Asstobust non disputandum est

While studiously not commenting on the (as it were) underlying issue, I do love the title of David Edelstein’s Slate review of Dreamcatcher: Little Brown Men – The aliens of Dreamcatcher have a taste for human rectums. He actually manages to (ahem) top that in his review:

The FX guys have devised some great squiggly thingummies, and the pivotal toilet-bowl scene has a black-comic charge you’re not likely to forget. Maybe that’s appropriate: I am tempted to say that what King has concocted, consciously or not, is an elaborate allegory for homosexual panic, complete with anal intrusion by toothy phalluses and a resulting (Mr.) Gay Plague. There are practically no women in the picture: It all comes down to four buddies, a frail momma’s boy with a terminal disease, and a bunch of “blue boys” devising a sort of catcher’s mitt for killer eels and worms—

No, sorry, I can’t go on. As Bill Murray put it in Tootsie (1982), “We’re getting into a weird area here.” Maybe Gus Van Sant could have run with it. But Kasdan is boringly straight, so whatever is really at the core of Dreamcatcher remains well, er, impacted.