Holy crap! Holy crap! Holy crap! "Final Destination" will soon be a trilogy—joining such classics as "Lord of the Rings" and "Indian Jones." Of course, the movie doesn’t come out for another month (so there’s still time to get supplies together, if you’re going to camp out) but I saw the trailer today, and my life finally has meaning. Okay—okay—I have to calm down. It's just so exciting. So there’s this one part when the pretty teenagers are on a rollercoaster and then Death intervenes, because they’re too pretty or something. Then there’s this other part when the pretty people are getting tans, and Death intervenes there, as well. You wouldn’t think Death would be caught in a tanning parlor, but that’s Death for ya—tricky, tricky, tricky.
If I was Death, I probably wouldn’t be as creative. Having someone kick a soccer ball, which knocks over a bucket of napalm, which knocks over a row of dominos, which snaps a mouse trap, which launches a piece of cheese over a candle, which lights the cheese on fire, which lands on the napalm and burns the person alive seems like too much work for me. I would be much more conventional: "You get a heart attack! And you get a heart attack!" Everyone getting heart attacks would be too boring and unrealistic. Fortunately, Final Destination has the Rube Goldberg of Deaths.
I can only hope "Fast and the Furious," "Deuce Bigalow," and "Charlie's Angels" will follow Final Destination's unnecessary lead and keep making sequels without the approval of the critics, the box-office, or the public.
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