I was a fool. A fool, I say! I actually expected something from a sequel to a movie I hold in high esteem. I know, I know. I’m a grump. I should know better. I should’ve said, “Bah!”, puffed on my pipe and gone back to reading the New Yorker or whatever. But I didn’t. I looked into my father’s eyes and said with complete sincerity, “Let’s go see 28 Weeks Later!” If I had a time machine and a gun, I would’ve shot myself where I stood.
It’s not even like I had a hugely strong drive to see the movie. Yeah, I’d seen the trailer and was mildly impressed. But, you see, circumstances came together to completely bone me. It was graduation weekend. I didn’t have a computer or even a room of my own. I was sitting around in a motel room with blood stains on the floor with my parents being threatened with Batman Forever on the TV’s cable. I kind of wanted to see Spider-Man 3, but I had a strong notion that it would be playing in IMAX at the theater back home (and guess what? It was). So 28 Weeks Later was the only other option I had. But that doesn’t even completely excuse me. I was fuckin’ excited. Eager, even. Sigh.