When I first heard the title of Beautiful Creatures, bring praised by one of my English teachers, it sounded lovely. Surely such a title deserves a story about another race, imbued with magic and mystical adventures in a place not like our own. You can imagine my disappointment when what I found within that enticing cover was just a story about a witch (ahem, sorry. Caster) who falls in love with a human and who may or may not turn evil on her sixteenth birthday.
Don’t get me wrong, the book was perfectly fine. It read well, and mostly kept my attention. I even cared about the characters a bit.
And then came the movie…
And it was fine. (But fine is such a terrible word)
It was mediocre. It could have been so much better than it was, and it had so much potential. It was just eh.
This nice little ramble was prompted by my mother’s desire to watch the movie tonight, and then pointing out all the glaring ways in which the movie differs from the book (which were already poking me in the eye).
Eh. I’m not even passionate enough to be disappointing. I just can’t quite bring myself to care, and that is the death of any story, be it book, movie, or interpretive dance.
So I shall bring this little rant to an end because, honestly, I don’t care enough to keep typing.