I constantly have this feeling that it's 1996. So when it came to reviewing The Hitcher, I geared up for a mighty gripe about how the original only came out 10 years ago, which is OBVIOUSLY not long enough to justify a remake. Because 10 years ago was 1986, right? Guys? Hellooo? As it turns out—are you fucking ready for this?—1986 was actually 20 years ago. I'm not 15 anymore, and we CERTAINLY can't be watching C. Thomas Howell and Jennifer Jason Leigh (how's that osteoporosis, granny?) get all sliced and diced in the shiny, spanky, hotsy-totsy two thousands. We needed this remake. Desperately.

Weirdly enough, The Hitcher is the most 1996 movie I've seen since 1997. It's spring break. Two nubile youngsters, Grace (Sophia Bush) and Jim (Zachary Knighton), speed across New Mexico, determined to join the stomach-pumpin', groin-waxin', date-rapin' hordes at Lake Havasu. The fun stops when Jim foolishly picks up a hitchhiker (Sean Bean, Boromiriffic!) at a rainy redneck mini-mart. The guy's a maniac who does bad things to good people. Grace has to pee all the time (oh, us girls and our bladders!), and cries a lot. Jim handles the gun and rubs his gross little beard. City folk should not trust the desert.

No attempt is made to explain why the Hitcher does what he does—not so much as an "escaped convict" or a "brain eaten by spiders"—or how the human body (spoiler alert!), when pulled apart like taffy, could fatally split right through the torso (wouldn't the wrists be more plausible?).

The Hitcher is Scream without the wit; it's I Know What You Did Last Summer without the Ryan Phillippe. And Sophia Bush is the new Sarah Michelle Gellar, and 2007 is the new 1996. So see? I was right the whole time. Now give me my C. Thomas Howell back.