I saw Cloverfield (herein I shall refuse to type that ridiculous title and will refer to it as "Monsterfield" or "Cloverfrog") at the press screening Tuesday night, and I suppose waiting three days to write about was probably a good idea. I'm a sucker for apocalypse (my cinematic motto is "The World Must Be Destroyed;" I dragged friends to "The Core" on opening night) plus I'm always intrigued by J.J. Abrams' creepy mysteries, so I came in as giddy as a schoolgirl, ready to see some crap get smashed. And sure, it's scary and there's some good effects, but reading Manohla Dargis' review in the Times just now made me laugh out loud. As you probably know, the film's conceit is that it's "found footage," a videotape found in "the area formerly known as Central Park" after Monsterfrog comes to town. The tape starts out at a loft party for what's basically the casts from every Real World minus the gays or blacks, and we follow a few of them on an insane mission to save a gal whose apartment (in one of the Trump Towers on Columbus Circle!!!) has gotten smooshed. A dude (or perhaps a "bro") carries the camera around the whole time, taping even as friends are killed or they're attacked by giant cricket crabs who need to implant their eggs in your brain. Is it a bitter commentary maybe, asks Dargis:
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