[In the vast ocean of horror films, Shutter stands out like a jester trying to perform on a grand stage. It seems to work hard at creating a scary atmosphere, yet it's riddled with flaws so glaring that audiences can't help but laugh and mock it throughout.]
[This forces me to question—does Director Edward truly deserve his title as the "Best Director"?]
[Or perhaps, has the once-celebrated Director finally run out of talent and chosen to churn out garbage films just to empty the wallets of audiences?]
[From the perspective of the story alone, Shutter is cliché to the extreme—another tired tale of vengeful spirits, karmic retribution, and emotional entanglements. The story of a scumbag photographer and the ghost of his ex-girlfriend feels cobbled together from countless other horror movies. The female lead's tragic experience—violated by a group of beasts while the male photographer kept filming madly—pushes the boundaries of absurdity and insults the audience's intelligence.]
[It seems Director Edward believed that by repackaging such a worn-out plot, he could captivate audiences. But he forgot that the soul of horror lies in originality and depth not in these recycled tropes and meaningless depictions of karma.]
[Of course, he didn't forget to throw in his laughably exaggerated "super-virtual cinematography," all the better to justify our expensive ticket prices.]
[As for the film's effects and production—what a visual "disaster"! Photographs are supposed to be a crucial element in building the film's eerie mood, yet what we get instead is unintentionally comedic. The so-called "ghost photographs" are unbearable to look at—ghastly pale faces, unnaturally oily black hair, and ghost movements that are so stiff and fake they look like a troupe of amateur actors performing slapstick. Without its shallow talk of karma, what else would this film even have?]
[Even more laughable, in a film where the protagonist is a photographer, he can't even take a decent photo! Isn't that the height of irony? Is this what passes for a "professional" photographer? Director Edward seems to have forgotten that props need to feel realistic. Tossing sloppy, half-baked photos at the audience doesn't create fear—it just makes them feel insulted.]
[Narratively, Director Edward indulges in pretentious gimmicks. From the start, he piles on a series of so-called "mysteries"—the protagonist's unexplained weight gain, inconsistencies in medical results, and other supposedly eerie happenings—to build a false sense of intrigue. But as the story unfolds, these mysteries unravel into nothing more than forced coincidences and flimsy explanations.]
[And in the end, it all circles back to one hollow theme: karma.]
[Director Edward seems to be playing a chaotic game with the audience, tossing meaningless clues and red herrings that ultimately lead nowhere. When the credits roll, the audience is left confused, frustrated, and deeply disappointed.]
[The logical gaps in the movie are ridiculous. The protagonist is haunted by strange phenomena without any clear causal link. The ex-girlfriend's transformation into a ghost is lazily blamed on the protagonist's behavior, yet her emotional complexity is never explored. This crude logic renders the entire story hollow and lifeless.]
[In short, Shutter is nothing but a farcical mess. Director Edward tries to lure viewers with superficial "mysteries" and overused horror clichés, but his poor craftsmanship, crude effects, and chaotic storytelling turn the whole thing into a failure.]
[Edward Stone is like a desperate comedian who thinks a few flashy gimmicks can entertain the crowd, forgetting that the essence of horror lies in genuine psychological impact and thoughtful design. If you walk into this movie expecting fear, I'm sorry—you'll leave only with awkward laughter and secondhand embarrassment. After all, Edward Stone just can't stop preaching about his boring karma nonsense.]
"Boss! Look at this guy!"
Zoroark angrily shoved her phone in front of Edward.
Edward took a glance, yawned, and casually handed the phone back. "It's not the first time I've seen this type. Every time I release a film, someone pops up nitpicking every frame like they're dissecting an egg."
He'd known even in his previous life that nothing in this world could please everyone. Even money had its detractors—some people claimed they weren't interested in wealth at all.
So how could something as subjective as a movie be any different?
There are a thousand Hamlets in a thousand viewers' hearts. Though overused, the saying remained true—each person interprets art differently.
And among these self-proclaimed critics, there were always those who wanted to be "unique." When everyone else praises something, they make a show of dissent, earning instant attention. Edward didn't care much.
"But boss, this guy always targets you," Zoroark said, scrolling through the critic's feed. "Every time your name appears—whether you wrote the script or directed the movie—he's there, mocking you."
"As long as he's not crossing the line or making personal attacks, there's nothing I can do," Edward replied helplessly. "If I send a lawyer's letter, the internet will just mock me for being thin-skinned."
He scratched his head as he thought about it. There were plenty like that, and he knew it. Still, something about this particular review felt off especially how obsessively it mentioned karma.
