As the marquee once read: It’s Complicated. In the course of the film it comes out, just by the way, that Gibson is a war veteran, and he is asked his view on post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s a scam, he says. In his experience, one leaves combat as pretty much the same person who went in. It’s complicated. All the violent deaths I’ve seen on screen over the years, where did they flow or pool? Could their materials be refined, if a refinery I am, into mercy? Do not forget the man’s reputation as a prankster and practical joker. Arrested for drunk driving in 2006, he ranted, “Fucking Jews... Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world.” It’s complicated. Intertwinement is the torture he loves best. His acting tricks are wild eyes and dead eyes. His forehead is a dense grid whose horizontal lines are astonishment and vertical, rage. His foil in this film is a fixer-type, quote, I’m usually the guy who stops you connecting A to B. Any child could tell you, they don’t connect.
In 14 movies I haven’t seen a single sex scene, not even the conventional man above the woman, moving beneath a modest sheet, one or both going unh unh. Do the movies feel this as redundant, since it is the movies and I moving this way, the movies above me going unh unh? The day after the orgy no one remembers the taut, lascivious beast who ranged through the rooms with stamping hoof and steaming nostrils. No, they dream and whisper of the creature who went limp before all comers, who assented to be annihilated by desire in the way they only wish, if not for all this fussy desire, to be.
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