Don't see Beverly Hills Chihuahua

Jamie Lee Curtis kisses her chihuahua and her career goodbye.

As a semi-professional film critic, I try to be objective with cinema. When I am able, I go into movies without bias or pre-conceived notions, and I typically don’t judge a film based solely on its trailer. After all, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by a few films with terrible trailers, and let down by several with breathtaking ones.

But I really can’t bring myself to be objective with Beverly Hills Chihuahua. I don’t feel that it is presumptuous of me in the least to say that Beverly Hills Chihuahua will be the single worst film of the year, the decade, and of all time. Hands down, no competition, case freaking closed.

May I present to you, exhibit A.

This trailer is tremendous in that it both makes me want to vomit and punch someone at the same time. I am both saddened and infuriated, confused and yet completely sure that Beverly Hills Chihuahua is the first of seven seals, and that the apocalypse is not far behind.

I have never been so affected by a movie trailer. Ever. It has changed my very perception of the world and my place in it. Why even continue living in a society where movies about talking CGI Chihuahuas are not just greenlit, but produced and released. Into American movie theaters. It’s a new low – the bottom of the ladder. It has never happened before, will never be repeated, and will most likely lead to pandemonium and widespread panic.

You will go insane trying to sit through this film. You will lose your mind right then and there. Your grip on reality (which is obviously a bit shaky to begin with, seeing as you were willing to pay admission to a movie called Beverly Hills Chihuahua) will slip and everything you have ever known, loved, or cherished will be but a distant memory, smothered by CGI Chihuahuas. Beverly Hills Chihuahua will destroy you. Forever.

I have not seen Beverly Hills Chihuahua, do not intend on seeing Beverly Hills Chihuahua, have no idea as to the cast, story, or director of Beverly Hills Chihuahua. But here is how I imagine the film progressing:

Don’t see Beverly Hills Chihuahua. If your kids want to see it, disown them. If your spouse wants to see it, get a divorce. If your ailing grandfather’s dying wish was that you see Beverly Hills Chihuahua in his honor, tell him, “Too bad, gramps.” There is no other option, except oblivion. Beverly Hills Chihuahua transcends bad filmmaking and super-novas into a gaping hole of ineptitude. It is the death of cinema, the blight of mankind, the end of the world.