Why so blue, Scott?

Went to see ‘Underworld’ tonight with Christie and Chrissy and Co. Then went to the Foxes Den and got drunk off my ass on Strongbow cider. Can’t believe I have to drink again tomorrow at Rob and Alyssa’s -1 year Wedding Anniversary party. Jesus. **Warning: movie spoilers ahead**

The ‘Most Sassy Award’ for uncalled for comments during the movie goes to Christie, who, when Kate Beckinsale bares her vampy fangs to get a taste of the lupine-a-licious Scott Speedman, said, “Mmm… finger lycan good!” She’s so funny sometimes she makes me want to throw up, but in a good way. In the opening sequence, where Kate’s character, appallingly named ‘Celine’, is posed dramatically on the dark and stormy, rain-battered stone turret of what seems to be a castle rooftop, she leaned over and whispered, “Are you suddenly jonesing for a pint of Stella Artois?” And when Viktor, the vampire clan leader, beat the living daylights out of a werewolf with his bare hands and then shish-kebabed him with a broadsword purely for effect afterwards, we simulataneously blurted out “Yes! Kickin’ it old school style!” God, we were obnoxious, come to think of it. There were a lot of loud remarks about telemark landings coming from me when vampires and the like would jump out of sixteen storey windows and land on their feet. And some amazed murmurs about the fact that anyone could perform in the role of Irishman-turned-bloodsucking-fiend with a less convincing accent than David Boreanaz (amazingly, the actor who played Craven achieved this, sounding even more like he’d lost his lucky charms than Angel). Other totally unnecessary exclamations included “Bad doggie! No biscuit!” when Scott Speedman first started to change into his lycan form, and “Why so blue, Scott?” at his anguished screams when he turns into the indigo-toned half-breed at the end of the movie. And of course the inevitable comparisons to the soap opera “Days of Our Lives”: really, the resemblance was striking, elaborate sets and costumes, horrible dialogue and delivery, a sleeping patriarch named Viktor, and all that jazz. I suggested that instead of a sequel (which will undoubtedly happen), the producers should consider turning it into a new, edgy daytime serial called “Nights of Our Deaths”. It could become the hip new hit for housewives everywhere who want to escape from Maury Povich, Price Is Right reruns, and As the World Turns.

We sound like complete assholes after this description of our behaviour, I know, but sometimes you’ve got to make your own fun at the movies, and this was one of those times. It was either get down with our snarky MST3K selves, or start playing scissors, paper, stone in the dark. Besides, by the end of the film, the whole audience had joined us in mockery. The death of Viktor was a masterpiece of gore-hilarity, taking the old trope of the time-delay beheading to a new and inglorious level. After a ten second staredown with Celine, a thin line of blood bisected his face diagonally and one eyeball started to slide away from the other (still managing a shocked facial expression, despite synapses and capillaries being severed). Roars of laughter rolled up and down the aisles. Sadly, although the whole point of the movie was getting the audience to ponder the question “Why can’t we all just get along?”, I think my crew pissed off Jamie’s girlfriend Erin mightily by laughing too loudly throughout the performance, which she was clearly trying to take really seriously. I’d have felt worse if the film had been an Ingmar Bergman classic, and I’d have felt better if she’d come out to the pub afterwards and let us buy her a pint in apology.

Tired now. Must go to sleep before I do the bad drunk thing and pick up the phone and start calling people.

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