So much modernity in ‘83. Radio-activated garage doors. 20 years old cars are “classics”. Self-Driving cars, powered by soul-sucking entities that demand you change your personality to conform to their ideals. A bit more bodycount than the Tesla “Autopilot”.

A petrolhead and jock are BFF. Until Christine the car enter their life. The jock resists, but our petrolhead turns into a greaser, to appease 50’s Detroit-native Plymouth Fury(/Belvedere/Savoy).

The car communicates by a magical radio, tuned to 20 years old hits, always shorting out on the right lyrics.

The cutest sweetheart in school rejects everyone but the greaser, and yet doesn’t appreciate playing second fiddle to a car, so the car tries to choke her with a sandwich.

The greaser gets a second chance, but after Christine is wrecked by bullies, human females are irrelevant.

The jock and the sweetheart team up to rescue our greaser from Christine, but they fail. He is impaled by a chunk of Christine’s windshield. After mourning for a bit she’s back in killing mode. Our jock hero sacrifices the remaining knee bones to crush her in a Catterpillar.

The end (or is it?).

This is what happens when Stephen King needs to fart out a novel and Carpenter farts out an adaptation in record time. Meh.


This is my place for ramblings about sequences of images that exploit the human visual limitation know as persistence of vision.

Ephemera of Vision