecessary Remake? Not quite. Why Let The Right One In Being Brought To America's A Good Thing.

Sometime last year, it occurred to me just how lucky I am to live in this era. Sure, fashion wise, I'd much rather have been a girl about town in the 1920's, wearing sequined headbands and drop waisted dresses, doing the Charleston at my local speakeasy and harboring dreams of being a Zigfeild girl or even being in a talkie one day but if that had been the case, I wouldn't live in the age of youtube. The site's pretty much altered the daily existence of life and drastically changed the way the world consumes entertainment and I, personally, am especially thankful for the website's inception because, without it, I may never have been able to see Let The Right One In. It was sometime in early summer and I lived with a wonderful, sarcastic, and off-putting girl not unlike myself named Sara. One night, we decided to watch a film called [Rec] on youtube, based upon a comment on one of Oh No They Didn't infamous creepy posts that said the film's ending was the scariest thing that had ever been put to film. (This was in the glory days before Paranormal Activity ruined everyone's perception of scary in cinema.) The next night, I decided to continue the trend of streaming modern foreign horror fare and checked out a movie I'd heard nothing but amazing things about, the 2008 Swedish vampire flick, Let The Right One In.

Let The Right One In surpassed being one of my favorite films of the year and went straight to being one of my favorite films of all time. It's not often that a vampire film is understated and realistic and it's even less often that a vampire film is heartfelt and affecting without being sappily romantic. Blame my early teenage obsession with Buffy The Vampire Slayer (Hey, what can I say? I'm a feminist.) but I've always had a soft spot in my empty-chest-cavity for bloodsuckers done right. Twilight? Don't talk to me about that shit. True Blood? Please do talk to me about that shit, especially that Eric Northman. Me-ow! Regardless of my lustings, however, nothing in modern pop culture comes close to getting vampires right as Let The Right One In. The film is near and dear to my heart so naturally, when it was announced that the movie would be remade, Americanized, and called Let Me In, I was perturbed to say the least. Why, exactly, was it necessary to remake the masterpiece into what I feared would become standardized subtitle-less tripe? I even went so far as to begin a blog, in my sort-of-series on unnecessary sequels, as to why Let The Right One In should just be released to a wide audience in the states and the sequel should be halted mid-production. In the past 24 hours, however, I have had a change of heart.

Boil It First Presents... Unpopular Opinions of the 21st Century: Cloverfield Was Alright!

There's nothing glamorous about insomnia. You reach a certain point in the night (or, as the case may be, early morning) and you just start to ache. Your head aches, your back aches, your fingers and toes ache. Not to mention the fact that you just start to look a total mess. Smeared mascara, bags under the eyes, the whole shebang. By the time the sun rises, you find yourself bearing a frightening resemblance to Zooey Deschanel in Manic, messy dark hair and all. Or maybe that's just me.

The one good thing about insomnia is that my mind does tend to wander in pretty amazing ways, leading to some fun googling and even more fun reminiscing, occasionally with the aid of google. For instance, last night went something like this: "Man, I can't wait to have a costume party. It's gonna be superhero themed and I am so gonna dress as Liz Sherman." I thought. "Speaking of Liz Sherman, I sure wish I was watching Hellboy II: The Golden Army right now. Hey, remember that green monster in Hellboy II? He totally looked like the Cloverfield monster. Yeah, Cloverfield. I remember that. It wasn't nearly as bad as everyone seems to say..."

Does It Make Me a Mega-Nerd to Think About Things Like This?: Feminism in The Watchmen.

I remember when the cast of Watchmen, Alan Moore's "unfilmable", grandiose, and damn near perfect graphic novel, was announced. In fact, I remember when the project was green lit and Zack Snyder signed the proper documents to become attatched as the director. I also remember reading Watchmen for the first time and being absolutely blown away by the fact that superheros could be real people with real problems. But all of that information is neither here nor there because what's important was the hubbub that erupted on the internet forums this lady nerd frequents when the cast was announced.

