Family Values - FOUND (2012)

Some horror fans plainly describe Found (2012) as a coming-of-age movie where a 12-year-old boy finds that his older brother is a serial killer, however, I will forever object to that oversimplification. Let’s begin.

“My brother keeps a human head in his closet. Every few days it’s a new head. Usually, they are black women, but one time he had a white man’s head in there.” -Marty

Marty’s introduction to us was presented in voice-over form, in an eerily intimate tone, yet, in a calm and matter-of-fact manner. Yes, he might have been young but he seemed levelheaded for his age and, also yes, he might have known for a while about his brother’s crimes but he was clearly more concerned with not getting caught for going through his stuff without his permission, than by the fact that he was not reporting to the authorities the horrors of the murders. Marty might have been a perceptive and complicated boy, but he was still a curious one, mystified by his older brother, by his dark secrets, by his perverse power.

The older brother, Steve, flunked out of school but was allowed to stay home if he got a job and paid rent. Although the deal appeared straight-forward, things were not easy at home and arguments were the norm; from Steve’s isolating behavior being perceived as threatening, to his dad’s disapproving of his so called “menial” job at the factory. One way or the other, Steve seemed not to be fully welcomed there, even when he did what he was told and followed his parents house rules.

Both siblings had in common their love for horror movies and it was thanks to this shared passion they were able to maintain a somewhat normal relationship, even if it was a morbid one. The thing they did not have in common? Their attitude toward violence, you see, Marty was bullied at school and did not stand up for himself so, when he told Steve about it, he was instructed to fight back and not allow to be a victim, to what Marty confessed he was afraid of hitting back as the other kid was unfairly bigger than him and had no way of winning. Steve, somewhat frustrated, but clearly resigned about his little brother’s conundrum, reassured him not to worry about it anymore, as in, ever…

… and Marty’s suspicion—not fear, not panic, not regret for potentially having used his homicidal brother as a weapon against his bully, but indeed a suspicion—was soon proven to be correct. The evidence? His bully’s severed head inside Steve’s bowling ball bag. The unspoken agreement was done. Problem solved.

But was Marty really done with trouble? Was his quiet and shy disposition the perfect target for those unsavory characters surrounding him in his day-to-day life? From school, to church, to home? Was Marty ready to accept the fact that he had to, or rather, that he must stand up for himself just as Steve told him to repeatedly? There was only one way to find out, but in the meantime, he slowly tested his limits by sharing a glimpse of his macabre reality with his best friend, David.

And, suddenly, it happened. Marty fought back when provoked, spoke up when disrespected, shouted at when infuriated. But still being the kid that he was, his parents made sure to demand he behaved like the usual good little old Marty they trusted and loved. Marty did not appreciate that, and neither did Steve.

Steve, now kicked out by his parents for defending Marty’s recent violent misbehavior, had one more grievance to deal with them before leaving for good.

When Steve returned home in the middle of the night for the last time to square things off, he asked Marty for a favor: to stay out of his bedroom, Marty’s bedroom, that is, as he needed his bed for being the sturdier of the two. Marty at the beginning could not follow Steve’s request and was defiant, until he realized with shock and horror what Steve was planning to do so he threatened him with calling the police if he did not leave immediately. But Steve did not leave. And the parents were woken up by the commotion. And with that, their fate was prematurely sealed.

What happened next was the most vile, most disgusting turn of events for the parents. (Sidenote: Never had I ever felt so violated as a horror movie viewer. I had zero idea my sensitivities as a woman would be put to test with this film.) A mother being raped by her son, begging him to stop while he shouts in ecstasy that he loves it. A father being tied up on the other room, yelling that if he as much as lays a finger on his mother he would kill him. A son enjoying the very moment he allows his father to see with his own eyes what he did to his wife.

CUT TO:

The aftermath. The following day. Dawn. A still naked Steve, all covered in blood, barefoot, walking out of the home, unaware and unbothered, gone.

The home. The upstairs bedroom. Marty tied up on the bed, his dead parents’ blood splattered on his face and body, talking to himself in silence, calm and unbothered, gone.

“I look at mom and I look at dad, and they scream at me with their empty eyes. My mind wants to scream and kick and freak out, but I keep myself under control. If I lose it now, I might not come back for a long, long time. Stuff like this can really warp a person.” -Marty

10/10 do recommend for those of us with thick skin.

Now streaming on Tubi.

In Love and Fear,

—Marath

© 2016-2023

My Free Mexican Vacation — THE RUINS by Scott Smith

**BOOK SPOILERS AHEAD**

Something happened. Something spectacular. For four days, I was transported into the  Riviera Maya, on top of a pyramid in the jungle, observing—sometimes comfortably at a distance, sometimes not—the unlucky, unbelievable, terrifying, and, ultimately, tragic faith of four friends, Amy, Jeff, Stacy, and Eric, and their two international fellow travelers, Mathias and Pablo a.k.a. the German and the Greek. Yes. They might have been the ones written down on the pages of the 2006 horror novel The Ruins by Scott Smith, brought to life by the magic of prose, given exquisite, yet, short fictional lives, only to be tortured—physically and psychologically—by both supernatural hungry vines and a group of isolated indifferent Mayans. But me? Yes. I might have been the one reading those pages, taken the role of the real person with a pulse and a heartbeat, unassumingly doing more than just clenching the book with both hands, devouring their story, vanishing into their grim world, shockingly crossing an imaginary threshold and joining them… there. Joining them there.

Spectacular. Simply spectacular.

