Based on a too-true tale. How do you like them apples? GWH (Good Will Hunting) chases WMD’s in dusty, shouty, mustachioed Iraq, kicks in doors crisply, goes to a prison we sadly recognize, features in more GPS and googling montages than you’d think. Damon’s got this resourceful, improvisatory hero down cold. In the late 90s, forced to hypothetically choose, my wife picked Affleck. She could not foresee our collective need for a more perceptive lout. Though I concede that, unlike Leo, Damon’s dick is beside the point, not counting, of course, the boner of the scold. In Shutter the man is wrong, but here the world’s what’s oh-so fucked.
We were gonna do it right this time. Okay, sit down, have a drink. “Defend the law as you would the city wall”—Heraclitus. In our empire’s long decline we shall be interesting. The sand castle neither fresh-built nor erased by tide spends the ebb as a suggestive lump. Meanwhile clams suck airholes in the muck. The American contribution to moral philosophy: See you in hell. If we could only plug Cheney’s airhole up.
Amy Ryan as the Wall Street Journal dupe. We are criminals, soldiers, terrorists, cops, reporters, spies. The Wire’s titular cord is information tunnel, fine line, held note, and garrotte. It’s also a theatrical device by means of which a pull on one side opens a trapdoor across the stage. A dancer flies from the wings, a marionette waves goodbye or crumples as if cut. A thread encodes a Persian rug. You push a plunger—maybe you’re just draining the tub—and half a world away: kaboom.
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