Shyamalan Owes Me Fourteen Bucks

My god, Night you owe me fourteen bucks. In this world where you could rip/stream/download movies for free, I chose to pay to watch your latest offering in the theater because I've believe in you, always. So much that I have to watch it the day it rolled out in the silver screen, honoring our patronatus relationship.

After the movie when there was a stunning black screen and your name came up, I actually spit in the cinema.

Yes, I'm furious. In this dumpster of a world where BS like Scary Movies can have a reception up to a quadrilogy, and the same public disease goes on to draw cretins into the likes of America Pies and monkey testicles and baby urine parodies all in all into a fist of neurotoxins detaching mankind's nervous systems with their ordinated higher intelligence, devolving them into the same generation of monkey testicles and baby urine, you have all the nerve to join them. You have purpose, a role in the levitation of cinematic greatness and our appreciation for intellect. You were supposed to be the beacon like the likes of your character - David Dunn, Lucius Hunt, Cleveland Heep or Graham Hess. To inspire and to challenge us. But you went ahead to grow a pussy.

What the fuck is HAPPENING to you?

The cast is all wrong. Wahlberg despite his years in Hollywood learnt nothing about acting at all. Deschanel is plain painful to watch. I can't believe you get all these mumbling douchbags to suceed Giamatti, Phoneix, Gibson, Osment, Willis and Jackson. The only one good actor Leguizamo you have him kill barely twenty minutes into the film.

Where are all your Chehkov's guns, your third act twists, your deus ex machina? And where the fuck are you anyway? Just because critics booed you for taking too much screen time in Lady In The Water, you hid like a pussy?

When first I heard about the plot about neurotoxins and how the movie was rated R for its horror, I applauded. There were so much room for imagination, chaos and horror. People nowhere to run. Death! Despair! Destruction! It turns out to be an appalling lifeless ripoff of The Mist.

Bro, you owe me fourteen bucks. And more of it, you owe me an artistic responsibility and my faith in modern film making.

Go back to Guantanamo. You lazy son of a bitch.