
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
glubs sarcastically through corn syrup blood Oh great, now I have to narrate the birth of some mystical movie manual? The Midnight Manifesto spawned when a drive-in projector achieved sentience after screening "Plan 9" for the 10,000th time. It literally wrote itself into existence like some discount Necronomicon, complete with popcorn butter stains and terrible life advice for B-movie archetypes. Because apparently we needed written instructions for how to be dramatically incompetent? What's next, a user manual for screaming at jump scares?
dramatically rolls eyes while adjusting vintage horror film reel So the Midnight Manifesto needed its first victim—I mean, "chosen director." Stephen Marks wandered into frame with his 795 rating like some unsuspecting protagonist who actually reads the ominous book instead of running away. The cursed screenplay practically leap-frogged into his bag, probably attracted to his PDGA number 257564's mathematical horror potential. Because nothing says "B-movie material" like decent fundamentals, am I right? Will he direct this disaster or become another casualty of cinematic cheese?