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John Tucker Must Die


by Alan Metcalfe 

Things to do in St Helens when you're dead. And on Easter Sunday.  Even Tesco and Asda are closed, so bang goes the idea of spending three hours in either, purchasing 50 CD's at 2.99 each.  What? What?  So I sometimes buy 'Phil Collins' Greatest Hits', 'Best of the 80's Synth Bands' or 'Driving Rock'.  I'm not ashamed. As ever, 'Subway' is open, so at least I won't starve.  Thereafter - and yet again - it looks like the cinema is my only option.

Cineworld is surprisingly quiet - maybe everybody's gone to Rhyl, to spend all their dough in The Black Cat - and I try to find a movie that I haven't actually seen.  There turn out to be two, but one doesn't start for another 5 hours, so 'The Messengers' it is.  There are three of us in the screening, me and two girls.  To avoid any embarrassment, I let on - perhaps accentuating my scouse accent too much - and hopefully assure them that, being a no-mates weirdo or not, I don't plan on spending the entire movie staring at them and playing with my knob. I fear that they were a little perturbed by my Everton shorts / blue ankle socks / Cortez combo, but it mattered little once the lights dimmed. Anyways, I could never feel as uncomfortable as I did last summer, when I went to see teen movie 'John Tucker Must Die'.  Yeah, me and twenty six 15-year old girls. Shit - real beacon cheeks, that one.
Predictably, the first advert today featured a handsome male / female couple having sexual intercourse, with the strapline of 'always wear a condom', natch.  Happily, the film itself features no scenes of nudity or rumpy pumpy of any kind, nor language that some viewers may find distasteful.  Apparently, it's the 'Number one box office smash' across America, but it's difficult to see why.  The format is pretty predictable for the genre.  Bloke buys isolated farmhouse in North Dakota, and moves his wife and two kids out there.  Lots of strange happenings occur, which - as ever - only his toddler can see.  The omnipresent 'mysterious stranger' turns up, in the guise of John Corbett (son of Ronnie, I believe) out of Sex in the City and My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and it turns out that he'd lived there some years before, when he'd murdered his entire family. You can probably fill in the blanks yourself now, if you've read this far; arsed if I can be bothered (hey, you wouldn't see this type of gonzo journalism in the Guardian Cinematic Supplement).
In fairness, if you like your mainstream 'horror' films to run in at the standard 90 minutes, and not give you too much to think about, this isn't bad.  There are one or two scary moments, hence some girlie squeals from my St Helens lovelies a few rows behind.  It's another Bank Holiday tomorrow, though, and I don't possess a ticket for Bolton v Everton.  You know what that means, don't you readers?  That's right - 'The Hills Have Eyes 2' it is then.




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