Violet Hands is a nail-biter as spooky as vaulted silent horror film stock. We stand a far distance from the time stamp now. Local theater might generate a look of panic from the kiddies in the first few rows. Those in the back, in double-breasted suits and sapless eyes, mildly strain with obligatory curiosity to see the action. Seeing as nobody is paying them any mind, they give up their straining, tilt their hats forward a bit, and lounge. Some impresario has taken it upon himself to narrate, to explicate. His gratuitous narration does not damper the panic and fear of those kiddies who remain captivated in the first few rows; I doubt whether the suits in the back can tell the difference, words or no words, impresario or silence.
-- Rick Weaver