I, naturally, was one of the people typing up a storm on Ain't It Cool News. Having read the comic at a young age, I had an A Plus vision in my head of exactly what each character should look like and, in some cases, who should play them. Despite my adoration of Patrick Wilson in Little Children and the epic, gripping Hard Candy, I had really wanted my captain, Nathan Fillion to take the role of Night Owl if only so I could look at Nathan Fillion on screen. Everyone, it seemed, had something to say about the casting of the characters: Jeffery Dean Morgan as The Comedian (Pitch perfect, in my opinion. Just look at that sweet 'stache!), Matthew Goode as Ozymandias (Homosexual or not homosexual? Still up for debate.), Jackie Earle Hayley as Rorschach (It was doubted early on that he could get the voice right. He managed, however.), etc. Surprisingly, the response was fairly positive and as cast photos and trailers began to make their way into the stream of the nerd popular consciousness, the kudos for the gentleman of Watchmen only began to increase as it was made apparent that the men cast as the anti-heroes actually cared: about the characters, about the book, about the fans. They cared. And that, from a female nerd's perspective, is fuckin' awesome! What no one seemed to care much about, however, was the Silk Spectre or the actress chosen to play her.

This Is Why People Don't Let Me Pick Movies: Boil It First's Take On Lars Von Trier's Antichrist!

I feel like the mark of an excellent film is needing to pee halfway through the movie and being too intrigued to leave your seat. By those standards, Lars Von Trier's Antichrist is a superb movie. Building a significant amount of word of mouth buzz before its release for the graphic and disturbing nature of the movie, Antrichrist never received a proper release in the U.S. despite being the talk of many film festivals the world over. You don't, after all, earn the honor of being "The Great Genital Mutilation Film of '09" and not get talked about.

For those unfamiliar with Antichrist, the film stars my long time girl crush Charlotte Gainsbourg and the always unnerving Willem Dafoe as a married couple who, after the death of their son, retreat to their cabin in the woods to face their demons. There's also graphic sex, graphic violence, and graphically violent sex. And a talking fox. Interested yet? Between that and the aforementioned genital mutilation, I can't see how anyone would not put Antichrist at top of their Netflix cue.

Confessions Of A B-Movie Addict #2

Like a lot of people, I grew up on a steady diet of '80s action movies. I know I'm not the only one who whiled away the hours watching the Beverly Hills Cop and Lethal Weapon franchises on HBO after getting home from school. Direct descendents of John Wayne, wise-cracking anti-heroes like Axel Foley and Martin Riggs drove sports cars, carried 9mm pistols, and blew away drug dealers, terrorists, and assorted sundry scumbags with finesse and instantly-quotable one-liners. A lot of really bad action movies made it to the screen in the '80s too, bereft of the hot-shot screenwriters, blockbuster budgets, and state-of-the-art special effects that made those classic films tick. Let me introduce you to perhaps the most unassuming action hero of all time: Leo Fong.

The Wrong Con: An Education

I've spent a good portion of my life watching shitty movies and enjoying the crap out of them. There's nothing wrong with that. Once you've got your head wrapped around the idea that a movie is going to be awful, you can go with the flow, and enjoy it.

Outside of B-grade pictures, I have come to expect movies to be mediocre, even the ones I've been dying to see. I've just been burnt too many times, and I don't really feel all that cheated anymore.

Frustration sets in when I see a film that begins strongly, hooking me emotionally, only to flounder and let me down at the end. This is what An Education did to me, and I'm kind of pissed.

Making Concessions: Up In The Air

There are burdens we all bear, as good donkeys, to get to the bottom of the canyon, or wherever it is we're going. George Clooney raps about the straps of those burdens digging into your shoulders and makes one hell of a case for putting them down in Up In The Air.

Confessions Of A B-Movie Addict

Hi, my name is Zach B. I like loud rock n' roll, cheap beer, cigarettes, celebrity gossip, and talking loudly in public places. Perhaps you've read my blog Random Old Records, or listened to the podcast of the same name. If not, then what the hell's wrong with you?! Well, today I'm not here to talk about garage rock, girl groups, or drinking in Cincinnati dive bars. I am unashamed and ready to make a confession about my obsession: bad movies. I absolutely LOVE awful, terrible movies. While other folks watch Raging Bull, Die Hard, Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, The Royal Tenenbaums and others of that ilk on repeat, I go crazy over cheap sets, visible boom microphones, wooden acting, and plot holes you could drive a car through. Give me a trashy plot, gratuitous nudity, and/or graphic violence, and I'm a happy guy! In my eyes, the pinnacle of bad movie-making is the Angel Quadrilogy. What, you've never heard of it?! For shame!

Super Holiday Family Fun Movie Time!

Well, well, well... It's that time of year at Boil It First, when I head northward, to where my ancestors inexplicably stopped and settled. It's possible that, as fresh immigrants, they were unaware that there was a rest-of-the-country that bore a less-striking resemblance to the Arctic Tundra, but my parents really have no excuse.