Why Assume Benevolence from the Dead?

I got excited for the new Doctor Strange 2 trailer, which sees the return of director Sam Raimi to a Marvel property since he directed Tobey McGuire's Spider-Man trilogy. But Doctor Strange 2 likely reminds Raimi fans more of the older trilogy that made Raimi's name in the business, the Evil Dead trilogy. So, since I still have the HBOMax subscription for now, I watched my favourite of the three, Evil Dead 2, last night.

Many have tried and failed to imitate this film's perfect combination of camp and horror. Somehow the cackling deer head and Bruce Campbell's bulging eyes in wide angle shots don't come off entirely like Looney Tunes. The fact that he's in constant terror helps. That's what I love about the first two Evil Dead films. The sense of threat never relents because the evil spirits don't seem to be bound by any consistent rules whatsoever. That's this kind of thing that would break a horror movie 99 times out of 100. But with Evil Dead 2, Raimi maintained a balancing act. This invisible beast could possess anyone at any time, it could kill without effort or be apparently trapped in the basement. It could be stuck in the woods, it could control the entire house, it could be defeated by daylight or maybe not.

Instead of just seeming arbitrary and meaningless, instead the world depicted feels like madness turned inside out. Ash is a victim of a reality that inflicts constant psychological torture. If Doctor Strange 2 is half as good as this, we're in for a treat.

I sure wish something could be done about the sound quality, though. The movie sounds like it was recorded through a wool sock.

Twitter Sonnet #1523

The tangled tick revived a watching tree.
A willow winked its dangled lashes slow.
Advise the babe, the shaded oak can see.
The waiting eight to eighty swiftly grow.
The curling black ascending smoke connects.
Directing calls, the coal conducts the rail.
Electric cords ignite collected texts.
A foggy depth misled the anxious whale.
The scattered pages chant a tale of death.
The lawless train invites a string of ghosts.
Reflexive gasps would squander precious breath.
Behind the cab'net, barrels turned the roast.
A trait'rous hand returns from bloody walls.
The stuffing laughs and boney darkness falls.