is a Paste column dedicated to earnest reevaluations of those cast-off bits of pop-cultural ephemera that deserve a second look. Whether they’re films, TV series, albums, comedy specials, videogames or even cocktails, Hear Me Out is ready to go to bat for any underappreciated subject.
When I was a kid—not yet too old to trick or treat, but stuck in a town with no sidewalks or real door-to-door culture—I’d spend my Halloweens inside watching whatever horror movies AMC scheduled that year. Normally it was thein order but, one year, they decided to offer up theinstead—which was a favorite in my house growing up. When I was far too young, my dad opened my eyes to the cosm of Jason Voorhees and Camp Crystal Lake.
When I was younger, watching Jason kill a character by pressing a scorching hot sauna rock into his chest until it erupts in flames shook me to my core—even if none of that makes any. Part of the experience is surrendering yourself to not thinking too complexly about what’s going on.
After having exhausted the series’ beloved hero Tommy Jarvis in three of the previous four films, the stand-in for Jason’s greatest foe is Sean —who is the son of Admiral Robertson and easily one of the most unlikable deuteragonists in the entire franchise, if only for his inability to conjure up any sort of charisma. He’s no Paul Holt or Rob , that’s for damn sure.
When you think that it can’t get any more absurd, Jason—while trying to kill Rennie and Sean—watches the waste come barreling down the canal, cries out “Mommy?!” like a child and then, in an instant, starts puking out water, only to drown in the grossness thrashing upon him. Once the waste recedes, a boy version of Jason is left unconscious on the sewer floor, sprawled out right next to our jaws.
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