A Multisensory Affront to the Very Essence of my Being

Review written by Wordy Dreamer

I was an idealistic filly. An unquenchable thirst for knowledge fueled me, and lofty dreams danced through my head each night like choreographed ballerinas performing to a symphony so majestic the stars themselves were moved to tears. My interests were broad and far-reaching, but my passion naturally honed itself to one simple topic: writing. My logophilia developed at a young age; the first pony in his class to get his Cutie Mark is often idolized by his peers, yet the dictionary on my flank inspired relentless ridicule. I harbor no resentment toward my fellow students; children can unwittingly be the cruelest members of society, and I took great solace in my writing each and every night.

You might expect the real world would squash my childish idealism at some point, with gleeful enthusiasm shining in its eyes as it took its cold, steel bat to me, little more than a hapless piñata. But I was resilient. I held on to hope. I majored in journalism at Canterlot University, amidst protestations and proclamations of my inevitable impoverishment from my parents. The next four years were the happiest of my life. I fell in with a crowd of like-minded ponies, I met my future wife, the lovely Azure Glow, I actually enjoyed, even relished, every homework assignment. (Although the reasoning behind including calculus in the core curriculum will forever elude me. The only derivative I need to recognize is the drivel being churned out by the Canterlot Times.) I graduated college and, yes, the job market was tough, but I landed my dream job after only three months of searching. Thank Celestia, just three months in, I was hired as a staff writer for the prestigious publication you now hold in your very hooves: the Canterlot Sun.

I was assigned to the entertainment section. Not my first choice, but I wasn’t about to complain. My first story was actually a film review. An indie horror film was debuting at the local cinema, and the Sun had already purchased my ticket. In case you haven’t yet realized, the review I speak of is the very review that now holds you in its mesmerizing thrall, assuming I’ve done my job right. If you find my writing distasteful and wish to critique it, the Sun accepts all reader mail, but do keep in mind it’s my first time. Please be gentle.

I was unprepared for Sweet Apple Massacre. In earnest, I don’t think one truly can be prepared. The film, a word I use only in the loosest sense, purports a merciful 88 minute runtime, but my time in the theater felt anything but brief. In film lovers’ parlance, imagine watching all four Indiana Jones films back to back. Now subvert that thought and imagine the only film is Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, which you must now watch four times in a row, without interruption or respite. That, perhaps, begins to paint a picture of the crushing hopelessness that washed over me as Sweet Apple Massacre played unapologetically before my eyes.

This cinematic travesty comes to us courtesy of fledgling director Applejack, de facto matron of the long-standing Apple family which runs Sweet Apple Acres in Ponyville. Yes, you read that right. Even the title of this stinker is little more than a poorly constructed pun, and it’s actually the cleverest aspect of the whole movie. The plot, such as it is, revolves around a farmhand, Big Appletosh, who grows weary of his thankless job and kills everyone in sight. Was that summary too blunt? Did it, by any chance, lack a certain tact or grace in its writing and composition? Rest assured, it was quite deliberate. Such juvenile structuring is all an atrocity like Sweet Apple Massacre deserves. More, even.

Further details would require me to remember exact specifics of the film, something I swore to myself I would never do. What is there to say? The cinematography is on par with a home video doting parents might shoot of their filly walking for the first time, the soundtrack is seemingly composed of a rusty wire rake scraping across a very dusty chalkboard, the editing violates the 180 degree rule with impunity, the actors are literally, and obviously, reading their lines from cue cards being held slightly off screen (for added fun, try counting the number of times a cue card is caught on camera. I found seven, but I’m quite confident there are more, and it will no doubt make for an excellent drinking game), set design is nonexistent, and the lighting is comprised of flashlights hanging from strings. There is not a single element of the film’s production that even approaches competence. Even the title card, so important for a first impression, was written in Microsoft Word, using Comic Sans, of all fonts. I cannot stress this enough: Sweet Apple Massacre is not “so bad it’s good.” It’s not even “so bad it’s bad.” It’s so bad that words alone are too clumsy and imprecise to fully encompass the depth of the film’s depravity, as though Satan himself took up the art of directing just long enough to create an unholy fusion of image and sound with which to populate the movie theaters of hell. Metaphorically speaking, Applejack literally wrested this monstrosity from Lucifer’s cloven hooves, to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting Equestria. Do not mistake my tone as hyperbolic.

I said earlier that the Sun accepts reader mail, and that fact remains true. But you may wish to save your energy. Sweet Apple Massacre has changed my life in a myriad of ways I cannot yet fully comprehend. But I do know this: it finally accomplished what the world could not. My dreams have been shattered. This is my first ever published work and simultaneously my letter of resignation. I can no more be a journalist when THIS is the lifestyle to which I am subjected than an ant can comprehend the complexities of the biological processes perpetually transpiring in his diminutive little body. That is what Sweet Apple Massacre has taught me. We are all nothing more than ants, ambling about mired in our own futility, waiting only for the day when the great magnifying glass in the sky will come to light us ablaze, mercifully purging us of the vitriolic filth of our own creation.

The world is an ugly, ugly place.

Sweet Apple Massacre begins its limited run on Friday. Please don’t see it.

Editor's Note: Have I ever mentioned I love Friendship is Witchcraft? Probably, but I'm doing so again. Seriously, Friendship is Witchcraft is a very funny series, and Griffin Lewis and Jenny Nicholson are fantastic people. They recently recommended this very parody on their SherclopPones account, for which I'm incredibly grateful. If by some chance you're a fan of my parody but haven't seen FiW, check it out!

http://www.youtube.com/user/SherclopPones/featured