The Bone Collector

This actually happened. As I was leaving the theater after enduring the Bone Collector, a tall man wearing a baseball cap and sporting a huge handlebar moustache approached me in the parking lot. He wanted to make a deal. He offered me fifty dollars to sit through the Bone Collector again, or he could kick me in the nuts. Without a moment’s hesitation, I spread my legs and said, “Have at the nads Rollie Fingers.”

No amount of pain in the world could induce me to sit through the Bone Collector again. It’s just another in an endless string of serial killer flicks where the serial killer has a 200 IQ and gets away with the most meticulously planned murders which, in reality, would take an army of people to successfully carry out. The killer leaves a skimpy trail of super-arcane clues that only bed-ridden octoplegic super-genius Denzel Washington can figure out. Naturally, the killer targets Denzel and, in the end, is thwarted by his Craftmatic adjustable hospital bed. When the murderer was finally revealed in the end, I didn’t know who the hell he was. He was a tangential character that had a one minute appearance in the beginning, and didn’t show his face again until the last five.

Of course, New York City is the setting because there you can be a Craftmatic adjustable bed mechanic by day and a troglodyte- serial-killer-who-can-abduct-people-at-will-and-torture-them-in-the-most- intricate-ways-possible-without-ever-being-seen-’cause-nobody-in the- Big-Apple-gives-a rat’s-ass by night.

Cross Seven with Silence of the Lambs, take out all the good shit, and you’ve got the Bone Collector. This movie co-stars Angelina Jolie’s lips.

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