With Scott the butcher. I propose that film is cured meat, jerky, sausage: the celluloid hung in strips until richly ready, until pungent-dry. This is a carnivore’s movie, all right, bloody and difficult to digest.
If you introduce a bazooka in act one, it had better go off by act three. The prodigious slaying’s in the hands of a Bushwick-based father-daughter team—she’s eleven—who shoot, slice, or burn to death every Italian-American bit player in New York. Of course children eat worlds. And sure it’s glib and mediated, her night-vision goggle-view precisely a first-person shooter interface, on top of which cell phones, MySpace, youtube, and surveillance cameras play essential roles in the plot. All the more surprising that the tang or salt or kick of the ultraviolence remains. What they don’t tell you about the virtual is that it dulls or erodes exactly no percentage of life. It turns out, like pounds of feathers and iron, that every hour lived anywhere, doing anything, weighs just the same.
Those long, longing hours I spent gazing at Wolverine. These days it’s easy to dream up some more. How about Instant Replay, who has the power to re-experience past moments in precisely the same way they singularly unfolded. The Articulationist, who can describe stuff so well that the description stands in front of the object, and now which is the copy? Captain Longview, who’s immune to stress because of his lofty perspective. Dr. Posthumous knows the future of his several endeavors. Lady Projection explains to her enemies how their desires distort their impression of the real. And their leader, Marquee Man, knows what movies are opening this week even before they’re announced online, and is willing to be the custodian of a long e-mail thread, if necessary, to organize the whole super (and super-busy) team to go.
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