At least I can now that Dana Stevens admits she enjoyed it. Just like she enjoyed Twilight.
The distinction between high and low culture, between what we’re allowed to enjoy publicly and what we must sneak off to savor in private, has effaced itself to the degree that “guilty pleasures” needs to be replaced by a more morally neutral term. For our purposes here, I’ll go with a term that a friend and I coined in college and that I still deploy on occasion: movies we couldn’t intellectually defend but still unapologetically loved we called “juicebombs.”
All that to say that The Twilight Saga: New Moon (Summit Entertainment), like its 2008 predecessor Twilight, is a classic juicebomb. Mopey, draggy, and absurdly self-important, the movie nonetheless twangs at some resonant affective chord. This viewer, at least, was catapulted back to that moment of adolescence when being mopey, draggy, and absurdly self-important felt like a passionate act of liberation. The Twilight movies are schlock, but they’re elegantly appointed, luxuriously enjoyable schlock, and the world they take place in—the densely forested, perpetually overcast, vampire-and-werewolf-ridden town of Forks, Wash.—feels like a real, if fantastical, place.
As the screen went black after Edward’s supremely cheesy last line, my first thought was, “Give me a break.” The second was, “How long till Eclipse comes out?”
That said, you won’t see me in line tonight at 12:01am or anytime soon. The thought of watching it in a theater full of girls who scream out loud every time Robbie Patz steps on screen is…no. As weird as it is to say, I actually want to be able to sit and enjoy the movie without distraction.
Jesus. My life has come to this.