Cabin Fever is another rousing success in terms of the new “revival horror” infecting Hollywood into making good horror flicks again. It feels no compassion for your softy politically correct views. It has no remorse for killing off the cute girl or the sexually-confused squirrels. Best of all, it doesn’t insult you with “boo” scares or pop music. What we actually have here is an impressive attempt at being worth your time, which is all you can really ask of a flickering cinematic show. The writing is more natural than most could hope to achieve, while the performers nail their respective parts with glee in their pants. Unlike Ebert’s chocolate wall of thought, director Eli Roth kicks that ass and then kicks it again. The way Cabin Fever is handled deserves an ‘A’ for effort and a “See me after class for some lovin’.” Anyone who can’t appreciate the subtly and cool bonus characters are close-minded blowholes that would let Lynch pass for a genius, but stomp Roth’s dreams of channeling the same type of filmmaking. So let me give you an idea of how this pile of bacteria breaks down. The first half will service you with nothing but good, old fashioned hilarity, while we settle into the familiar scene. What stands out here is that there aren’t any forced feelings of dread or exposition. It honestly felt like a normal, everyday camping trip. Section one is designed to set up a comfort shield where it’s possible to laugh uproariously, nibble your date, and not worry about that electric bill you never paid. The Santa-looking old man and silly, ‘FU’ hat-wearing Bert caused my audience and I to experience a euphoria that can only be achieved by being incredibly amused. Plus you’ve got to love Dennis. Pancakes! Pancakes! Then the horrors begin, without ever really dropping the humor. When I say “horror” in this sense, I’m not talking about a madman with a chainsaw or your grandma trying to kiss you on the face. I’m talking about the kind of horror you’d feel if you yourself were exposed to an illness and you knew of the impending doom. Ever hit a deer on the highway or a confused young man? Your world comes crashing down without really dissipating. What if that deer keeps kicking, causing your horn to honk? Would you be horrified or laughing? Both, I’d say. That kind of mixture is hard to duplicate. It’s like trying to recreate Pepsi and ending up with Safeway Select. Imagine the disappointment or shame. I’m not here to warn you of such a shame. I’m here to kiss Cabin Fever’s ass and get all of its rotting ass-blood on my mouth by accident. It’s one of the funniest, horrific, most original films I’ve seen in years, despite being what it is. When a new horror story takes place in a cabin in the woods, involving a group of college students, and still manages to suck me into its reality and new ideas, then we all know that maybe there’s a god. Or at least hope for creative moviemaking. The wave of refreshment I felt while watching this beats the shit out of those Sierra Mist commercials involving some monkey suddenly freezing his balls clean off. I honestly laughed myself to tears. I honestly cringed and felt suspense. I was really, really into the vibe. Movies exist for only two reasons: to say something important or artistic… or to flat-out entertain. This was the most fun I’ve had with illness since my Nyquil haze of ’98.