While I was stuck in Hellhole, Virginia last week, I decided to kill and hour and a half watching “Alien Vs. Predator.”
Yes, I know, I know, that’s time out of my life that I’ll never get back. But bear with me.
As it turned out, I only spent about an hour viewing “AVP,” since Fandango was half an hour off on the showtime, and the girl at the window didn’t tell me the movie had long-since started when I bought my ticket.
Turns out, that mistake was the best move I made all day. I walked into the flick just after what was apparently many, many minutes of mind-numbing exposition (c’mon, why bother–it’s an expoitative monster movie made for no reason other than some Hollywood yahoo figuring it would pay off in the DVD market), and just before the action got started.
I didn’t miss the preliminaries one bit. I didn’t need to know why the heck these cardboard characters were exploring a mysterious 1,000 foot hole that’d been suddenly cut in the Antarctic ice–I knew why they were there before I bought the ticket. They were there to be Alien Chow! Next!
Okay, “AVP” is a deeply silly movie, combining (among other things), Erich von D