These essays are specifically for reading after ones personal viewing
I loathe when people see a photograph, or some kind of art piece where objects have been shifted to fit a metaphor, and criticize it because they argue, they could've pieced it together or taken that photograph. That's not a criticism; it's a selfish examination on the artistic redundancy of pride. I'm not making an excuse for art pieces who are an example of pretentiousness without any thought to define emotion or societal opinion (obviously not the only two things); deflated-paper mache-basketball with spilt toothpaste on top. These are the same people who point their fingers at works of such kind, but widen their eyes for any painting simply because they cannot paint; "Well, this person just shoved a bunch of stuff on sand then took a photograph of it. I could've done that."
I've heard the same about film. Some plots being easier to explain than others, gives people the idea that it's not hard to make a film, or because the plot is easy to explain, it hols no kind of artistic depth or integrity. A kind of snobbish hindsight. It's true that some of these people could carry the wit and intelligence to maybe think of a simple plot, but they don't carry the integrity to create.
[Rec] has a cleverly fantastic plot that pieces together perfectly into a well paced story. The pacing is due to the fact that people who cannot leave a controlled area are quickly becoming infected, which then incorporates it's tension that lingers throughout the duration of the film filled with yelling of bizarre-possessed animal noises...and people.
Swaying malnourishment with an antenna'd hammer to dine. The infection is its feast and we are left wavering, confused of the reason; the, why this is happening. Wanting to know; fixated on its past, pondering its future. Is this an ending that finishes directly with the credits and does not carry on it's story in our mind, like David Fincher's Fight Club adaptation? Closed eyes to the green of invisible light. Crawling towards the hope of life and we're left, not stopped, when the black takes hold.
--- The Spandex Bandit