This is one script perfected in the stereotypical soulless copy-cat of creations forged in the very pits of normal-ville avenue of the western most vile and hellish mainstream genre, blandness.

The characters are what they are; characters, as literal as they are grey, boring, and Mary Sue in the very description of obviousness. It’s not that they don’t make any mistakes, they are just teeth-bitingly perfect, glued to their imaginative world recognized as the stage in which the actors perform, behind the fractured fourth wall squeezed in between your boredom and the progress of every despicable frame tossed with a force of slouchy laziness. Every moment is perfect, just perfect, from the cowboy sheriff skeptic with his accent, hat, and brown suit, only missing chewing tobacco and a lasso, to the neighborly abrasiveness befitting any all-American lane of green grass and sprinklers.

It is so American that it’s unholy, American in the sense a child would describe each landmark from the occidental country of stars and stripes; “the white house, yankee-doodles with banjos, the statue of liberty, and the president”.

In this movie, we have 4 bland teenagers, one being the dork always killed first, the sportsy guy playing American football (which we do have to watch), the cheerleader (she’s the love interest and the only girl you get to know, need I say more?), and the slightly misunderstood emo-kid who’s sister died X years ago, insert relationship as you please.

We have the mother of the emo-kid, Mary-ann Patricia Linda Barbara Elizabeth Jennifer stereotype mother who tries to communicate with her oh so darkened son. The police force of robotic idiots, no description required, the tough sports teacher with a slight perversion to what figures, the history/drama teacher miss brown hair, slight make-up, and common sense making everyday knowledge sound like brilliance talking about the ingeniousness of Shakespeare (You know, like all brown-haired, slight make-up, and common-sense teachers talk about). You fill the rest of the list.

And then comes Dennis Quaid, and let me tell you, this must be the award-winning Oscar for most stale acting performance of the century. He is the most quirky, scripted, formula of any psycho killer in the entire existence. From the queer giggles to the one-liners, his narcissistic and protective aura of convulsive effect you just can’t take serious in ANYWAY. Of all the movies I’ve seen with this actor, this is just downright dumb, so incredibly literal he’s basically the manifestation of his own manuscript.

If this story was every intended to be scary, I’d say they lost it on the way, and not just lost it, it fell out of the car on the highway as they drove over it with a tank. Are there jump scares? Actually no, but that’s because they’re not scary in any mean whatsoever, giving it full-minus on the scoreboard, and what about the horrific heart pounding screaming sensation of the audience following the main character trying to get away from the antagonist? Yeah right.. it died on the way before the camera was rolling. It is stupid, but not laughingly, like all those old 80′s slasher horror films like Friday the Thirtheenth or Nightmare on Elmstreet, it is stupid because it poses so heartbreakingly stiff, adding no significance to the screen whatsoever. To even claim it as horror or thriller is to say the least, a great insult.

Two of the biggest flaws which I just can’t live without telling, lies stamped with a red seal in a dirty old envelope licked by a tongue so blistered and morbid it makes my spine twist backwards and break in repulsiveness, are as following:

1 – Any movie using Shakespeare as an excuse to have a scene of history class is an absolute godforsaken hell-hole. Sort of like saying, “Hi, I am as original as Gothika, but I’m only famous because of Limpbizkit’s remake of Behind blue eyes.” Plus, when the teacher asks why Edgar Allan Poe’s murderer from The- Tell-Tale Heart would be able to hear the slow beating heart beneath the planks to which he confesses to his crimes, I could not but utter the exact word which would come out of the main-character’s mouth 3 seconds later – “guilt”, and that is only six minutes in.

2 – When the main characters best friend Danny gets pushed from the stairs and gets his neck broken from Quaid’s well placed foot, there is no question about how he died. No mention of fracture, no forensic team spotting the obvious bruise or disjointed neck, no check-up what so ever, and the teenagers are still questioned for breaking into the murderer’s house, worst cops ever!.

Then again, there’s also at least two positive things to say about it: Even though the characters are stale, the high-school feeling is not as traumatizing as it usually portrays, and being fair to Quaid, his character is probably the only one that at least makes you smile, just for a second, although his performance is practically a clone of Jack Nicholson dancing around as the Joker from Tim Burtons: Batman.

Although not a Human Centipede, or god forbid Human Centipede 2, this film bears the mark of the raging beast that keeps spitting out flick after flick consisting of stomach juices so intense they burn your eyes with wrath. The only question remains: Where did they get their budget from? They did get Dennis Quaid, so where’s the cash? But then again, maybe they knew a friend, who knew a friend, who knew a friend.

To sum it up, it is all one big copy-pasted material composed by every predecessor that have lived in the cold heart of Hollywood’s most shabby and decrepit black money-pushing machine.

One that should truly remain beneath the darkness.

Fast Tube by Casper