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As I sit back in the surprisingly comfortable chair of my local cinema, I realise there's nobody else in the theatre. I'm drinking a glass of red wine (it's one of those cinemas), I'm occasionally throwing handfuls of Wasabi Peas into my mouth (definitely one of those cinemas), and I'm about to watch the new biopic of serial shagger, Serge Gainsbourg. Things are gonna get pretty self-romantic and fast if another audience member doesn't get ushered in soon.
Stepping out into the broad daylight of a summer's afternoon after watching The Killer Inside Me, Michael Winterbottom's entry into the film noir canon, proves a grotesquely incongruous affair. The joy has gone from my life now.
With equal measures of exhilaration and irritation, your enjoyment of [Rec] 2 will most likely depend on how comfortable you are watching a nauseatingly-paced videogame at the cinema. Kids today love that shit though, and you want to be down with the kids too, right? Yeah, you'll love this shit.
In which director, Jared Hess, reveals himself to be the one-trick, Wes Anderson obsessive we always feared he might be. (He also may be a racist, but I'll discuss that later in a carefully non-litigious manner.) Strap yourself in, kids, this is gonna get scathing.
Double Take is a collage of four distinct narrative strands, some real, some imagined, but all supposedly interlinked with one another. It's probably easier to unpick these strands first, in order to figure out what the heck they're all meant to be doing here together.
When going to the cinema on your own just isn't an option, sometimes you wind up dragging along some helpless individual just to bump up the numbers. For the following movie experiences, I apologise.
1983 is a strange year in which to set your retro love-letter to horror. Gore nostalgia fans will note that the slasher hey-day was a few years previous. 1983 saw a slew of misfiring sequels to previously popular franchises; Halloween III, Jaws 3D, Psycho II and some tacky Stephen King adaptations.
Chloe opens with a breathy voiceover, red nail varnish, a healthy amount of side-boob and the rolling down of suspenders in an indistinct, soft-focus boudoir. Boom: suddenly I'm a newly pubescent teenager and furtively renting Bruce Willis erotic embarrassment Color Of Night. A film that, even at that tender age of 14 (I developed late), I knew was crap. All I wanted was some porny thrills, not the shattering realisation that it was possible NOT to enjoy a film. This revelation was up right up there with finding out there's no Santa. (Thanks a lot Gremlins... Again, I developed late.)