The hydra of impulse. Pack a lunch, you’ll be eating it by eleven. A movie about cannibal vampires speaks to a people so hounded by the infinite menu they’d be willing to see it shrunk to the one worst thing.
The day I go, I shit you not, is the day I discover on google the rumor about bedbugs in the theater. My skin crawls the duration. They’re said to infest in every unfortunate way: invisibly, entirely, and forever. Anyway, it can’t be broached. The one time I tried to make a lighthearted crack about the heat the usherette on her smoke break—she’d been the one to chat me up—snapped into defensive mode: “Do you have a complaint about the theater, sir?” Jesus, no.
Can we ever become human? In the end the vampire soldiers attack and devour other soldiers who have themselves, in attacking the hero’s brother, consumed his now-curative blood, made so by the brother’s previous biting of Defoe and subsequent transformation because Defoe is a vampire-to-human following his accidental exposure to the sun, which he survived by falling into a lake. In other words, the cave is deep and dark and we are up in it. I feel nervous, strung-out by all these vampire stories, post-apocalypse stories, post-vampire-apocalypse stories. Like a crop in exhausted soil—but who, in times like these, can afford to keep a field fallow? Sacrifice, comes the eternal decree. Eat life itself.
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