You're the best of all of us, Miles.

When I say I hate kids, clearly I don't mean hate them hate them, but like anyone approaching the end of my fourth decade on this planet, being young ain't exactly in my wheelhouse anymore. I look at all aspects of my own youth and when I find something comparable today, I can't help but recoil and immediately trudge away in the opposite direction.

The new version, of just about everything, absolutely sucks. But what pisses me off even more?

Is when it doesn't.

You don't even know how hard I want to shake my (wrinkled) fist at the absolute greatness that is Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse. Not only is it quite possibly the best superhero film of the year, there's a good chance it's the best thing I've seen a very long time. My apologies to Toby, Andrew and even the new guy, Tom. But in the race to be the best Spider-Man, you were all beaten by Miles.

Miles Morales is a good kid from the around the way. He's just gotten into a top-shelf boarding school, met a cool girl in science class, and it's pretty clear that expectations are high. And if that ain't enough to deal with, after some epic tagging with his uncle, this kid goes and gets himself bitten by a radioactive spider.

While that story seems beyond familiar, well, it's because it is. Very familiar, in fact. Turns out Miles is just one of many Spider, er, people... as each of the many known universes has their own web-slinging hero. For reasons initially unknown, portals have been opening up all over New York City, and, well, the gang's all here. 

You never get used to the smell.

Ghosts? I get ghosts. Not really alive, just kind of hanging around where they used to live, maybe even being the occasional dick - this makes sense to me. Ghosts...*checks clipboard* welcome aboard.

Monsters - these f--kers rule, too. Hey, you're an friendless abomination, probably hungry as f--k, so it's totally logical that you're killing and devouring everything in sight. What else are you supposed to do - rely on the kindness of strangers? You're a f--king monster. Ain't nobody giving you shit, outside of a bullet between the eyes or a pitchfork up the ass. Go ahead and eat a kid, Monster. F--k it, we can make more of 'em - like that.

But Demons? Man, f--k you pricks right in your upside-down asses. First, you're getting people's religion involved, and murderous f--kwad or not, that shit's just rude. On top of that, you're crass, prone to pissing, shitting and vomiting wherever it suits you, and just generally a bummer to be around. Oh, and a special f--k you to ruining nudity, too, as no one wants to see every curve of your goddamned pelvis. 

And all that's before you start crawling around the floor like a coked-up asshole.

Anybody out there making the argument that 2018 was a great year for horror should grab the nearest crucifix and thrust it repeatedly at The Possession of Hannah Grace. Dumped into theaters unceremoniously a few weeks back, it wasn't Christ that compelled me to catch this janky mess on the big screen, it was Venom. But more on that in a bit.

The Possession of Hannah Grace opens exactly like you would expect it to, mid-exorcism, where a nasty demon has taken control of, you guessed it, a young white woman. Her dad is nearby, and when things head south, he smothers her like a stack of pancakes, assuming instead of syrup, you cover your pancakes with a pillow. Violently.

Cut to three months later, and all of a sudden we're balls-deep in some sexy lady's quarter-life crisis. Apparently she's an ex-cop determined to trade in her metaphorical demons for literal ones. Turns out, there are no other jobs available outside of graveyard shift at the world's most poorly-lit morgue, so even fine-ass Megan Reed  (Shay Mitchell, probably from a show I've never watched) takes the gig. I mean, this is Boston, so it's either schlepping the corpses of dead hobos about or the night shift at a Dunkin' Donuts in Saugus. Either way, for someone prone to wicked flashbacks, this new situation ain't exactly ideal.

Sweet mother of monkey milk.

When we moved to Hawai'i back in the late eighties, the hotel that hired my dad also, perhaps obviously, hired a ton of other people, too. I guess you need more than just one pastry chef to open a 1,200 room hotel. Who knew?

Anyway, the condos we lived in? Well, it seemed like everybody was pretty much in the same boat: new transplants from all over, navigating the move to paradise from wherever the heck they were from prior. A couple of units down, were the Hay brothers - Dustin and Jared. They were from California, and their parents were hired to be the flippin' dolphin trainers of all things.

Though both a little bit older than I was, they would quickly become my best friends. Just not for forever.

While the Hays and I would remain friends for only a couple of years, it would appear that Ralph and Venellope are still going strong in Ralph Breaks the Internet, the follow up to the wildly successful 2012 original [review]. Despite the title conjuring images of sites that won't load (or the N in Netscape refusing to pulse), this clever sequel instead finds the giant-fisted goofball wrecking (and ralphing on) the thing he cares about most: his friendship.

After some unfortunate little girl wrecks their Sugar Rush cabinet (mostly because of Ralph's attempt to appease Vanellope), the racing game is unplugged and destined for the scrap yard. In order to save their home, Ralph and Venellope are going to need a new steering wheel. Turns out, there's one left...but it's only available on something known as eBay. So of course they do what any of us do when we need something: they head to the internet.

