As part of my ongoing horror binge, I've been forced to develop my Pretentious Arthouse Bullshit Horror Radar as a self-preservation instinct, though I didn't have a name for it until after I wasted an evening watching We Are What We Are, aka A Pastoral Ode To Sad Cannibal Girls.
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Then as now, she wore no makeup. Her school tie (it was a private school) was always a bit loose, because she hated the choked feeling of it being done up all the way. She undid her top button to breathe better and hugged her stomach when she laughed.
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I was a geek then and am a geek now, but even if I was to describe the type-A, queen bee popular girls I went to school with, the type of girls I suspect ABH films and Hollywood types would claim to be describing, they all still had the kind of individuality these films deny.
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The point being, I don't know when the pseudo-intellectual manbun fedoratypes of the film world decided to make the jump from drama to horror so that their nubile mannequin women could murder each other instead of pining after their English professors, but I wish they'd Stop.
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All of which is a way of saying: if a horror film that's meant to focus on women starts with a haunted, skinny white girl posing listlessly in a setting that tells you nothing about her character, exchanging nothing dialogue with an older dude, with lots of Slow Quiet Shots? RUN.
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