Insidious Film Review
Ok, I always take a word-of-mouth movie with a grain of salt. But, I had heard and even, gulp, read (yes some people still do that!) so many positive things about Insidious, being the brown expletive that I threw caution to the wind and entered the four person-packed theater.
Maybe that should have been a forewarning, but I am seeing it after it’s been out since April 1, and the joke was definitely on me.
I thought the slew of trailers for like-minded movies (like the I-can’t-wait-for-flicks like Scream 4 and a remake of one of my favorite TV movies, Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark) were dragging out. That is, until I saw the AMC Theater commercial for itself. Hello, we know what movie theater we are patronizing, right? Oh, then came the actual movie…I love digressions, don’t you?
Ok, I had my ass glued in the seat, ready to be scared out of my wits, according to every Tom, Dick and Harry (and friendly ticket seller) that had said it was going to be a bumpy ride.
Oh, it was bumpy alright…
From a slower than Molasses with a case of arthritis thrown in for good measure “sprint” through credit land, we arrived over the rainbow to find the main characters in the title act, as described by Merriam Webster of: operating or proceeding in an inconspicuous or seemingly harmless way but actually with grave effect.
It was grave, I’ll say. Fifteen minutes in, I had the plot figured out in my mind, and that’s a spoiler alert warning, if you may see it (stop and run!) and don’t mind that this is just based on hunches, which are very accurate in literally piecing this movie together, then proceed at your own risk and dollars.
So, I assume someone hung themselves in the attic, as evidenced by a partial light chord and old ladder, the husband (Patrick Wilson) either had something happen to him as a child or has to do with later events, as his wife (Rose Bryne) explains to eldest son (Ty Simpkins) that he has no pictures from that era of his life, after he complains about not liking his room, which raised another fuschia flag! The one with green spatters on it from that kid is most likely gonna spewin’ split pea soup at some point in this flicker.
Speaking of the wifey and kids of this “thriller,” when Renai (bless you) put the book “Self Healing Through Music” on a shelf, and was then on the phone with her brood noisily distracting her – I knew I was in for something…something not special, but akin to a reun of “Thirtysomething.” I actually found myself giving her helpful tips on making the furniture pop (think white) on dark hardwood floors, since she decided to populate their house with all dark wood furnishings. You’re welcome fictional character, my design fee is small, but nominal!
And then the scary part happened…ole Nai Nai was pianoing philosopical about her life “happening.” My friend and I laughed for about five minutes after that, until…horrors!
They have a kid named Foster…WTF? Is their constantly crying infant daughter’s named Jodie? As in: “These are our children, Jodie and Foster…oh, and the one who’ll end up possessed, ole something else pretensious sounding. ”
And here’s the problem with the whole haunted house genre, and the realm of being possessed – we’ve all been there, am I right? Yes, we have as it’s a case of “been there, done that,” in terms of white people going through this scenario. Just like Eddie Murphy joked about in his Delirious comedy special of days of yore. Why not a nice haunted house movie with a diverse cast, for once? And not one starring John Boy Walton and Hope Floats as the hapless couple who makes the wrong real estate purchase – the house looked plenty creepy from the establishing outside shot of it! Didn’t that tip ya off there, ya hippies?
Before ole Re Re (she’s so versatile, too bad Byrne isn’t – she was overacting to seem like she was underacting) could burst into “Spirtual Bran Muffin,” my friend and I looked at each other, rolled our eyes, and headed for the exit, and to see what our next prey would be.