Think about the tour.

Fuck the tour.

Kind of an abrupt way to start, but I cannot bury this lede. Cristóbal Tapia de Veer's score for the first film blew my hair back so hard that it still lingers as one of my couple favorite scores of this progressing decade, and dude was given license to go fully fucking buckwild here. Seems that was the order of the day in the production writ large, but whatever restraints were left on…

From out of the past
Where forgotten things belong
You keep coming back
Like a song

I hearing, or reading, several years ago an argument for the non-existence of ghosts. It went thus: for the many billions of human or humanlike lives which have ended up on this Earth, were even a fraction to have produced spiritual remnants, the surface of the planet, every square inch of the globe, would be swimming in such beings. Stacks of them on…

"Get me out of this big bloody cornfield!" the clown said.

Makes me feel like a massive killjoy to be as down on this as I am; following how much I also didn't like Hell of a Summer or that first Fear Street (or even 5cream, or even even back to the first Halloween; hmmmm), maybe slashers just aren't really for me. Would guess that very few of the people enjoying this are stumping for the plotting or broad pacing,…

Does my voice sound familiar to you?

A raw weaponization of the fundamental unknowability of other people, paraded through actors, paid company, unfamiliar faces, untrustworthy recounts, ultimately back to who has always been the show’s central question mark. After all, how could they be understood when we so struggle to even approach understanding ourselves, our true motives, our true feelings, our true needs. If people are to us what we need them to be and what small glimpses we can…