You know, even when a horror film is bad, one can attempt to derive some joy from the experience by endeavoring to predict what's going to happen next, then making fun of it once it does. This film is so bad that it offers the opportunity to do neither. It's plotless, pointless, gutless, and has not one single, solitary moment that's even mildly frightful. I've been more startled watching the Lawrence Welk Show on Quaaludes.
Plotless and pointless are probably surprises to no one. However, when I say gutless, I mean that "Valentine" seemed to be shooting for a PG-13 rating until somebody informed director Jamie Blanks that despite the lack of nudity and gore, the MPAA doesn't usually hand out PG-13s to movies about serial killers. If you're going to make an R-rated horror film, let's see a little horror. Let's see some slow-motion, skull-chopping madness. And let's see Denise Richards' naked chest. Who the hell goes to a Denise Richards movie to see her act? The woman looks like a Barbie doll that's been held next to a fire for too long. Look at her closely -- I'm serious.
The biggest laugh I got from this film came in the opening credits when it claimed to be "based on the novel by Tom Savage." I'm sorry, but who went off and changed the definition of "novel"? I didn't know you wiped your ass with novels. How long did it take Tom to come up with the plot: Loser kills girls. I am absolutely dead serious here: If you gave a group of chimps a magnetic poetry set, they could come up with a better story in under five minutes. Hell, I'd be willing to risk serious cash on sixty seconds.
The "girls" in the plot are Paige (Denise Richards), Kate (Marley Shelton), Dorothy (Jessica Capshaw) and Lily (Jessica Cauffiel). The killer is the supposed mystery, though the genius director basically kills off everyone else who could be a suspect less than halfway through the film. Only one thing could have saved this film. Two words: lesbian orgy.
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