[dropcap]O[/dropcap]nce upon a multi-cine, while I pondered a confused whinny,
“Who was this Edgar that I should care for 90 minutes or more?”
While my mind, twixt catnapping, suddenly there came a crapping
As of someone gently sapping, sapping at my mental core.
“Tis some crime,” I muttered, “straining to exceed my bore.”
Only this and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember, a moment in which a good dismember,
And each time a plot would not collapse and die upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the latter, a film less awful than this matter
From my aisle felt all the sadder, sadder for the lost Cusack.
For the ebullient man of hardware little that Hughes man named Cusack
Falling here forevermore.
Cusack, John Cusuck, of late seen, in a Hot Tub Time Machine,
Becomes the Poe, a figure proudly contriving The Raven lore
Cusack it seems in wretched frolic, indulging as the alcoholic
Gifted word chooser? Substance abuser? What form takes our hero’s chore?
His bluster aggressively chafes upon a freshly reopened sore
A simple asshole and nothing more.
I give the plot without a stutter: there’s a bloke, somewhat a nutter
Rapt in endless bloody intestinal-filled gore.
Slaying a selected few to see, in a fashion most literary,
Murdering according to fictional specifications set about before
Entirely within the ouevre of Edgar Allen Poe, what for?
That’s all you get for story. Snore.
And the painful jostle uncertain following the open curtain
Grilled me – drilled me with ennuitic terrors often felt before;
So that now, to the deadening of my brain, I stood repeating,
“What detective opts for the poet so habitually spirited poor?
Is this how justice finds the way in 19th Century Baltimore?
Is this it, and nothing more?”
Into that screen I continued peering, long I wondered without leering,
In modern day, would precedent require a similar chore?
“Officer, two teens are broken, their vocabularies? A joken.”
Inarticulately and with little fire, would the detective then inquire
“Can you collect for me the writer known as Miss Stephenie Meyer?”
Don’t ask again or I’ll get sore.
Presently my guff grew stronger; the action? Could not be wronger.
Credits must approach or I shall quickly seek the door.
But the fact is, all considered, even though this art is littered
With unnecessary crimson feast, intelligence long since released,
“Not awful,” say I, but shall there be more indulgence in this beast?
Quoth the FrogBlog, “Nevermore.”
Rated R, 111 Minutes
D: James McTeigue
W: Ben Livingston, Hannah Shakespeare
Genre: Blood
Type of person most likely to enjoy this film: Poe apologists
Type of person least likely to enjoy this film: Fans of police procedure
