Liveblogging Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door

I like screwed up horror films.  I admit it.  I watch flicks like Hostel and Last House on the Left and The Hills Have Eyes and The Night Train Murders and enjoy the heck out of them.  They’re a little sick and maybe a touch depraved, but they’re sick and scary and usually a wild ride.

So in that spirit I got out Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door, on the advice of Flick Chick Maitland McDonough and am currently watching it.  I expected fun.  I received boredom.

I’m so bored that I started reading reviews of the film to see if other people had also fought oncoming coma while watching it, hoping for some helpful advice.  That’s not what I found, so instead I’m keeping myself alive by writing this post.

People divide neatly into two camps: This Film Is So Screwed Up It’s Offensive, and This Film Is A Dark Mirror On Humanity.  Interestingly,  horror fans seem to go for the former, while real movie people fall into the latter.  They’re both wrong.  This movie isn’t good enough to be either offensive or insightful.  For a film about the torture, rape and murder of a 13 year old girl, it strikes me as downright silly.

Anyway, I needed to take one crack at the people praising this movie as important, because that’s what I do.  A lot of people who enjoyed this dumptruck loaded with boredom like to note how much less icky and graphic this movie is compared to Hostel and it’s like, insinuating that, as a horror film, this one is less seedy than its contemporaries.

Yes, yes, folks, you heard it right.  The film about tying up a naked 13 year old girl and burning her girl parts with a blowtorch is less inappropriate than Hostel, which keeps its depraved eye fixed firmly on adults.  I’m properly educated.

And bored.  Really bored.

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2 Responses to Liveblogging Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door

  1. Brent says:


    Ew, ew, ew.

    I reeaaaaallly didn’t want to think about that.


  2. saalon says:

    Sorry. I had to _watch_ it, so I needed to share the pain. I’m selfish.

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