When you can’t conjure up a decent summer inquisition, sometimes you just have to settle for a B-grade imposition.
That’s the logic at work here at Grindhouse this summer, anyway. As the temperature rises to sweltering, hellish triple digits we will be inflicting cold-hearted punishments upon one another in the form of Grindhouse Impositions. Misery loves company and horror begets horror, and neither have ever been so much fun before they were wedded together by the gang here at GT.
The seed of the idea came one afternoon when it abruptly became monstrously important to Trevor that someone, anyone watch this flick called Night of the Wererooster. As you can imagine from that title alone, most of us were about as enthusiastic as Immortan Joe at a colloquium on celibacy and experienced a not-all-that-dissimilar drooping of our (ahem) hearts.
Blake, however, champion (or nihilist?) that he is, volunteered to take on the too-certain-to-bet-otherwise terrible movie in question on our behalf, the idea being the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or so we assumed, I retrospectively suppose. We knew it was in our best interests, at least, for him to watch it as opposed to us. So perhaps we adorned Blake’s choice in nobler dress as it worked to our advantage, but that’s history, i.e. how it works, right?
And then the idea budded in my consciousness: what if we each assigned a questionable movie to a specific compadre in the team and required they write about the experience? What an experiment that would be! What heights and/or depths could be reached when the friction and the resistance between reviewer and aesthetic object are intentionally amplified? All creativity pushes against the restraints of the given and blossoms when those restraints are navigated with grace and poise. What form can that take under such dubious conditions? What will these films have to say? I found myself both hot and bothered by this concept, but especially hot, because it’s regularly hovering around 93 degrees here in Wisconsin.
It would be all too easy to blindly swerve into scoptophilia in our exuberance to inflict the most egregious impositions upon one another (Trevor already tried that with me, and for the health and well-being of all your souls I won’t even name the movie he chose), but we’ve instead opted to match certain brands of dumb to particular concrete persons we know and love and simultaneously yearn to make squirm.
But what to call it? I was very drawn to the word “Inquisition” for a summer series at GT because, well, we write about horror for crying out loud. It’s the same gut instinct that drives home for a fellow that The Judas Cradle is a killer name for a band. So after examining the logic of the series we just performed a lateral alliterative shift and found our answer. “Imposition” still carried that tenor of “terrible” and “torturous” like unto some brutal, medieval regime and, let’s be frank, sounds kinda sexy in a way, too, right?
So buckle up, cross yourself, and bask in the cinematic shallow end as we take the plunge into Grindhouse Summer Impositions 2019!
 Or the one. Come on, admit it: you cry when Spock dies. ‘Cause if you don’t you’re probably a sociopath.
 The temporary survivors of history, by virtue of their being alive, are free to recast the patsies and the rank and file casualties as heroes of the Cause, grok?
 Trying to be charitable here.
 He’s very sorry, by the way.