I love about a third of Abe Forsythe’s zombie comedy Little Monsters. The middle act, from roughly the 25-minute mark to just shy of 60, blends horror and humor, heart and gore, in a way many movies that attempt such a synthesis fail to accomplish. It’s fun and gooey and delightful. While maybe not the freshest take on the undead, the image of Lupita Nyong’o in a bright yellow dress, beheading walking corpses with a shovel is enough to fill me with glee.
This first paragraph has little to do with the movie we’ll
be discussing today. We’ll get to that, but I have to get something off my
chest first. Multiple times walking out of Kenneth Branagh’s adaptation of
Murder on the Orient Express, which, admittedly, isn’t
great, I overheard people ask, “Have you heard of her before?” Her being AGATHA
FUCKING CHRISTIE. Only the most celebrated mystery writer of all fucking time.
Apologies, I needed to yell about that for a moment. I’m rage hyperventilating just
thinking about it. Onward.
