Friday the 13th (18)

"WHEN you make a movie like this, ask yourself, 'What is it about the mythology that makes people want to watch it over and over again?" ponders Friday The 13th director Marcus Nispel.

It's a good question.

And it might have been a good idea to know the answer, before churning out a slasher remake as bum-headedly thick as this.

Friday The 13th. Never a great horror franchise to begin with, if we're honest.

But one thing this latest rehash - No 11, by my count - does achieve, is make the original look like a frickin' masterpiece.

A weird mish-mash of the plots of Fridays I, II and III, the film stars some of the least-interesting horror totty you've ever seen as a conveyor belt of victims for forest-dwelling, hockey-mask-wearing loon Jason Voorhees. A man so evil he can bend space-time, given that one minute he's standing on a lakehouse roof, when five seconds earlier he was chopping up a body 50 yards down the driveway.

Logic remains out the window, over the hill and far, far away for the next hour and a half.

The teens tick off all the usual horror victim sins - boozing, rutting, and smoking more gear than Michael Phelps and Chloe Madeley on an Amsterdam stag do.

Breast fans without a broadband connection will enjoy some topless waterski-ing and this year's must-use post-Valentine's Day chat-up line: "You have perfect nipple placement, baby."

The next instalment of this dross will be called Friday The 13th The 13th.

Can't wait? Yeah, me neither.

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