Serial killer Abel, aka The Riverton Ripper (played by the talented and criminally underutilized Raul Esparza, who really should be discussing these things with his agent before signing a contract), murders his pregnant wife in front of their young daughter, is blasted full of holes by the cops, and vows to return with a vengeance. Alas, the ambulance transporting him to the hospital conveniently crashes, and the psycho vanishes–after being blasted full of holes by the cops. Oh, and he stabbed himself with a kitchen knife before the cops even arrived, but never mind. Meanwhile, at that same moment, seven babies–seven babies!–are born in the hospital at the same time, which somehow causes complete chaos among the staff, despite the fact they’re supposed to be trained for that very sort of thing. But never mind that.
Sixteen years later, those seven babies are now seven dysfunctional teenagers, who hold an annual ritual that has something–and don’t quote me on this–to do with warding off the curse of Abel. Maybe so that he doesn’t return. Maybe not. Don’t ask me. Anyway, there’s a giant puppet with a ghoulish mask and trench coat that one of the kids is supposed to “kill” and…well, the real puppet…or Abel…or something starts slicing up the kids with a giant knife, and I tell you, whatever it was behind that mask couldn’t have murdered them fast enough. It’s up to the unfortunately nicknamed Bug (which is strange, because I don’t think he was into Entomology, or in any way fond of, or fascinated by, insects) to find out who, or what, is taking on his friends like it’s half-price night at Benihana.
We Craven, I love you; I really do. You gave us A Nightmare on Elm Street and The Last House on the Left. But–and it’s a big one–you also saddled us with Cursed and The Hills Have Eyes Part 2, the latter for which I will never, ever forgive you. What happened? You nearly redeemed your lowest points with the Scream trilogy, but then you come along and hork up something that makes Mother’s Day look like the Citizen Kane of slasher flicks? Seriously? I’d give you a pass if you’d only directed: there’s some nice cinematography here, and the town of Riverton, with its dense woods and rolling fog, looks cool. But you wrote this piece of crap! I’d like to think you smoked a fat blunt before you pounded away at the keyboard. That would at least explain why My Soul to Take seems like it was written by a guy more concerned with whether there were enough snack cakes in his pantry than if his movie made any sense.
This thing is a wreck, from the convoluted plot, to the weak mystery of who might be the new Riverton Ripper. Scary. Your characters are one-dimensional. No, they’re less than one-dimensional. They’re…well, they’re half-dimensions, right? Half-dimensions? Is that even possible, Wes? You couldn’t shoot for at least two-thirds? And what were your actors supposed to do with witty, self-referential lines like “Wake up and smell the Starbucks!” or this gem: “Fuck your fucking unborn child. Now where’d I leave your bitch?” And is there a reason why you made your killer look like one of the Predators just crawled out of a Charlie Sheen Vegas bender?
I don’t know what to do with you, Wes. I really don’t. You disappoint me. And at this point, I’m thinking I’m just going to wait for Scream 4 to come out on Blu-ray so I can buy a copy and then burn it.
That’s how much I hated this movie. I hated it. Nice job.