Valentine

Say what you want about the late-90's slasher boom; I know I have.  At the time, I excoriated its very existence and questioned the sanity of its adherents.  Like any unsavory trend, it sweetened over the years.  I can now see the positive effects it had on the horror genre in much the same way that I can see the beneficial predications of nu-metal.  Think of how many ears Limp Bizkit beckoned and roped into the hegemony of real metal.  You probably weren't expecting to find a Limp Bizkit reference in the first paragraph, were you?  I'm sorry.  But my point stands!  Vapid "dead teenager" flicks served to reinforce the horror section of your local video store, even if the films themselves were nothing more than woebegone widgets.

Woebegone widgets...that's a business idea.  I just need to figure out the business.  And the idea.  NOTE TO SELF: Do something with that.  Aside from My Bloody Valentine, the most amorous of holidays had yet to be milked by bloodthirsty screenwriters.  Our stock premise could have supported beaming entertainment.  A prologue introduces us to Jeremy, a nerdy buck who asks several girls to dance with him at the school function.  One of them is bound to say yes, right?  Well, the big-boned girl complies, but the rest of them pitilessly tease him.  He begins to menstruate, which invites chants of "plug it up."  Travolta's performance is stunning, and although the tampon knives are a bit much, I...I have lost the plot.

Ah, found it!  Later in life, Jeremy decides that he wants revenge on the girls who rejected his advances.  Does he mail them glitter bombs?  Intercalate red fabrics into their wash cycles alongside whites?  Empty their salt shakers and replenish them with sugar?  None of the above, for those options would have led to abject, soul-rattling terror.  Ultimately, he goes with a classic, the ol' "scrupulous eradication of human life from behind a cupid mask" technique.  The first act is spent establishing red herrings.  Hey, red is popular today.  I wonder if that's why words of Christ are printed in red within the pages of The Holy Bible.  Perhaps J.C. was prophesizing, foretelling the rise of David Boreanaz.

This is, like, the worst movie review I've ever written.  Focus, Dom...focus!  Jessica Capshaw gives a respectable turn as the main target (or so we're led to believe).  Marley Shelton is decent, but no one else bothered to show up.  I sensed that each cast member was seconds away from leveling with the audience and issuing a formal apology for agreeing to star in Valentine.  Denise Richards plays a pedantic bitch, but she doesn't believe her own dialogue.  By the way, these beautiful women stay clothed for all 96 minutes.  Did director Jamie Blanks know that he was synthesizing a slasher?

I dug the art direction.  The visuals deserve to be in a better motion picture.  The stalk sequences are flavorless, an adjective that cannot be applied to Capshaw's ass.  Clothed!  Forgive me for going blue.  That's what happens when a subject doesn't hand me anything that I can use.  I hate to admit it, but the twist ending is clever.  There is a chance I'm wrong.  There is also a chance that I've wasted too much time on Valentine.  I'm being generous with my rating, but there was axiomatic talent behind the camera.  As for the late 90's slasher boom, this was the final nail in a coffin fit to incinerate.