Thanks to my Netflix subscription, I’ve been working my way through a series of bad movies, eachÂ more hilarious than the last, featuring interminable sandstorms, wooden acting, writing that had to have come from a million monkeys with typewriters and directors who may not have even bothered to show up.
Why would I waste my time on bad movies, you may ask?
Well, I’m watching them as Mystery Science Theatre 3000 movies.
But honestly, there’s a good chance I’d watch them anyway, even without the sarcastic comments liberally overlaid throughout the films. I have tremendously enjoyed all kinds of awful writing, after all; the Twilight novels are some of my favorite books in the world and I remember trying hard not to get the hiccups from laughing too hard while I read them.
And then there are other types of bad writing. There’s even some specific awards for bad writing, including the “Bad Sex in Fiction” award, offered by the Literary Review (I won’t link this, for the sake of everyone’s sanity), and of course everybody knows about the Bulwer-Lytton contest.
But I also enjoy reading negative reviews. I’ve read long reviews of games the reviewers hated, reviews of movies that should have been put out of their misery, and reviews of books that may have been better off becoming mulch because at least that way, they would be useful to society.