"Don't tell me the guy's got a guilty conscience…" Edward mused, though he didn't really believe it. After all, Shutter was fiction. Even if ghosts truly existed in the Pokémon world, encountering something that coincidentally mirrored his film would be far too unlikely.
"Anyway, boss, about the actor casting for The Ring—I've already—"
Zoroark, seeing that Edward wasn't bothered, quickly switched topics to lighten the mood.
…
Meanwhile, in the Kanto region, a disheveled man sat in his dim apartment, gnawing at his fingernails. His eyes were bloodshot.
"That damned Edward! Did he find out? No, impossible! He can't know!"
Michael's teeth scraped against his nails as he muttered to himself, his whole body trembling with anxiety. His gaze was locked on a movie ticket lying on the table. On it were the word, Shutter.
Michael was a small-time film critic—barely known, but just enough to scrape by. One day, he discovered a lucrative formula: be contrarian.
By attacking popular films, he gained fame and infamy. His biting reviews drew both fans and haters, but at least they made him money. He was making enough to eat well, live comfortably, even plan to buy a house and car.
Then he fixed his sights on Edward. Every review of Edward's work, no matter what it was, was dripping with venom. The more he slandered, the more his name spread and his wallet grew thicker.
But when Shutter premiered, Michael's confidence shattered.
As he watched the film, his palms grew clammy. The protagonist's despicable acts, the girlfriend's tragic death, and her return as a vengeful ghost—every detail struck too close to home.
He had been a charming young man once, smooth-tongued and manipulative. Women flocked to him like moths to a flame. He'd dated plenty of beautiful girls during college—though he remembered few of them. To him, they were all the same—foolish, naive, cute like Psyducks, easy to deceive.
But one woman he did remember.
She wasn't the prettiest, but she was devoted—so devoted that she gave him half her living expenses every month. And Michael? He was two-timing her the whole time.
That foolish woman knew, but never left. She said she loved him so deeply she'd die for him.
Michael had found it dull—but he couldn't let go of her money. So, he strung her along.
Then one day, one of his sleazy friends said he wanted her—and offered five thousand pokedollars.
So, Michael set her up.
He lured her out, got her drunk, and delivered her to a hotel.
After that...
Michael shuddered violently.
"No! That's got nothing to do with me! I just sent her there, I didn't do anything! That idiot said she'd die for me—then let her!" he hissed, chewing his nails until they bled.
He remembered buying a new computer with the money, bragging to his friends in the school cafeteria—while that foolish girl jumped from the rooftop.
He could still see her face—the bloodshot eyes staring at him even in death.
"Hee-hee…"
A raspy giggle echoed. Michael froze. He whipped his head around. The apartment was empty.
His home—a spacious 150-square-meter condo was his pride, bought with his own earnings. He lived alone, though he sometimes invited girls over.
Now, though, he was completely alone.
That eerie voice—was it just his imagination?
"Mic–ha–el…"
The whisper came again.
He stared into the living room and saw—a flicker. A girl's shadow gliding past.
"No… no, impossible…" He curled up on the floor, trembling. The living room was empty. Still, fear rooted him in place.
What was her name again?
He couldn't remember. To him, she had always been just "that stupid woman."
Taking a deep breath, Michael stood up. He had to get out—to go somewhere crowded.
But the moment he reached the door—
A head slid sideways out of the doorframe.
The mangled, bloodied face stared straight at him.
Michael's knees buckled. He knew that face.
It was her.
"My darling Michael…"
The woman's voice crooned as she crawled out from the doorframe, her limbs twisting unnaturally.
"AHHHHHHHHH!" Michael screamed, bolting from the room, adrenaline driving him forward.
Only when he burst into the hallway did he remember—his apartment was on the 35th floor.
He ran to a neighbor's door and banged on it wildly.
"Open up! Open up!"
From inside came an annoyed shout: "Coming, coming! Stop yelling!"
Normally he found his neighbor, a fat, nagging middle-aged woman—disgusting. But now her voice was music to his ears.
The door opened.
"Please! Let me in! Call the police, there's—"
He looked up.
The person standing in the doorway wasn't his neighbor.
It was her.
Her twisted form filled the doorway.
"Hee-hee…" she giggled, extending a pale hand toward him.
Michael tried to move, but his body wouldn't obey.
"Michael…" she whispered. Her eyeball dropped into his palm.
His mind went blank. Darkness swallowed him.
And just before he lost consciousness—
He finally remembered her name.
Joy.
"Joy… your name suits you," the young man had once said, laughing in the sunlight.
And the shy girl had smiled, her heart fluttering.
(End of Chapter)