And there should be a plethora of good reasons, but Kunis has not one.

More ham-fisted Hammer.

There are two things that epitomise a Hammer film: a distinctively poignant visual style and a plot whose direction is deciphered within the first twenty minutes. In these two respects, The Resident is bona fide Hammer at its idiosyncratic best.

Once upon a time there was porn – good, ole’ fashioned, plotless porn that seemed destined to forever roam the private nether-regions of the entertainment industry alone. But smut desperately desired to be taken seriously, and Hollywood needed a harder…edge. It took one dexterous stroke of genius to bring the two concepts to simultaneous, mainstream fruition, and it wasn’t Sheen the Machine, nor was it one night misspent in Paris, but instead the reflexively novel idea of making films about (porno) films…

Recurring characters are awesome. Or at least that was the case until Resident Evil: Afterlife.

And don’t you dare feign indifference.

Wes Craven: Two words that by their associative powers alone, can conjure inimitable phantasmagoric visions from which you cannot avert your eyes, but in the dead of sleepless night, so desperately wish you had. Whether it’s the snicker-snack of finger-knives or an Edvard Munchian bogeyman that threatens our dreams, it’s high-time that we got ourselves educated on the hand that wields them…

It’s post production and that means time for P.R. sidestepping and euphemistic reflection upon the filming process that was…

But it’s not all terribly tragic news.

If you thought that feathered mariachi bands, chameleons facing Hamlet-esque existential crises, and Pirates of the Caribbean were, in and of themselves, essentially ridiculous, farcical concepts, you’d be absolutely right. Now throw these entirely unrelated absurdities together to create one great, big, superlative mash-up of ridiculousness, and you get Rango.

And for some equally and befittingly bizarre reason, it works.