Another reason why I can’t be the next Roger Ebert: How I appreciate a film depends highly on my mood. Take Resident Evil: The Final Chapter for example. When I first saw it with my wife a couple of weekends ago, I thought it was crap and regretted spending time with it. Then, late last night, bored and gloomy and settling down from a stressful day, I decided to give it another whirl (don’t ask). It was still crap, but at least now it was crap but fun. Heavy on CGI but light on substance — who gives a shit? I wasn’t looking for a cinematic masterpiece, anyway. I just wanted something loud, proud and criminally dumb. Big guns and body slams to lift my mood. The movie did the trick: I was in a far better place in my head when I turned off the laptop.
And then I understood why Hollywood keeps churning out this kind of films despite the bad reviews: There is a market for masochistic viewers who have suicidal brain cells but do not give a shit. Just consider: There will be another Transformers movie in June.
Next on my list: Underworld: Blood Wars.
So it goes…