NOTE: Before settling on my more conventional review of Jennifer’s Body, I played around with writing a review “in the style of” a Diablo Cody character. The (somehow vaguely infuriating) results are here for your (and my) enjoyment.
I don’t pony up the big bucks to go to theaters too often, Kemosabi, but Jennifer’s Body got me try-curious. Would it be another Juno, or “d’you-know this is a good movie?” So, I blindfolded myself and took the Pepsi Challenge. I wasn’t totally electroshocked but at the same time it wasn’t totally awful-waffle.
Megan Fox is a Succubus, and she doesn’t just play one on TV. She’s kind of a Monstrous Feminine wearing a Libby suit going through the local Sausage Fest for breakfast without a side of syrup for dipping. She’s supposed to be a total Betty, and more than a few bro-hams will slime me for saying it, but “I don’t know.”
The story hits a lot of the notes of some old horror subgenre classics, like The Rape-Revenge Fantasy Waltz, The Body Horror Shuffle, and goes through the Demonic Possession Minuet in 55 seconds flat, played through the Alp Horn of semi-Sapphic post-feminism. RICOLA!
Bitch still got less characters than a monologue, and I ain’t got time for that jibber-jabba. Although she’s put the majority of the lines into the tiny thumbs of Megan Fox, it still managed to totally Outbreak in the whole movie.
The bar for me was pretty low if this were a pole vault, or high for a limbo, but Jennifer’s Body more or less cleared it either way. Hey Mikey, I liked it, but overall it wasn’t much hotter than Nick Lachey’s old band. You can Wikipedia that shit.
Sorry, gotta go, my hamburger phone is ringing. I’m Audi, 5000.
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