You’re Next


Randomly at work a week or two back, a coworker who also loves horror movies threw out, “If you were planning on watching You’re Next, skip it, it completely sucked.” Now, don’t get the impression that I think that everyone on the planet is going to adore every movie that I love. But You’re Next just seemed so … slick and on point and riddled with black humor, I was thrown that he wasn’t sold.

You’re Next starts with — from a woman’s standpoint — perhaps the saddest, shortest sex scene that I have seen in a movie. The look of bored resignation on the woman’s face was almost laughable. Post-lackluster-coitus, the man enters the shower and the woman throws a CD on repeat and welcome to the song that you are going to have playing in your head for the foreseeable future.

The meat of the movie surrounds four adult children, with their spouses and +1s,¬†joining their parents for their 35th anniversary at their vacation home located somewhere WASP-y and East Coast-ish. My favorite point in my second veiwing at home with my horror-loving friends was watching everyone squirm during the family’s dinner/conversational gouging. Gore we can handle, that family’s dysfunction less so. The first death is almost a relief because it makes them stop needling each other.


You think this is going to be a typical home invasion but it just really turns your expectations on their ear. I remember getting so upset that its promotion seemed to give a horrible misrepresentation of what the movie was. Sharni Vinson as Erin is the most amazing ass-kicking woman that I have ever had the joy to see on the movie screen. The comedy is as black as tar, the action is leap-out-of-your-seat cheer-inducing, and it is just an epically fun ride.

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