The Conjuring 1 & 2

 

I was planning on watching the 3rd Conjuring movie, and since it's been so long since I saw the first two, I figured I'd rewatch them before diving into the new one.

I saw The Conjuring when it first came out, but for whatever reason, I couldn't remember that much about it. The little I did remember was more along the lines of how hot Patrick Wilson looked in those form fitting pants. Last night I turned off all the lights, got comfy on the couch with a blanket, pulled up Netflix, and pressed play. I tried not to think about what I was watching, and I did everything I could to get lost in the tale. I quickly realized why I didn't remember much about it the first time around the track, it just never sunk its teeth into me. On paper, I should love it. Haunted houses are my jam. I can even objectively say it's an okay movie, just maybe not for me. I did relish the sight of Patrick's ass. Big bonus.

I wasn't deterred though. I vowed to emulate Don Quixote, and finish my quest. I just decided to go to sleep first. I also ranted on Facebook this morning, went to Dillard's to buy a few shirts, stopped in at Walmart for a few toiletries, and ate a cookie at Barnes & Noble. Once I was back home, I was resolved to keep fighting those windmills. So once again I turned off all the lights, got comfy in bed, pulled up Netflix on my tablet (thinking a more intimate view might help), and pressed play on The Conjuring 2. After the whole opening segment had run its course, I realized I had in fact never bothered to watch this one. I was actually a bit relieved. I figured since I would have absolutely no memory of it, I would probably get lost in the story easier, and I would perhaps like it more. After the first 20-40 minutes, I was sure that was going to be the case. I found myself so engrossed with what was happening to this family, that my heart was doing joyful cartwheels. Then the television crew interviewed the family, and it was filmed so oddly, that it pulled me right out of the story. And it was downhill after that.

Even with my lackluster experience, I don't consider it a waste of time. Watching the two movies back to back helped me to figure out why I seem to end up so disconnected from what I'm watching. And as much as I love Patrick Wilson's ass, I'm going to have to blame the Warrens for my ho-hum reaction. It's not as if Patrick and Vera Farmiga are turning in bad performances. They are actually quite brilliant in their roles. It's more as if I'm completely disinterested in their characters. When the families, of both movies, are the focus, I'm fully immersed in their struggles and fear. When the focus shifts to the Warrens, I start thinking about fatbergs and what book I'm going to read next.  It's like I'm watching two different movies, either of which I would enjoy, but the  combination of the two just leaves me feeling disjointed and confused. I really wish they were more like Elise in the first Insidious movie or Tangina in Poltergesit, essential to the story, but not the fulcrum the action relies upon. The Warrens are the Hercule Poirot of horror.

I'm still probably going to watch the new one, especially since it has a different director. I'm just not expecting all that much.

For the record, fatberg is not a typo. Google it if you don't believe me.

Why Pride Can Never Lose It's Protest History

Gabriel Fernandez, 8 years old

Ronnie Parris, 3 years old

Anthony Avalos, 10 years old

Giovanni Melton, 14 years old

Itaberli Lozano, 17 years old

Alireza “Ali” Fazeli Monfared, 20 years old

Amir Issa, 38 years old

And every single other LGBTQ+ child who has been brutally murdered by their own family, either for their sexuality or perceived sexuality. 

Leelah Alcorn, 17 years old

Jamel Myles, 9 years old

Justin Aaberg, 15 years old

Andrew Leach, 12 years old

Jadin Bell, 15 years old

Nigel Shelby, 15 years old

Channing Smith, 16 years old

Tyler Clementi, 18 years old

Avinshu Patel, 19 years old

And every single other LGBTQ+ child who has taken their own life due to bullying and self hatred instilled by our cishet culture. 

Matthew Sheppard, 21 years old

Charles Howard, 23 years old

Reecey Walker, 32 years old

David P., 42 years old

Sophie Váquez, 36 years old

Harvey Milk, 48 years old

Brandon Teena, 21 years old

Scott Johnson, 27 years old

Billy Jack Gaither, 39 years old

Bree Black, 27 years old 

And every other LGBTQ+ person who has been brutally killed for living their life.

For every LGBTQ+ child who has died on the streets, scared and alone. For every one of our youth who had to turn to selling their bodies to eat, who got hooked on drugs to numb the pain, who was beaten by a John, or died from hunger or disease, while laying in an alley.

The countless LGBTQ+ lives we have lost, both famous and not, during the early years of the HIV/AIDS crisis, as our government sat back and watched us die. For the countless LGBTQ+ lives we have lost since then to this virus, who are continously let down, time and time again.

As long as we are dying, Pride can never be allowed to be just a party. It has to remain a protest movement, or we will have let them defeat us.