Here’s the thing about Cloverfield: It’s not for stupid people.
As soon as the movie was over, some Marc Ecko-wearing simpleton with a Flexfit-topped shaved dome jumped up and said, “That was gay!” (The fact that he spoke up in public was the only thing that set him apart from the similar robots nodding in agreement.)
But here’s the spoiler-free thing: Cloverfield isn’t Independence Day. It’s not candy-coated; it’s not tidy. It was never supposed to be a feel-good hit of the season. It’s there to challenge you, to tell a story that you think you know in a way you don’t, from a perspective you haven’t considered. It aimed for plasuible realism in an unrealistic scenario, which is so hard to do and made me so satisfied to see it done right.
Clearly, the dolts in my theater couldn’t rise to that challenge. They were probably pissed off that you never saw the Blair Witch, either. (You do see the monster, okay? That’s not a spoiler and it’s not the point.)
In summary: I loved it. Except for the end credits music.