Seeing the world wide web brought to life in a Pixar film (as opposed to in something like The Emoji Movie [review], clearly the work of Satan) is something probably everyone should do, as it's equal parts amazingly adorable and impossibly clever. Like much of their previous work, Ralph Breaks the Internet walks that balance between being for kids and (or?) adults, and the cyberspace setting compliments that aspect even further. My kids got just as much joy out of seeing the little Twitter birds fly by as I did...though I'm not sure that's something I should say out loud.

I couldn't go back.

With six and a half days off staring me in the face, anything was possible. I had forty minutes to pack up, say goodbye to my co-workers, and travel exactly thirty-two miles. The last third of this jaunt being typically stop-and-go. It was going to be close, sure, but I would not be denied. 

And when Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross' version of Immigrant Song came on the radio, it felt like divine intervention. The traffic seemed to part right in front of me, and the lights were the greenest of greens. I was going to make it.

Shocking no one, I was headed to the movies. To catch an afternoon matinee. Alone.

And I couldn't have been happier.

Even in the best of moods, I found it damn near impossible to consistently enjoy Fede Alvarez' The Girl in the Spider's Web. Bereft of the insane hype that smothered Fincher's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo back in 2011, this second film in the Lisbeth Salander series still manages to somehow disappoint. Sure, there are some cool moments, and Foy's turn/performance as Salander is (fairly and surprisingly) rad, but what once felt like a sordid tale that could actually happen, feels now like the Swedish Hallmark Channel's woebegone remake of 9Fast9Furious. You know, assuming that's a thing...

For a minute or two (aka, the time I still have popcorn to eat), things we're looking good. Lisbeth, looking like a mash-up of Scarlett Johanson in Ghost in the Shell and The Crow, breaks into into a house to taze some wife-beater in the gooey bag. Cut to her and her giant girlfriend, scissoring each other to some ill trip-hop beats. Or maybe I imagined that...

Anyway, Lisbeth is hired to hack some top secret government system that allows users access to, get this, launch nuclear weapons from anywhere in the world. What? No way. You never hear about nuclear launch codes in movies! And in another shocking turn of events, after she gets in and downloads the file, everything goes tits up. The United States sends someone to find her while the Swedish government is simultaneously all up in her shit. But even worse? Also patiently waiting in line to f--k over Lisbeth, is some unruly f--ker known as Her Past. 

I don't require a vouch.

Because my wife's business is life insurance, I'm routinely strong-armed into making sure I have enough coverage in the event I die tragically, like in a fire, or before the end of a good movie. 

When I (jokingly?) tell her that she should just remarry immediately and not worry about the money, she makes this face suggesting this isn't a f--king joke you moron, we have kids and you can't leave them both fatherless and penniless, so stop being a moderately-clever asshole and grow the f--k up and be responsible for once in your pathetic life. 

Seriously, it's quite the look. 

But, I get it. I do. It's bad enough she'd have to deal with the sudden loss of her husband, and the last thing I'd want her to have to worry about would be money. Or the wives of the people I worked with. And their families. Or Chicago's corrupt political system, where nepotism and systemic racism run rampant.

At least she'd have our dog.

(I've always hated it when the names and faces don't line up)

Widows is too good a film, and Hell, too utterly f--king relentless to toss around a phrase like it's a slow burn, but I don't get paid for this shit, so go ahead and put that cliche in your pipe and smoke it. Slowly.

See, as I strolled out of the theater that day (with my lovely wife, no less), I simply wasn't wowed like I expected to be. It was good, sure, but it felt a bit like that mountain climber game on The Price is Right: all build up and a quick, not entirely satisfying ending. I know, I know, saying this film is anything but brilliant is sacrilege (at least on Film Twitter) so I should probably yodel my way off a f--king cliff immediately. But can I at least keep the waffle maker?

Unless you've repeatedly read the title as Windows, it shouldn't surprise you that this film tells the tale of four women (eh, let's go with three) coping with the sudden and violent deaths of their crooked husbands. And it wasn't just their dicks or their noses either, as these dudes were balls-deep in all sorts of illegal shit. While their charred corpses can be buried, it turns our their problems can't. 

Well, at least not at first.

He didn't steal Christmas. He stole stuff.

I'l let you in on a little secret: I hate the Fourth of July. The fireworks are the main culprit (how are adults still impressed by this?) with a dash of the absurdity of celebrating the current United States in there too. Also, and this is a bitter teacher talking, because the day signals the beginning of the end. Of summer. The back-to-school sales will start soon, and the carefree nature of June has officially given way to the impending doom of August.

But all the other holidays? Nothing but love from me. Fine, Valentine's Day I could take or leave, and New Year's Eve ain't ever been my scene, but Halloween? Thanksgiving? I couldn't enjoy them more.

And Christmas? Goodness. I mean, everyone loves Christmas.

Even the Grinch.

Violet liked my idea of sprinting by the poster, instead of posing like a normal kid.

Yep, in The Grinch, brought to us by the good (but never truly great) folks at Illumination, even that salty green curmudgeon doesn't seem to outright loathe the holiday like he once did. Nah, this time, as voiced by Benedict Cumberbatch, ol' Grinchy seems more generally irritated with Christmas versus his borderline psychotic let's burn this mutha to the ground stance seen in previous outings.