I must confess, it is difficult not to indulge in hyperbole when trying to express the magnitude of my newly found love for this book. The last time a novel made me feel this much was five years ago or so thanks to The Witching Hour by Anne Rice, but, unlike five years ago or so, this time I did not cry because of the sad ending. No. This time I was engulfed by a profound sense of dread. Of anger. Of injustice.

Before I move forward I would like to clarify that even though the novel left me feeling horribly when everything was said and done, I  was in constant awe of the author’s mastery in building such a believable group of people, of virtually tangible life and death situations, all inside a tropical Mexican paradise paired with two unlikely monsters: the Mayans and the vines, the former for being cruelly detached and for not offering a helping hand, and the latter for its murderous appetite. (Bravo, Mr. Smith, bravo.)

Now, instead of regurgitating a boring synopsis of the book, and in case you haven’t gotten the gist of the story yet, all I’ll say is this: The Ruins is about tourists being stranded at a secluded archeological site, while sadistically getting tormented by carnivorous plants as well as being held hostage by the land’s natives whose weapons of choice were arrows and a pistol.

All I want to mention about the main characters, all four American friends plus the German and the Greek, is that Amy reminded me a bit too much about myself and damn, I think I need to change a thing or two about my Type A personality because girl, take a Xanax, please! Stacy was the last one standing but chose to commit suicide (what? I warned you at the very beginning of this post about spoilers, did I not?) because she was so freaking scared of spending the night alone I mean giiiiiirl, what the actual f*ck!? Eric, Mathias, and Pablo were super cool and have nothing much to say about them, well, except that the way Eric sliced his entire skin off like a banana was, ahem, bananas! Bad for Eric, great for us, body horror enthusiasts. And yeah, I left the best for last, Jeff.

Jeff was my favorite character in the book and in the movie (that’s correct, they made a movie  in less than two years after the book’s release, if that doesn’t tell you that the book was amazing I don’t know what will), and was also the only one whose character stayed pretty much the same in both the book and the movie (everyone else was a mix-and-match). Jeff was the rock, the leader, always thinking about the present and the immediate future, always executing and delegating tasks to help the entire group. The group was his number one priority: shelter, water, food, repeat.

[Here is where I briefly take a pause and tell you that the last few dozen pages of The Ruins hurt me and I loved it (oh, to be human); I was astonished that I could feel so much for a fictional character, for someone who represented hope and strength. Let’s continue.]

On the third day, his last, at the very moment when his depleted body took over his thoughts and made him choose survival over logic, Jeff knew he was done. Self-doubt was his real enemy, not the vine, not the Mayans. Arrows to the neck and to the chest might have taken him down, vines might have dragged him back into the pyramid and eaten his face and body, but his fear of failing the group, of not taking the miraculous chance at running for help while  the sudden, heavy fog sheltered him from the Mayan’s view, of not taking the risk and later on regretting it? No, he would not allow himself that… 1, 2, 3, run… [pain, darkness, silence.]

“You really think that’s still her? You really think that has the slightest thing to do with Amy anymore? That’s an object now, Stacy. An it. Something without movement, without life.” —Jeff

In Love and Fear,

—Marath

P.S. Thoughts about The Ruins (2008)? It was a good film and still holds its own in 2023 but, in my personal opinion, the book is the one transporting you into the story, taking you into Mexico, into the Riviera Maya, and the movie is just what you watch during your flight there.

© 2016-2023

RE: True Crime

Well, this sucks. Today the unexpected happened and I am conflicted about it. Should I be relieved or saddened? Is this personal growth or self-censorship? Is my sudden change of attitude toward true crime content the start of something better? (Cannot tell if better is the correct word, different, yes, I prefer that, the start of something different.)

It all began a few weeks ago when I watched an analysis video by Pinely called The Broken Morality of True Crime Videos where he focused, to my amazement, on the ethics, or lack thereof, of treating true crime content as entertainment. Gulp.

So there I was, not only a true crime enthusiast who unabashedly consumed loads of graphic content on the regular basis (this now sounds so sad to me as I type it), but also a horror blogger whose ongoing body of work included five true crime posts. How am I supposed to feel after realizing I am part of the problem on both ends? The entertained and the entertainer? Double gulp.

My official introduction to the true crime genre as entertainment happened in 2020 when Netflix released a captivating docuseries about Aaron Hernandez; my ferocious curiosity on the tragic case left me looking for more information on the internet and on books and of course I found it (it being the answer as to why he did what he did… Netflix did not discuss that), and of course I wrote about Hernandez here on my blog as I was completely enthralled by the case.

So, the internet, right? A door was opened with Hernandez and I was all in, just like that.

From 2020 to 2022 I was part of the horde watching, reading, listening to, and writing about true crime... I do not know if I will continue doing that in 2023 and beyond, you see, that powerful video from Pinely really shook me to my core a few weeks ago and left me feeling uneasy, but today while at the gym, as if it could not get worse for me, I was visually bombarded by local, national, and overseas tragedies, as well as by two different crime investigations in progress (two!) via the multiple news channels blasting from the big tv sets placed in front of us runners—my goodness, what happened to gyms playing reruns of the latest basketball or football games?

The bigger problem was on my face now, I had felt it already, but I could really see it this time for what it was.

I have unsubscribed from yt channels, unfollowed podcasts, removed docuseries from my queue, and deleted books from my wishlist as the mere thought of me consuming more true crime content in the immediate and near future aggravates me.

The one single thing that makes me tolerate all of this is knowing that, while writing the five posts, I DID NOT treat with disrespect or indifference those affected by the events. I treated true crime with the heaviness and seriousness it always deserves.

So this is it, horror friend, thank you for reading this brief update for the blog, thank you for your time.

In Love and Fear,

—Marath

© 2016-2023