Movie Review: Son in Law

“Yep, you’ve a Pauly Shore in the woodwork,” says the man in the overalls. Perplexed by this I offer an eloquent reply, “Huh?” “Ya see here,” he goes on, pointing to a crack in the doorframe, “it probably got in through there, then spread to your dining room and what have you.” His reply is far too concise, I need time to fathom this revelation, damn him and his vocational qualifications. You’re forced to endure night after night of mysterious spectral nonsense, having your life shit upon by the most absurd of disruptions, and this guy waltzes in and diagnoses the situation within barely a second. Where’s the ectoplasm detectors, eh? Why am I not lathered up in fifty feet of radiation by now? How come my thoughts aren’t being drowned out by a deluge of electronic beats and ambient clacks? This fucker’ll spare no effort to show off his clever penchant for identifying problems in an instant, but what about my malady? I ought to eject him out to fuck this very second.

“Can’t you do something about it?” I query. “Sadly no,” his lumberjack arms rubbing the gruff exterior of his swollen gut, “not much I can do, nor anyone for that matter. Once you got a Pauly Shore, you’re stuck with it till boredom hits and it fucks off.”

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You don’t know you’re living with a Pauly Shore until it’s too late, until its wedged its way into your life like cancer of the colon caught too late to be treated; the only option is to try and accommodate both it and you, it might be a displeasing arrangement but is unalterable regardless.

It started with mysterious hollers in the night, roaring sonic pollution engulfing the entire house, scraping away ply after ply of lino luxury, melting the carpet with warlike disregard. This nocturnal nuisance timetabled itself into a rhythm more reliable than even the most precise of atomic clocks. The minute-hand’s penetration of two o’clock’s sovereign territory was all the catalyst needed for the hullabaloo to erupt. Muffled bellows gave way to an ascending shrill, subsequently usurped by a drone that seemed to be gurgling words, a fluctuating pitch that reverberated from one room to another. This reign of auditory terrorism would keep me hostage all night, only fading away when the sun saw fit to tilt its rays back my direction.

Article Author: Aaron Fleming

Aaron Fleming is a waster and an idler - prone to pomposity - forever enchanted by the filmic, the sonic, words and the aesthetic - given to the most ludicrous appraisal of Culture's finest icons and compositions. He resides in London.

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