Drag Me to Hell
Who says you can’t go home? I do.
With Drag Me to Hell Sam Raimi attempts a return to the shire…the stooge-laden, demon puke-soaked shire which spawned both his career and an incantation assuring celibacy to all who utter it: “You gotta be shitting me; you haven’t seen Evil Dead?!?!” And by the looks of this foolish thing, he should have sent Samwise with a fucking postcard instead.
With trillions of dollars made filming a gay guy in a few feature-length Underoos commercials, Sam the Sham has built a pile of money so high on which to sleep that he can no longer hear the nyuk-nyuks of all of those virgin sycophants crying for yet another offbeat gorefest while he dozes. And what’s a master of comedic horror to live for once the cheering, acned avante-garde has gone silent? Me? I’d say ocean views from Malibu, waxed starlets, and clean heroin would do. Then again I am a simple man, and only a master of the oboe. But for Raimi the answer is, “not much.” It seems that living the high life among the anti-christs manning the Hollywood blockbuster factory has not done much for the guy’s chops, because even with all that juice he still saddles us with a PG-13 rating and no friggin’ nudity. WHY?!?!?!
I dunno, but in this hideous little fable about absurd consequences for minor karmic infractions a young bank loan officer denies an old woman yet another month to pay her delinquent mortgage. Although it is in her power to grant the extension, circumstances have conspired to make the bitch a mini-Trump hell-bent (muahahahaha!) on the assistant bank manager’s position that some ass-kissing crybaby is angling away from her. And her mother-in-law-to-be hates her. Well I hate her, too. So it came as a delight to me when she picked the wrong eastern-bloc, gypsy, femmepire to throw out on the street.
Note: give any disgusting one-eyed old lady with a Hungarian accent who puts her filthy dentures on your desk whatever the fuck she wants, because she’s gonna sick either the devil or her 75 indigent grandkids on your ass. Bet on it. I digress…
Naturally, the crazy old bag throws a curse- one which drops blondie into H-E-double hockeysticks in 3 days. Meantime, the shadow of a goat will fuck with her head by banging on pots. (The devil will be with you shortly, please stay on the line. Your soul is important to us.) And the only people who can possibly help are her weak-ass boyfriend, an easily spooked Indian (with a dot) psychic, and an old lady who’s dealt poorly with this sort of thing in the past and so requires 10,000 bucks to...I dunno…NOT do what she did the first time? Anyhow, stupidity ensues, demons dance like Shemp on fire, sacrifices are made, a corpse is exhumed and defiled, some serious girl-on-gypsy wrestling goes down, and every nasty thing on earth somehow ends up in the cute chick’s mouth. All this (and no god-damned boobs!) because the broad (read: Raimi) had enough sense to deny the gypsy credit, but was too thick to pin the deal on Citigroup. Which is just as well. I mean, if a bunch of undead skeletons marched on Wall Street the brokers would only think that their mistresses were dropping by for a blow job and some shopping money anyhow. Friggin’ skinny bitches ruin everything.