#Horror (2015)

Six 12-year-old girls we hate gather at a friend’s house in Greenwich, Connecticut for a sleepover.  One by one, they separate and a slasher preys on them.  I don’t often wish for the deaths of middle schoolers and their parents, but in the case of #HORROR, I’ll make an exception.

“We’re awful.”

As the girls bully and browbeat each other, we like them even less.  I started out hating them so you can imagine how I felt after an hour and a half.  They’re so nasty.  They say things like “You look like a fat tranny.” and “Your mom slept with Hitler.” and “Kill yourself.”  It’s super fun.

Fun.

The girls peel off from the group, as girls do in slasher films.  It doesn’t go well for them.

“Do I get a goody bag?”

The # part?  Oh, you see, when the girls post horrid pictures of each other online and tag them with cruel epithets, the film changes.  Weird, cartoony images, emojis, and goofy phrases appear onscreen like a bad digital pinball game.  The colorful, puffy typeface lets you know you’re watching quality.  No, really.  It looks as though the filmmakers watched SPRINGBREAKERS fifty-seven times in a row and decided to reproduce that film’s crappy, repetitive mantra graphically.  It’s like a widescreen version of Candy Crush, but with cruelty.  After thirty seconds, my eyes started bleeding.

Subtle.

So, horrible girls die, but not too horribly.  I mean, I have seen bad films redeem themselves with terrific kills.  This isn’t one of those films.  There’s screaming and cameraman-tripped-on-his-shoelace cam and blood, but who cares?  The kids are awful and there’s a hinted-at backstory no one sees fit to tell us and a whole lot of bad parenting.  Also, there’s terrible art.  The party/killing spree all happens at a huge, modern house in the Connecticut woods.  If that sounds idyllic, think again.  As the girls die, their screams echo through the sterile rooms, bounce off the crappy art, and fade to nothing somewhere near the vodka Mom pours on her cornflakes.

“Why is the yolk pulsating?”

I forgot to mention the parents in this Bataan Death March of a movie.  There are real actors in this.  Chloë Sevigny, Timothy Hutton, and Natasha Lyonne all show up.  Lyonne has about twelve seconds of screen time, but Hutton has eons to chew the scenery and Sevigny looks a little dazed.  She does play an alcoholic though.  I must say, I liked her part the best.  I love the idea of a selfish mom leaving six 12-year-olds in her home alone, pouring a vodka tonic, and drinking it on the way to her AA meeting.  Ballsy.

“I think my scarf knows what I’m thinking.”

I won’t spoil it for you by telling you the ending.  The point is that it ends and that’s a good thing.

A couple points:

Early in the film, Chloë Sevigny chats with a friend in her house.  An assistant, Molly, has a few lines.  Later, Sevigny goes out, leaving the girls alone.  Where the hell is Molly?  She never comes back and no one mentions her again.  She’s a plot device to show how rude Sevigny is to her servant, but they didn’t bother to give her an exit.  Oops!  I forgot one of my characters again!

Timothy Hutton, Chloë Sevigny, and Natasha Lyonne can act.  Hutton has a Oscar and a gang of nominations.  Sevigny has some critics’ awards and an Oscar nom.  Lyonne has won critics’ awards and an Emmy nomination.  What are they doing in this certified wedge of Gouda?  Did they lose a bet?  Are there pictures somewhere of them kicking midgets or something?  I can’t think of any other reason for them to be in this mess.  That mystery will stay with me longer than the film.  Do yourself a favor.  Watch ROAD HOUSE.  It’s probably still on Netflix.

1/5 Duckfaces.