I finally saw Cloverfield with Linda and Ashley. I have been waiting for this movie since it was called 1.18.08, which in retrospect was a great title for films that only tell when the hell you’ll know what it’s about when you don’t know what the hell it’s about.
A sign taped to the ticket window warned customers that some people feel sick while watching the movie, that the sensation was similar to a roller coaster. The teens in front of me were high-fiving each other because how whoah, awesometacular dude! The movie started out with the familiar-Blair-Witch-Project-shake and captured what happens if a monster totally screws up your going-away party.
I bought a large popcorn and several times I thought, “Should I eat more popcorn to settle my stomach, or should I dump out the bag so I can rolf into it?” I scanned the room to see if anyone else was riding the upchuck waves. I figured I was the only pansy since I’m so tummy-sensitive, I can’t even read an Archie comic if the car is in motion.
Despite the Parkinson’s-camera-perspective, I highly recommend this movie if you need a dose of New York City monster terror, especially since this flick shows that Manhattan has no unattractive people and living there guarantees you to have more than five hot and hip peeps attend your farewell soiree. I’m so glad I live in Seattle, where no monsters rise and topple buildings and the only mass confusion you’ll find is at the Starbucks pick-up counter where the barista has once again written “Nona” on my white chocolate mocha.