House of Predictability.
I hate that I hate Paris Hilton. It makes me feel so pedestrian, like I should be downloading ring-tones or complaining about Spiderman casting. Clearly, her handlers are marketing her as the girl you love to hate, like a blonde Hitler but with stupider ideas, and nowhere is this more evident than in her much-publicized, gory House of Wax death scene. But I like to think that I hate her for different reasons than I’m meant to. It’s not because she’s rich. No, that’s obviously not her fault, since she has no marketable skills other than the ability to not vomit when someone shoots off on her breasts. And it’s not because she’s so beastly ugly she almost makes Nicole Ritchie look like she isn’t a shitzu that’s been punched in the mouth. It’s not because she’s dumb, or ditzy, or because she cocks her head in every picture like she just snapped her neck going down on a Backstreet Boy. It’s because she is single-handedly responsible for more bad jokes than Monica Lewinsky and Janet Jackson’s right tit combined. She goes on these stupid talk shows, knowing full well that the very next day, Jay Leno is going to ham his way through an opening monologue to the delight of only Kevin Eubanks and whatever retirement communities happen to catch the reruns on Comedy Central. Then, she writes a book, fully expecting that Tina Fey and David Spade will have a foot race to see who can come up with the same lame joke about how that’ll end up being the only book she’ll ever read. Comedians are like dogs. If you feed them shit, they’re going to eat it, and then everything they say’s going to stink.
Just like House of Wax, which is as inconsequential as teen horror movies come. It’s got no surprises, and nothing to say. It’s just a string of increasingly violent death scenes placed at mathematically determined intervals to allow for cell-phone conversations to run their course between murders. House of Wax is obviously created and marketed towards the 18-30 set, both in terms of age and IQ points, and if you’re expecting nothing else, you might be entertained. Personally, I fully accept and agree with feminist theoretician Carol Clover’s Final Girl Theory, as with other critics who view the male gaze and identification with the killer as tropes which align horror films with violent pornography, so I hated the film because seeing Paris Hilton in lingerie ruined my erection. Honestly, she looked like a bag of bones in a red ribbon, like someone gift-wrapped King Tut but gave him smaller breasts and a nose job. But then again, this wasn’t the first time she did something embarrassing on camera. And the fact that I had to make that last joke, ladies and gentlemen, is why I hate Paris Hilton.