I’ve been thinking a lot about horror movies lately. In general, I’m not a big fan of the genre; as a rule horror flicks are too under-scripted and over-acted for my taste (Saw is a fine example of both, and, I’m sorry, you’re wrong, it’s a pile of shit).

But it looks like our big show for next year — assuming we even make the thing — will be a porn/horror take on Elizabeth Bathory, and I’ve got the slightest chance at directing a low-budget mainstream horror movie dangling in front of me, so the structure and narrative dialect of “the horror movie” has been with me lately.

One horror movie I won’t be seeing is the arthouse flick The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, which every overly-sensitive pretentious film critic and self-appointed art messiah (Manohla Dargis, anyone?) here and in Europe is currently lining up to jizz all over.

In the coming weeks, especially if you live in New York or L.A. or any other Blue State where people have actually read a book not by mAnn Coulter or BS Bill O’Really, you’ll be hearing a lot about this inspiring film, based on the terrifying but inspiring true story of French Elleeditor Jean-Dominique Beauby, who passes out and wakes up a poor, paralyzed bastard, is a really inspiring tale about a man who escapes his dying shell of a body through the inspiringflights of his imagination and the courageous and inspiring use of his one still-useful bodypart — his eyelid — to literally blink — yes, blink for chrissakes — his fucking inspiring life story out to a biographer.


This isn’t inspirational. This isn’t warm and redeeming. It’s a fucking horror film for art snobs with a martyr fetish so drunk on unenlightened self-interest they consider browsing the OXFAM catalogue to be foreplay.

Consider for a moment the scene in this beautiful, courageous and oh-so-inspiring film when the camera takes on the POV of the completely paralyzed Beauby while the doctors, realizing Beauby cannot blink one of the eyes he can still see through — which means it won’t be naturally lubricated — sew the fucking eyelid shut.

That sound you just heard was Clive Barker getting a hard-on. Seriously, if that isn’t good, old-fashioned nightmare fuel, I don’t know what is.

The real nightmare, of course, is that no one has the common decency, the fucking kindness, to put a bullet through the poor bastard’s brain and put him — and us — out of his misery. I couldn’t sit through a movie that puts the viewer in Beauby’s place because I would spend every minute of it begging for death. Mine, or perhaps, director Julian Schnabel’s…

Whatcha think?

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They must’ve spent tens of dollars on this — Tom Servo, Mystery Science Theater 3000