One Paragraph Movie Review: The Evil Dead

One hundred and thirty-fourth film: The Evil Dead. The only things I remember from my original watch of this teens-beset-by-demons-in-a-remote-cabin movie are the cover of the Book of the Dead and the sexual assault by forestry scene, which is remarkable and shameful because there’s SO MUCH going on that should be equally memorable. The fact that with only a couple of exceptions, everyone moves at Quaalude pace, even when they hear their girlfriend screaming in the other room. The fact that roughly one fifth of the make-up special effects are definitely porridge. The fact that the colour of things that spurt wanly out of every severed body part is arbitrarily assigned at best. And the fact that you have to sit through the incredibly low cost, single light source, not always in focus, repetitive tension to get to the definitely worth it budget-blowing animated rapid decay near the end. Aside from all that — to state the obvious — to have Bruce Campbell dismember you personally would and should be anyone’s absolute honour. The Evil Dead is so, so unbelievably dumb, and therefore robustly glorious. Three and three-quarter gigantic wastes of tomato puree out of five.