It's official -- Wes Craven is now an ex-horror movie maestro. Of course, some would argue that ever since he traded commercial appeal (the Scream films) for good old fashioned terror (see everything he did prior to the '90s) and whored out his classics as remake fodder, he's been a dread nonentity. Well, nothing confirms this more effectively than the weak willed waste of time known as My Soul to Take. Had this nonsensical drivel been directed by anyone else, few in the fright film fanbase would care. But with Craven behind the lens (and responsible for the ridiculous script as well), it's a reason for any dedicated genre lover to grieve.
Sixteen years prior, a schizophrenic serial killer called "The Riverton Ripper" disappeared after killing his pregnant wife. That same night, seven "special" children were born. Now, Bug (Max Thieriot) and his stock character stereotype pals (athlete, conservative, class clown, bully, etc.) are in high school and soon become the talk of their little town when, on the anniversary of the psycho's demise, they start dying off one by one. At first, there's some mumbo jumbo about the kids being "possessed" by the soul of the Ripper. But Bug soon becomes the prime suspect when it looks like a secret from his past may make him closer to the murderer than anyone thinks.
If terror were talking -- incessant talking -- My Soul To Take would definitely be the most frightening film of all time. It's not too smart for its own good, it's over-plotted to the point of being atrocious. In the past, Craven was known for being brutal, letting his dark vision taint his otherwise inventive scares. But after a trio of Scream films (and a fourth one on the way, don't you worry...), it seems like Freddy Krueger's founder has decided to severely "lighten" his approach. There 's nothing very scary in My Soul to Take, the lack of suspense as obvious as the cast's inability to act. Even worse, Craven can't even cook up any decent bloodletting, the slasher element quickly dispatched by MPAA mandated editorial decisions.
But it's worse than that. My Soul To Take is the most awful kind of entertainment exploitation in that everything is set up to abuse the audience, not the characters. The imposition of 3D (yes, this is another one of those movies, like Clash of the Titans and The Last Airbender, where the visual gimmick was a late in production afterthought, not part of the original design) is only here to increase ticket prices and eye strain. Craven's name is supposed to guarantee dread, but it only provides incessant stupidity. Even the Ripper is a pointless red herring, a narrative plot point reinvented at will for any given moment in the movie. At least the bastard child of a thousand maniacs had the dream world as his reason for lapses in logic. My Soul to Take only its creator to blame.
Perhaps, as he reaches the twilight of his years, Craven has lost the knack for nastiness. Maybe he no longer knows what honestly frightens people. Clearly, he's incapable of crafting a coherent storyline, and the whole "soul shifting" angle is intriguing , if utterly underutilized. In many ways, My Soul to Take is like a sleek and slick carnival sideshow. The name on the marquee and the promise of what lies inside is enough to get your nerves frayed and your spine tingling. Unfortunately, once you walk through the theatrical tent flaps and see the paltry collection of cinematic crap on display, you recognize the ruse -- and by then, it's too late. The same applies to Wes Craven's career as well.
Sixteen years prior, a schizophrenic serial killer called "The Riverton Ripper" disappeared after killing his pregnant wife. That same night, seven "special" children were born. Now, Bug (Max Thieriot) and his stock character stereotype pals (athlete, conservative, class clown, bully, etc.) are in high school and soon become the talk of their little town when, on the anniversary of the psycho's demise, they start dying off one by one. At first, there's some mumbo jumbo about the kids being "possessed" by the soul of the Ripper. But Bug soon becomes the prime suspect when it looks like a secret from his past may make him closer to the murderer than anyone thinks.
If terror were talking -- incessant talking -- My Soul To Take would definitely be the most frightening film of all time. It's not too smart for its own good, it's over-plotted to the point of being atrocious. In the past, Craven was known for being brutal, letting his dark vision taint his otherwise inventive scares. But after a trio of Scream films (and a fourth one on the way, don't you worry...), it seems like Freddy Krueger's founder has decided to severely "lighten" his approach. There 's nothing very scary in My Soul to Take, the lack of suspense as obvious as the cast's inability to act. Even worse, Craven can't even cook up any decent bloodletting, the slasher element quickly dispatched by MPAA mandated editorial decisions.
But it's worse than that. My Soul To Take is the most awful kind of entertainment exploitation in that everything is set up to abuse the audience, not the characters. The imposition of 3D (yes, this is another one of those movies, like Clash of the Titans and The Last Airbender, where the visual gimmick was a late in production afterthought, not part of the original design) is only here to increase ticket prices and eye strain. Craven's name is supposed to guarantee dread, but it only provides incessant stupidity. Even the Ripper is a pointless red herring, a narrative plot point reinvented at will for any given moment in the movie. At least the bastard child of a thousand maniacs had the dream world as his reason for lapses in logic. My Soul to Take only its creator to blame.
Perhaps, as he reaches the twilight of his years, Craven has lost the knack for nastiness. Maybe he no longer knows what honestly frightens people. Clearly, he's incapable of crafting a coherent storyline, and the whole "soul shifting" angle is intriguing , if utterly underutilized. In many ways, My Soul to Take is like a sleek and slick carnival sideshow. The name on the marquee and the promise of what lies inside is enough to get your nerves frayed and your spine tingling. Unfortunately, once you walk through the theatrical tent flaps and see the paltry collection of cinematic crap on display, you recognize the ruse -- and by then, it's too late. The same applies to Wes Craven's career as well.