But, hey - what are we gonna do, cancel Halloween?

We've all heard that right before you die - your whole life flashes before your eyes. Or, according to movies, the easily-decipherable important bits do. Your wedding. The birth of your children. Your spouse telling you they love you. It's all rather romantic, isn't it? I mean, who'd want to see a montage of all the times you wiped your ass?

Whether it's your little brother stabbing you while you toplessly comb your hair, or a kitchen knife through the back of your throat from a silent stranger dressed like a garbage man, one way or another, that highlight reel is cued up and ready to go.

All you gotta do is die!

Because I wanted to finally rejoin (film?) society and see the new Halloween movie (on opening night, no less), it would only make sense to revisit the old one beforehand. As in, immediately beforehand. So, within the space of half an hour, my wife and I (both of born in 1979), finished the 1978 original, then dashed across town to the theater to catch the 2018 sequel.

So, just like that, our entire lives had flown by. Four decades, gone. And when we came to, everything had changed. We were alive and very old, and more pressing, Jamie Lee Curtis' hair was no longer feathered.

After slogging our way through the deliberately-paced original, with my wife side-eyeing me the whole time (this is a classic? This?), it's safe to say that we both enjoyed the latest sequel infinitely more. While not much has changed for Laurie Strode, the pace and intensity of horror films, thankfully, has. Yes, this beauty versus the beast setup is a tale as old as time, sure, but now it's more visceral and exciting. Mikey is still as quiet and pissed off as ever. Bus transfers at the prison are still scoring needs improvement on Survey Monkey. And when Love It or List it comes to Haddonfield, Illinois, I don't give a shit how nice that new kitchen looks - you f--king list it, goddamn it. 

It's the burning rain of death!

The Halloween of 1993 was probably the last time I went trick-or-treating. I think.

I would have been fourteen (and a high school freshman), so I might be a year off, but for the sake of this post (and the fact that it doesn't matter in the least), let's just go with it.

I wore a San Jose Sharks jersey (um, it was '93 - the Sharks teal road jersey was issued to wannabe a-holes by the federal government) and a glow-in-the-dark Jason Voorhees mask. If it had come in a package, once could assume it would have been titled murderous hockey player and/or timid dickbag desperate for Skittles. Either way, I knew right away, from the slight frowns of the candy-givers, that I had made a huge mistake. Simply put?

I was too old to be participating in this annual tradition. 

Which brings us to Hocus Pocus, yet another Halloween-related activity that I shouldn't have partaken in. You'd think I'd have learned something in the ensuing quarter century since 1993, but here I am, still ruining a perfectly good holiday with a bad decision.

In my defense, at least this time I wasn't an awkward virgin, knocking my sweaty hands on the doors of my apathetic Hawaiian neighbors. Instead, I was an awkward adult, gathering my children around the television, insisting they watch this 'classic' with me and my wife. I'm emphasizing they're mine, my kids, just so we can be clear that unlike that kid back in 1993, the 2018 model of m.brown has had sex. More than once, in fact.

Blogger Guy, what the f--k? No one needs to know all that. Oh, but they do Italicized Voice of Reason, because in a silly kids' movie about Halloween, whether or not the main character has ever gone for a ride on the wild bologna pony is paramount. Trust me - it matters. So much so, in fact, we should probably talk about his virginity as much as possible. Just so the little ones can really understand that having sex is like, super important, if witches be all up in your shit.

What is wrong with me?

Honestly, I liked it better the first time.
In June.
When it was called Upgrade.
And I wasn't a miserable prick.

Even though the, uh, modifications weren't as cool, and the voice in his head wasn't as routinely hysterical, I had a better time with Leigh Whannell's flick. The violence was more visceral and the love interest was more, well...lovelier.

Hell, even if the Tom Hardy wasn't actually Tom Hardy, for whatever reason, I still had more fun with Upgrade [review] than I did with its cinematic cousin...

...Venom. Even if early word (at the time) had suggested it was a hot mess, I still went in hoping Sony's latest Marvel flick would defy odds and kick so much ass.

But as the audience around me seemed to be enjoying themselves more and more (including my sister, an enthusiastic moviegoer, to say the least), I felt myself drifting in the opposite direction. This is what you guys came to see? This? People were damned near falling out of their seats they were laughing so hard, and even more bewildering, it wasn't at the movie, but with it.

All I can think of at this point, is that I'm incapable of joy, because this Venom flick, while being thankfully Topher-free, rubbed me the wrong way. Tom Hardy is great in everything, so despite his performance being the best part of Ruben Fleischer's latest (dude did Zombieland and Gangster Squad), he's also why I was so let down.

See, once Hardy was announced as Eddie Brock, it only seemed logical that this new version of Venom would be a hard-R, impossibly creepy look at the famous villain/anti-hero. I imagined something along the lines of what Heath Ledger (and Nolan) did with the Joker in The Dark Knight, and began to count the days until Venom hit theaters. Hardy is going to literally eat someone.