Vendetta fatale

"Yes, I am afraid of you. Afraid of looking at you too long. Afraid of standing too close to you. Afraid that right now I could justify almost anything," says Alex Weston, the young yuppie patriarch of the film, making the pivotal point just before he sinks his 8 ball in Amanda's rear pocket. Although he doesn't understand it yet, his Gleem-clean, Tide-sparkling, perfectly dysfunctional American family is being methodically diced like a finger caught in a Cuisineart. The horror is in its ease. Trained by ruthless advertisers selling consumerism, the Westons are so part of the circus they don't even see the greasepaint. Amanda does them a favor, really. By bringing things to a quick boil, she diverts them from the slow burn.

Sure, this film's derivative of "Hand That Rocks The Cradle". And it's a bad copy. But that's just why it's so good. In mainstream films with solid, well-acted characterization, you spend your time in motivation and visually-drawn psychology. In "Scorned", the characters are mere sticks moved by the plot, and their symbolic import becomes quickly apparant. Tweed's such a drool, you can't take your eyes off her. And that's just the point. You chide the Weston's fixation for the proverbial carrot and call it, snobbishly, a shallow root, yet you're waiting to see what Amanda's gonna wear--or not wear--in the next scene. Figure it out, Doctor. Feels like Gotchaitis to me.