The return of the long-feared-dead poster: Tweelight made me do it.

I went and saw New Moon tonight with Ruth. Before the skip, know this: she loved it and there will be spoilers. You have been warned.

Twilight, a story about werewolves and vampires dealing with character derailment during the reign of the most obscene mary sue ever dribbled onto a page, is not a story that inspires good feelings in your average XY owner. The movie experience, with its crowds of whooping, swooning tweens is literally deadly to men. Note now, dear reader, that I am most certainly not a manly manĀ  (this can be deduced by the simple fact that I used the words ‘manly man’ at all without then having to off myself). I’m a biologist that draws compulsively, listens to indie/electro and believes quite fervently in the idea of a fulfilling monogamous relationship with someone I love. So understand when I say that, after watching new moon, I felt the urge to find a new, endangered species of cuddly creature and punch it to death.

This movie, were it based on a book by a man, would be widely panned as the most indulgent chauvinist fantasy of female passivity imagined. It would be seen as the most vile, virulent propaganda imaginable. I mean, for fuck’s sake! The main character (Bella) literally emos herself into having PTSD! She spends near on an entire year having scream-inducing nightmares because her boyfriend dumped here. This, let it be said, in a town in which every man is pining to take her out and comfort her. If it was written by a man, every copy of this book/movie would right now be burning on bonfires across the planet.

Of course, I exaggerate on this point. It’s not simply a matter of author gender/ gender perspective (the secret codes of which could, alone, make for a sizeable and controversial book) that makes me despair. Nor is it that the novel is romantic and therefore suffers from all the excesses of the genre (to which I have suddenly become blind). It is not even that the entire series, by its very popularity, forever mutilates the generally understood idea of ‘vampires’ (ie: not sparkly). It is simply this: I hate the main characters. They, as the drivers of the plot, serve simply to showcase their own pathetic, needy and petty natures in a forum which in no uncertain terms condones this very stupidity. In fact, given that I hold the idea of the dead author in low regard, I am forced as the reader/viewer into having to agree with their self-centred uselessness without even being able to reinterpret it towards my own tastes.

Put simply; Bella, Edward and company suck 0n a deeply fundamental level and I had to sit for two hours and watch a movie in which they did nothing but. The sole consolation I had, as I sat in my chair (besides the fact that Ruth was happy) was in listening to the boos as Jacob and Bella failed, once again, to kiss. As I did, I contemplated how much simpler it would have been for all concerned if the two male leads (especially Jacob, who was defined in areas and ways that should be forbidden to mortal men) had simply let the bitch die and shacked up with each other. The audience would certainly have watched it.

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