This certainly isn’t ghost written. If it was, the writer would be spinning in their grave.

Damn it, I’m supposed to be writing right now. Well, I was supposed to be writing, but then I started writing. But, I mean, y’know. Well I wasn’t writing and that’s why writing needed to begin, but then my inner monologue got translated to page and became a lot more outward. I guess I am writing now then. Go me! Success! That’s what we call hard work and dedication.

Although it doesn’t seem like hard work or dedication. I’m scribing nonsensical ramblings that don’t involve considered sentence structure or creative arcs. These are just words on a page being typed as they’re thought. It’s like freestyle rapping, but lacking wit, gloating or disses. There goes my metaphorically masturbatory celebration. Leaving the warmth of having climbed up my own arsehole, I guess I’ve gotta deal with the painfully bright reality:

I have no idea what I’m doing here.

I hope this isn’t some existential crisis, I just mean I don’t understand what the point of this entry is yet. I’m sure it’ll find its feet, but at the moment it’s just a hot mess. Oh, that reminds me, I’ve got a segue on hand.

Crimson Peak was gorgeous. It’s the kind of film you want to see on the big screen. Loaded with lavish visual effects and a stunning colour palette. It’s not often that I’ll fawn over production design from all aspects- hell, I’m not normally even into period pieces- but Crimson Peak left me drooling like a puppy who’d smelled its first steak. The costuming, architecture, environment and technology. It wrapped the light and dark in a deep scarlet bow. The sound design was becoming of a major Hollywood film and the score tiptoed lovingly between delicate dread, ascendant softness and crashing terror. The kind of reverence for the craft you expect from a Del Toro film all present.

The rest was kind of shite though. It’s the sort of film you so want to adore- dripping with atmosphere and stylistically enrapturing- but the whole gothic love story draped in transcendent imagery couldn’t hold up without solid scripting. It was clunky, convoluted and poorly connected. Obvious plot points and clumsy lines bogged down a movie I had such high hopes for. Like my introductory few paragraphs, it had a number of unnecessarily predictable twists and turns before reaching a conclusion that had you asking yeah, but what was the point? I’m not the most sympathetic viewer, but I’d long stopped caring what happened by the time anything did. I gawked at the wonder of it all for sure, but couldn’t help despairing at the ponderous Chekhov’s gun and what little payoff it gave. The reveals came as no surprise and the scares were all too expected. I’m not gonna say not to watch it if you want to be impressed at a master revelling in his craft, just don’t expect to have a visual feast without a few eye rolls.

Then again, if you’ve been here before then you’ve read through clunky, disorganised writing with occasional flares of true emotion. If you can handle this, I’m sure you’ll find something redemptive in the experience of Crimson Peak. It’s a beautiful film that groans under the weight of its own ambition.

Wait, did I just accidentally write a review?

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