Sleigh bells, in mid-spring? No, just my big belt buckle jingling when I shake up and down in the men’s room, determined to drain the last drop. I know Zizek discusses the MacGuffin as “pure semblance” but sometimes, despite ourselves, we take one to heart.
Imagine this production showing up—lights, cameras, craft services, trailers for the talent—across half the douchebag world. L.A., Miami, Dubai. In the wardrobe truck: ironic t-shirts for the musclebound IT guy, a whole rack of henleys and fatigues for Stringer Bell. The main dude, a kind of poor man’s Javier Bardem, gets crisp white oxfords open at the collar under a fitted black suit. The Avatar lady sports combat-ready post-yoga stretch. Slo-mo walking six abreast.
I’ve got a soft spot for guards and sentries, the million little adjustments and attentions it takes to keep everything in its place. They go down in tens and twenties, here, mostly at the mercy of the team sniper. One should not be surprised to find that “Don’t Stop Believing” sounds amazing every time it surprisingly arrives, since sounding amazing is what it was meant to do. In the last reel the super-spies turn out to be good old ordinary us: one becomes a new papa, and another takes the gang to watch his niece play peewee soccer. “Hold on to that feeling.”
A Ducati roars out of a shipping container only to be sniped while speeding across the tarmac so as to transform in gasoline explosion from motorcycle to missile and destroy a Lear Jet full of billions and bombs—he who grasps the speed required for this also apprehends metamorphosis as, paradoxically, the very condition we have strangely decided to outstrip.
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