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Final Destination: Bloodlines Confidently Revives the Best Horror-Film Franchise
In Final Destination, Death works with the great canvas of ordinary life. That’s what makes these movies special, and the latest entry knows it.
A fancy elevator doesn’t seem particularly stable; table chefs blithely flambé dishes; Iris stabs her finger on a rose thorn; a piece breaks off an unsteady crystal chandelier; a loud band inspires a crowded glass dance floor to stomp in unison to their cover of the Isley Brothers’ “Shout”; some snot-nosed kid throws pennies off the 499-foot tower. That’s as good a setup as any, and directors Zach Lipovsky and Adam Stein (working from a script by Guy Busick and Lori Evans Taylor) come up with intriguing new settings, devices, and premises for the film’s traditionally Rube Goldbergian slaughter: a tattoo-and-piercing parlor, an MRI machine, a peanut allergy, and (that old Final Destination standby) the family cookout gone horribly wrong. Everyday objects achieve graceful menace as the film lines them up to play their parts in Death’s dance of destiny: a glass shard lands in a pile of crushed ice and instantly becomes near-invisible; a beer bottle perches precariously at the edge of a table; the fabric on a trampoline slowly starts tearing while a humble rake waits patiently beneath; a spigot is accidentally turned on and a coiled garden hose stirs to life, newly thick with water.
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