...you're basically fucked.

There's one last thing opening today: Darren Lynn Bousman's Repo! The Genetic Opera, a gory musical about a futuristic organ snatcher.

Thinking of checking it out? Read Jesse Vernon's excellent, thoughtful review. And then, if you have any sense, stay home:

I want to dissect this movie, deftly remove its pulsing, “singing” heart and churn it through my feminist meat-grinder. At first I chalked up my feelings of numbness and shock after leaving the theater to feeling out of place surrounded by tight-black-leather-clad teen goths, who burst into song as they awaited the film. The white-mask wearers (an image from the film, a dull hybrid of Joker and V) scattered throughout the audience upped the creep level even more. Huddled on the beach at Alki afterward, I gazed through the mist at the sparkling city and digested this “rock opera.”

As a recent convert to the Buffyverse and an admirer of that show’s musical episode, I had high expectations for Anthony Head (Buffy’s Giles) as the Repo Man. And Paris Hilton’s dominatrix persona on My New BFF and her fake presidential candidacy have lately warranted the heiress a second chance at dimensionality—here she plays Amber Sweet, “addicted to the knife” and vying for daddy’s fortune.

It's 2056, the rich/poor divide is cavernous, and everyone is addicted to body-modifying surgery and its complementary painkiller, Zydrate. The introductory montage teeters between homage and cheap meme—black-and-white comic strips illustrate the back-story and introduce the characters, punctuated by streaks of red. The residents of this dreary yet technologically advanced future purchase their abundantly accessible organs on loan. Which means that when they default on their payments, guess what? The Repo Man collects. Literally. It's a decent premise with potential for enticingly gory imagery—campy costumes and acting veiling an ironic critique of a beauty/violence obsessed culture.

But any expectations of Joss Whedon-style powerful and sexy women were promptly shattered. My horror was not at the mutilation-as-beautification theme, the plentitude of disembowelment scenes, nor the human hand-puppet (not the HUMP! kind, the hand-shoved-in-slashed-stomach kind). I can do gore. It was the utterly disappointing, yet familiar, female characters, who were introduced and then promptly relegated to the margins. There’s 17-year-old Shilo, locked in her room, sickly, and easily manipulated; Blind Mag, a tool of the powers that be who dies impaled on an iron fence; and Amber Sweet, a whiny addict who wants daddy’s fortune. Oh, and Dead Marni, who’s, um, dead. The nameless T&A, whose bodies are literally props to be violated, with rape jokes or knives, are dubbed the Scalpel Sluts.

My one respite: Paris Hilton, who, holding the mic with one hand and her malfunctioning wardrobe (read: peeling-off face) with the other, was utterly delightful.

That's hot.