Halloween: H20

Bomb Rating: 

I'm just a little bit chafed that every horror film launched from Hollywood these days has Kevin Williamson's name attached to it like a remora. That would be just peachy if Kevin weren't to horror films what Jim Varney is to comedy.

Despite this film's putrid, pathetic machinations on the "final" chapter in the life of Michael Myers, I still think somebody needs to do another "Halloween" film and here it is: "Halloween Scream: Michael Myers Chops up Uber-writer Kevin Williamson with a Rusty 'Garden Weasel.'"

I'm just a little bit chafed that every horror film launched from Hollywood these days has Kevin Williamson's name attached to it like a remora. That would be just peachy if Kevin weren't to horror films what Jim Varney is to comedy. This, however, didn't stop Jamie Lee Curtis from going to him with this idea for a new "Halloween" film. What that idea was is anybody's guess, as Williamson promptly transformed it into the only two ideas he's ever had: 1) somebody with a knife stalking people or 2) teenagers having sex. During rare flashes of creative brilliance, Williamson sometimes attempts to interlard the two.

As if I really need to go into it, it's twenty years later and Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis) is teaching at a small private school. Her son, John (Josh Hartnett), is a student and is as sick as the rest of us over mom being unable to put Michael Myers behind her. Sure enough, despite having been killed four or five previous times, Michael shows up again and starts wielding misplaced kitchen utensils such as cheese graters and "sporks." Why it doesn't occur to anyone to simply walk, nay, run away is a total mystery since Michael is just slightly faster than a comatose turtle.

As if Williamson's mere presence isn't insulting enough, the guy isn't even the writer. He's listed as co-executive producer along with Bob and Harvey Weinstein. If this isn't a flashing red light, I don't know what is. It recalls all those horiible films tagged with "Wes Craven presents," which soon became a translation for "we gave Wes $100,000 for the use of his name, but he didn't do anything more than bend over so we could pucker up and kiss his ass." You know that when somebody has chosen bending over to actually doing the work, they've truly gone Hollywood.

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