I just finished the new Scott Smith book, The Ruins.
I’m not a trust fund baby, and my plans for being a high-priced male escort never panned out, so I usually have wait for new books to come out in paperback before I bite.
There are exceptions to every rule, of course, and since it’s been twelve years since I read Smith’s previous novel, A Simple Plan, I figured I’d cough up the eighteen bucks. (I figured it was a safe bet. I really dug reading A Simple Plan—I more than enjoyed Sam Rami’s film version—and the reviews for The Ruins have been through the roof)
But here I sit, brokenhearted.
My recent track record for being disappointed by movies/records/books that are supposed to be surefire hits has been unusually high for some reason. Especially with regards to movies.
I seem to be the only one who thinks that Cars was Pixar’s first dud (artistically, that is. I know the movie made a mint at the b.o.). Pirates of the Caribbean; Dead Man’s Chest was fourteen times more complicated and dull than it should have been for a fun summertime romp. Superman Returns bored me to tears (toward the end I was actually hoping that they would digitally insert Richard Pryor and Robert Vaughn into the movie). Even after giving it all sorts of latitude for only being a fairytale, Lady In The Water still made me sad. And X-Men 3 was a stupendous waste of everyone’s time and money. My cracked ribs kept me from going with the family to see Talladega Nights, the one movie that might have broken this summer’s string of mediocrity. (Valarie tells me that the film was no Ron Burgundy, but she suspects that I would have laughed heartily through most of it.)
Is it just me? Have I set my expectations too high? I don’t think so. I’ve enjoyed some of Bryan Singer’s other movies, and on Superman he had a QUARTER OF A BILLION DOLLARS to play with. I don’t think it was out of line for me to at least expect to get my $7.50 worth.