An Effing F for 'F' (UK, 2010: Johannes Roberts)

Not since the mind corrosion of Aliens vs Predator have I been so roundly offended by a movie. F is a British stalk and slash horror, that is pretty much 80 minutes of shuffling into plot cul-de-sacs. Quite impressive for a film that has a plot so minimal that Brian Eno would be proud of it. Teacher gets assaulted by student, and is blamed for provoking him. Eleven months later, said teacher, broken due to the aforementioned incident, holds his student daughter from his now failed marriage in  after hours detention. The school comes under attack by hooded youths, uncannily agile and murderous. They pick off staff and students alike and bore and irritate with their faceless unhorror (a word worth coining). It is as though someone has handed a 13 year old boy some tippex, a pen and the script for Assault on Precinct 13.

I must have been inebriated when this somehow got on my Lovefilm list

The fact that the first half hour made such a big thing of this teacher, Mr Anderson, being so close to breaking point gave me some anticipation that at some point he would go absolutely berserk and smash each and every one of these hooded idiots into a bloody pulp. He doesn't. I also figured that, however spuriously, they would link the attack on Mr Anderson at the beginning to the events that occur throughout the rest of the film. They didn't. And for the gore hounds, in what is at times a fairly graphic affair, you want to see some killing. Well you don't. All you see is the aftermath. As grisly as that can be, the bulk of the pleasure derived from the stalk and slash film is that comedy shock horror that comes with seeing an imaginative and unceremonious death. The arrowhead through Bacons neck in Friday the 13th, getting stuck in the garage door cat flap in Scream. Classic deaths made famous by their execution not their aftermath.

Can I go back to Hollyoaks now?

I've apologised to my eyes for subjecting them to F several times since last night, and explained to them that they only had to see F and convey the images to my brain, which ultimately deciphers that pollution and holds those bad memories in storage for me to suffer until someone like Paul W.S Anderson comes along and makes something even worse. My vision is still blurred, which suggests they don't trust me right now. Right time to put 2001: A Space Odyssey on, and regain my own optical trust.