LEGION

I should get my chart done, find out which planet is responsible for images falling on me, these days, like rain. Or snow—in that they dissolve on contact. When they don’t? Apocalypse. Images on fire, piled in the street.

I should say up front: in this film, an African-American man who is known to enjoy hip-hop is enjoined by an elder to lay down his Glock; a slutty teen repents making her parents’ life difficult; a yuppie with a BMW is crucified (upside down). A woman—“I’m nobody, I’m just a waitress”—tells of having backed out of an abortion, thereby saving the life of a child who turns out to be the savior of all humanity. In the end she and her male protector set off to found a new world, the baby at her breast, the SUV’s ample trunk weighed down with small arms. In their wake are strewn the bodies of the townspeople who turned on them, who were in turn slaughtered by an avenging angel with perfect bone structure and a British accent: Bettany, who I saw once in the lobby of Angelika, being a tall drink of water and waiting for his violet-eyed wife.

What do angels do? Fall into rank, and contemplate God’s plan, which though too intricate for their understanding nevertheless compels them by the beautiful order they know it to contain. And we’re way down here, and when I try to think of how things are connected I get a hot, fuzzy feeling in my head. Warm, southerly air today brought a pattery shower, the vans still beaded with rainwater do the traffic circle too fast, the green globes of the F stop are lit and glow. We could probably bear this so-called order if it didn’t of necessity draw its sphere of inclusion just behind our heels—we’ve always, in spite of ourselves, just stepped inside.