No film in the history of this website has wrought more word heat than Neil Marshall’s THE DESCENT.  Not even the scourge that was PROM NIGHT 2K8 comes close to how much hate I’ve poured unto the cave bound invalid.  Yet for some reason, this film, a film I’ve called on good days a “headache” and on bad days “soul crushing“, has become my white whale.  When the moons of Big Red align just right, a resistor some where deep in the logic circurity of my pink 3 lbs slips a few ohms and I think to mahself, “I should give THE DESCENT another try…” There is often a backup resistor, a vanguard in me of perpetual grudge to remind cognitive Pete that THE DESCENT is a cruel experience, but that trooper has to sleep too and thus nights like this find purchase.

It has been three years since I first took in THE DESCENT.  Tonight marked either the 4th or 5th instance since and I hope for my own self esteem it was the former.  Yet no matter how many calendars rise and fall between cursings, I just cannot see what other people see.  Those people, be they personal pals like Beau who loved it or Internet strangers like Weinberg who swear by it, are people whose opinions on film I typically trust implicitly.  Yet, I remain on a different page, blind and unreceptive to the mojo at large.