#worstof2018

I read quite a few thoughts from people on the internet decrying the idea of a “Worst Films” list as overly-negative. Those people have likely never seen The Emoji Movie. Here are the Aarons for Worst Film:

#10. The 15:17 to Paris 

Clint Eastwood’s late career need to commemorate every possible act of American heroism he can get his hands on and his inflexible attitude towards efficient filmmaking, no matter whether another take is called for, reached a breaking point in The 15:17 to Paris. Eastwood’s decision to cast the real-life military men that stopped the attack is admirable, but misguided, as each gives a performance more wooden than the fake baby from American Sniper. The film is clearly desperately reaching for some insightful commentary on heroism and sacrifice, but with its indifferent filmmaking of insignificant events designed to pad the runtime (a scene of the trio eating gelato takes over twice as long as the foiled attack), The 15:17 to Paris is too far off-track.

#9. Show Dogs

As a dog returns to their vomit, so too does a studio decide that Raja Gosnell should have another chance to direct a talking dog movie following Beverly Hills Chihuahua and the two Scooby-Doo films. The movie’s antics contain the same poor CGI, confusing world building, and lazy jokes expected from bottom-barrel family entertainment, but Gosnell has bred something truly abominable in Show Dogs thanks to the decidedly not family-friendly content littered throughout. Gosnell’s first show-stopper is grinding the ostensible kid’s movie to a halt in order to discuss the nature of sexual consent among animals; the second, in quite the reversal, was cut complete out of the film a week into release due to its unseemly implications. If you’re looking for an entertaining talking dog picture this year, maybe put this one down and pick up Wes Anderson’s instead.

#8. The Hurricane Heist

The Fast and the Furious series excelled once it began to play fast and loose with the laws of physics, but none of that franchise’s absurdity can break one’s sense of reality quite like finding out that The Hurricane Heist, which hails from The Fast and The Furious director Rob Cohen, revolves around a sentient storm. Yes, to repeat, the hurricane in The Hurricane Heist is seemingly alive and determined to hunt down a single family over a period of years. It’s the sole unpredictable element in an otherwise rote heist film, riddled with stock characters, hammy dialogue, and repeated visits to the same low-budget sets. Certainly the most predictable part of the cheap and confusing adventure though is that a franchise is certainly not on the forecast.

#7. Slender Man

The boogeyman of internet chat boards everywhere finally crept his way onto the big screen in 2018 by way of middle-aged filmmakers who don’t seem to understand how the internet works. The laughable writing of the teenage girl protagonists indicate an ignorance of the film’s target audience, but beyond that is the film palpable disinterest in its eponymous foe. The Slender Man is a non-entity in his own feature; his undistinguishing features are lost among low-lit cinematography that makes it hard to visually distinguish anything at all. His mythos is missing and the editing is choppy. The man may be slender, but so are the plot, the frights, and almost certainly the sequel count of this forgettable feature.

#6. The Clapper

Humans are socially conditioned to recognize the smacking of two hands together in rhythmic fashion as an expression of praise. Dito Monteil, director of The Clapper, has likely been socially conditioned by years of indie rom-coms to believe that smacking together a socially-stunted male character and a female character with a quirky job will result in an affable picture. But The Clapper is embarrassingly uncoordinated, failing to prop up its quirk with any actual humor or its romance with any actual human openness, resulting in a listless (and thus on this list!) film that flails into a third-act misunderstanding involving not-unfounded stalking allegations and an overall lazy disregard for the love interest’s personhood. So, give The Clapper a hand, everyone; it needs all the help it can get.

#5. Flower

Zoey Deutch is a charismatic actor and, following a great performance in Richard Linklater’s Everybody Wants Some!!, a rising star, which makes it all the more upsetting that her efforts to find exciting roles was hijacked by the gross male power fantasy that Flower grows into. For the first two acts of the coming-of-age drama, its provocation and plundering of “strong female character” archetypes seems to be in pursuit of something profound, before a sudden tonal and plot shift sends the film floundering through successively icky developments. It’s sad seeing Deutch craft such a compelling character only for the film to weed out its good elements and reveal its sensitivity was all a charade for irritating wish fullfillment, leaving Flower to wither and die.

