Making Martyrs Of All of Us

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If the Cabin Fever remake is, as I just reviewed it to be, a dulled down rehashing with some extra innards sprinkled on top, the brand new Martyrs remake is what you'd get if you asked a five year old who doesn't understand Latin to open up his or her box of Crayolas and draw us a real cute picture of what the Gutenberg Bible says, but while they're sitting inside of a washing machine. 

If you skinned me alive and then handed me my flayed skin and asked me to do an interpretive Dance of the Seven Veils -- again, with my own flayed skin flapping around in my fingertips -- I would give you something better to look at then this thing.

I want you to, for a moment, picture yourself as the person who in 2012 first saw the Ecce Homo fresco of Jesus that that old Spanish woman tried to restore, making Jesus' face hilariously, horribly pancake-like. I want you to imagine what a swoop of the gut that sensation was, for that person - butterflies and nausea rushing over them as the full scope of the epic fail surrounded and swarmed, bleating in their ears like sickened seagulls.

Picture all of that and know less offense 

than I felt looking at this, this thing.

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