Four of Them

My Dears,

A great thing once said: "Mama knows, child." And this is true. Mama does know. And so do I.

For years, you've felt scourged. Cast out. Abandoned by your saviors before you were even born, left to cling to the past properties for which you once thrived. Star Wars fanfiction, deviantART sketches of Uhura and Scully doing The Biz. You've been lonely. You've been left dry.

Presenting: Sucker Punch.

Hot chicks who put fetchingly, one who could genuinely kick your ass, one who could maybe help, one with a bitchin' haircut (okay, the same one), one with a Lolita sense of attire, one with awkward crossover appeal, one who stands around and, I don't know, flies airplanes in giant Tamagatchis. Trench warfare, WWI, army jets vs. airplanes, ninjas, samurais, zombie Nazis, a train populated entirely by robot coppers, machine guns, brothels, sexay outfits, swords, vaguely Polish doctors/madams, wooden dialogue, big anime eyes.

I don't give you Sucker Punch. Your mamas don't give you Sucker Punch. Zack Snyder (or what's his name?) doesn't even give you Sucker Punch. No. The mechanic entrails of R2D2 gives you Sucker Punch. Batman's spare brass ball gives you Sucker Punch. The dearly departed ghost of Tura Satana, everything you've ever looked at and said 'cool' at, they have given you Sucker Punch.

Here, you are given a movie made by you, for you, disregarding all but you. This, in short, is for you. FOR YOU!

Sincerely, I

PS This is not to go unrewarded, boys. Gather some pretty blockheads and the tightest pants you can find. You've got a fangirl movie to shoot.

PSS A real review when I feel like it.