#4. Mute

Mute is the most painful entry to place on this list, as the passion project of the proficient Duncan Jones and the spiritual sequel to his superlative sci-fi film Moon, but just like with his big-budget Warcraft adaptation, Jones trades the sublime simplicity of his early works for confounding worldbuilding and bland characters. The director’s standard visual polish is overshadowed by the film’s discount Blade Runner aesthetic, but even that stands-out against star Alexander Skarsgård, who shrugs his way through his cipher of a character. The film doesn’t appear to care much about him either, choosing to spend an inordinate amount of time following a pedophilic character to no real purpose, just as its noir-influenced mystery comes to a dud of a conclusion. Here’s hoping Duncan Jones can return to form with his next feature, and we never have to speak of Mute again.

#3. The Open House

The infamous reputation of horror films in the January Dumping Grounds has shifted to a new low with the influx of streaming services. The same craving for endless content that led Netflix to finance beautiful works like Roma also leads them to crank out cheap, dispassionate works like The Open House. The Open House’s algorithm driven production is measurable; it’s designed to draw viewers in with a likeable enough lead and the promise of thrills… and then puts no other thought or effort into itself. Dylan Minette bumbles around an empty house and an empty town, with the occasional sharp noise or shifty side character to suggest, but never genuinely achieve, tension. Its ninety minutes of nothing, culminating in a climax that is dependent on none of that nothing, giving an early and clear sign that it’s not worth visiting everything that Netflix puts on the market.

#2. How It Ends

Like The Open House, How It Ends ends where most other movies would begin. Or, at least, movies that put any effort into their conception beyond taking a cheap, marketable genre (here, the apocalyptic road trip) and hiring a recognizable actor who is nevertheless not a big box office draw. How It Ends has nothing to say about the fragility of society, no insight into taunt relationships between men, no twist or turn that hasn’t been ransacked from better films. It’s, again, ninety minutes of nothing, designed to be easily accessible, unchallenging, and instantly forgotten. And how does that ninety minutes end? With manufactured conflict rooted in hardcore toxic masculinity and an anticlimactic cliffhanger. This is how one’s faith in streaming services’ forays into filmmaking ends.

AND THE WORST FILM OF 2018 IS...

1. Seven in Heaven

If the in-house productions of streaming services’ relentless pursuit of content are lethargic, their acquisitions of theatrical studio’s misfires are a never-ending source of fascination. Netflix had several high-profile purchases from other vendors, such as The Cloverfield Paradox and Mowgli: Legend of the Jungle, as well as several dumped onto the service with no warning or fanfare, such as this year’ s worst film, Blumhouse’s Seven in Heaven. Likely, Netflix had as little of an idea how to market the film as its initial owner Universal. It must be hard, after all, to know how to tell viewers what a film is about, when the film’s plotting is so aimless, its rules so arbitrary, its structure so faulty, that as the film rushes to its conclusion, the characters have a lengthy conversation trying to piece together what exactly mattered and what didn’t matter during their adventure. Seven in Heaven, as far as one can discern, sees two teens accidentally travel to a world where everyone follows their worst impulses. This alternate world is, of course, represented by the fact that everyone there is super into heavy metal and black clothing. This is, of course, to contrast with the normal world of non-worst impulses, where the wives in town collectively make a deck of pornographic playing cards for their husbands and then bond with their sons over them. The filmmaker’s worse impulse? Choosing to fill half of its run time cutting back from its central concept of alternate dimension mayhem for a plotline about partying teens waiting out the police that contains no horror elements or intrigue of any kind. It’s all underdeveloped, unbelievable, unagreeable, unmarketable. It’s impossible to make out what exactly they wanted Seven in Heaven to be.