Speaking of utter garbage, back to Ghost Cat, which is a pretty brazen example of false advertising in action. A more honest producer would have gone with the title Regular Cat, since at no point does the cat do anything that an ordinary, non-dead cat can't. In fact, its supernatural powers are mainly limited to appearing in front of people suddenly, knocking things off of shelves with its fat furry ecto-ass, and walking around on sleeping people's faces just to piss them off, all of which are of course things any normal cat can and gladly will do at every available opportunity.
This leaves us with a couple of Lifetime-grade D-plots about a weaselly guy failing to squeeze inheritance out of his dead crazy cat-lady aunt to cover his reckless embezzling hobby and an animal farm that's struggling financially because instead of farming anything the owner just uses it to hold cute animals, both of which of course make for thrilling television. (Spoiler alert: his aunt outsmarts him by hiding her wad of cash inside a big bag of cat food. Somehow the thought of searching things related to the animal that she was obsessed with for every moment of her waking life didn't occur to him.)
Aside from the phantasmal feline, the real star of these proceedings is, shockingly enough, someone you've heard of - Ellen Page, in a role she undoubtedly wishes she could repress deep down into the cavernous bowels of her monolithic skull. If she doesn't hate the director for casting her in this White Castle men's room of a movie, she must at least hate him for using every scene as an opportunity to emphasize her unfortunate cranial gigantism. Seriously, there's a lot of fucking forehead in this movie. It's not even fivehead anymore - it's gotta be at least a 12.3-head based on the Cristina Ricci Cranial Exaggeration Scale. The amount of exposed melon flesh in this movie gave us flashbacks to Starship Invasions, except there's no sexy robots or Christopher Lee this time around and what the fuck is the point of that?
Ghost cat is watching you watch stupid cat videos on Youtube.Supporting Ellen Page and her colossal crown throughout this picture is a cavalcade of nuanced and three-dimensional characters, who run the gamut from "cartoonishly evil financial businessy guy" to "pure-hearted animal lover," with a "hunky teen arsonist with a heart of gold" thrown in just for flavor. That last character is also Ellen's love interest, by the way, which thanks to the TV movie magic of casting guys that look 29 as high school jocks gives us one of the most disturbingly lopsided 'teenage relationships' this side of Lolita.
The plot is both too stupid and too boring to repeat, but the "climax" happens when the villains finally manage to set a barn full of animals on fire on their 423rd attempt, leaving Ellen Page and her swole statutory sweetheart to save the day. No matter how hard we wish for it, he never picks her up and uses her skull as a battering ram, but they somehow manage to get all of the livestock to safety anyway. This is usually the part in the script where her boyfriend would rip his shirt off, transform into a CGI werewolf and play fetch with the bad guys' testicles, but the writers had other plans, so their evil getaway is instead foiled by Ghost Cat(TM) sneaking into their car and scratching them until they crash into a ditch and (hopefully) die:
So that's Ghost Cat. As always there's plenty of blame to spread around, but we're inclined to give the lion's share to writer Larry Ketron this time, who despite being in the film-writing business for nearly 30 years, has managed to accumulate only 7 movie credits, the most famous probably being some Keanu Reeves piece of shit from the 80s that nobody has ever heard of. We're not even sure how Larry has managed to stay alive this long, but we assume his body has developed some sort of amazing ability to metabolize cigarette butts, condom wrappers and trash water. Here's to you, Larry - please make sure you leave your body to science (read: cat food factory) when you pass on, for the benefit of starving writers everywhere. Thanks in advance.
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"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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