Big Surprise: Poltergeist rehack in works
Even a casual purveyor of movie news will have noticed a slew of remake announcements coming out of Mary Parent’s MGM camp. That’s because the company, temporarily flush wish equity, has decided to use their investors’ lucre to gas up the Edsel for a trip down memory lane, rehashing crap that’s already in their catalog in what they evidently view as the clearest path toward clear profit. Sort of like when a desperate dinosaur rock band tosses out a quickie Greatest Hits or live album to raise the fast cash needed to pay back their drug dealers, MGM’s apparently banking on nostalgia to keep them afloat through their next round of financing, or risk being assimilated into the Sony Borg a la Warner Bros/New Line.
The latest such mother-eff to their legacy? A remake of Tobe Hooper’s 1982 horror classic, Poltergeist. Despite having been (thankfully) awarded a ludicrous PG rating at the time of its release, Poltergeist brought some of the biggest spooks in horror movie history to the screen (by the way, you’re a terrible person for thinking I was going for a Michael Clark Duncan joke), including an infamous scene that is the primary reason I’m scared to death of clowns (well, that and being raped by a guy in a Ronald McDonald suit when I was 8). And who can forget creepy little Heather O’Rourke’s pronouncement that “they’re here” in the trailer? Is it any wonder that the cherubic hell-spawn was stricken from the Earth at the tender age of 12? Even God was scared of her (and by God I mean Yahweh the God of Judeo-Christianity — not Barack Obama. I know there’s been some confusion in that regard lately, especially as both are black, although rest assured only one is a woman).
But lest any of you think that MGM plans to sully the original film’s reputation by hiring a couple of work-for-cocaine Hollywood hacks to fart out a 12-point courier turd for the above-mentioned redundancy, take heart: Penning the screenplay will be none other than Stiles White and Julie Snowden, the duo responsible for 2005’s Boogeyman. Don’t let the 14% Tomato Rating fool you. Boogeyman was a modern horror classic right up there with Candyman III and Leprechaun in the Hood — only unencumbered by those films’ sense of self-awareness and fun. Which is why White and Snowden are fast becoming the go-to Final Draft operators for horror remakes; the word-typers recently completed a rehash of the Alfred Hitchcock (who?) film The Birds for Universal.
Needless to say, I can’t wait to see what they do to Poltergeist. In the same way that I can’t wait to see what binge drinking will do to my liver, or what leaving this gangrene untreated will do to my lower extremities. And while I can’t fault MGM for the fiscal logic behind going for the quick buck (they’ve even got Kirk Kerkorian feeling nostalgic, as the three-time MGM honcho is rumored to be vying for a fourth ride on the Lion), I’d like to remind everyone that this sort of short-sightedness is a big part of the reason why the record industry now teeters on the brink of non-existence. If Hollywood studios keep playing to the lowest common denominator, keep devoting less thought to their development slate than they do to their mid-morning Starbuck’s run, the unwashed masses will eventually expect to pay a dollar amount commensurate with the value of the product—i.e. nothing. You think anyone feels a drop of guilt for illegally downloading the latest Jonas Brothers ode to auto-tuning? Only for having such crappy taste in music. Such shall be the case for your trivial, predictable and unoriginal cinematic fare—sooner rather than later—as the technology for unpoliced pilfering of HD product already exists, and the home theater experience already beats that which is available in most cineplexes. At least all those laid off record industry weasels were able to get their real estate licenses in time to capitalize on the last bubble. What are you gonna do – with no discernible skills, and an inflated sense of self-entitlement that will sink you in any industry but this? I guess you’ll have to go back to what got you your cushy jobs in the first place—rolling calls, making coffee for people more important that you, and fighting back the gag reflex long enough for the last drops of creamy-white viscid hate to clear the back ends of your gullets. See you on Santa Monica Blvd., bitches!
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