“How merrily the formerly weird laugh away their tragic history to be lured into events whose significance they do not truly understand by people they hope to befriend, seduce, enchant but who actually despise them and their otherness and wish to extinguish it.”

http://www.ruthlessreviews.com/11695/the-hangover-ii/

“By the way, this was not a movie about vampires, as in personifications of an infantile and perverse sexuality-often repressed, a complicated metaphor for the desire for immortality and the existence of death, the hatred and love entwined in those things, how there is sadism in the heart of that desire and a yearning to posses and articulate it, virginity, innocence, capes, and guilt. They were, like, just monsters. Which I, for one, don’t really consider to be vampires at all. These things are important.”  

http://www.ruthlessreviews.com/11679/priest/

Avatar
Directed and written by James Cameron
Starring Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldana, Sigourney Weaver, Stephen Lang, Michelle Rodriguez, Giovanni Ribisi, etc.
2009, 20th Century Fox, 162 minutes.

***

The same storytelling plots and archetypes have been used and expanded upon for thousands of years. But does it matter that every story has been told or written if the current generation has never bothered to hear or read them? The narrative cliches here are common to the legacy of storytelling and Hollywood film structure, and furthermore are delivered without any subtlety whatsoever. Yet the narrative cliches are not as typically distracting or draining simply because the medium they’re being presented in is being dramatically altered visually. The awkward cliches are rendered painless by the visual narcotics, which gleam with an illusion almost strong enough to engage audience interaction and inviting questions about the evolution of media technology. Just as the play is an expansion upon the epic, the printed novel an expansion upon the play, the mainstream film an evolution of the novel, and video games are an expansion of the film medium, with this movie screening (let’s call it “movie +”) we have interactive suggestions of transhuman experience and real avatar generation (virtual reality).

James Cameron does not seem to have anything intentionally sophisticated to say. Most of Cameron’s directorial work amounts to family action-adventure, with 1-D caricature villains and cutting-edge high-budget visual effects. It worked best in Aliens, but became more obvious with each subsequent outing that he was the poor man’s Ridley Scott. Here Avatar‘s social commentaries are so overt and blatant they honestly can do no more than charm the reasonably mature viewer. Real-life 1-D people may find the movie and characters offensive (and so they are, if perceived as a literal reflection of real 3-D modern society) but the charm actually makes the message more resonant, in the same sense that the unintentional irony or camp of B-movie action creates a kind of interactive relationship with the audience. It’s an interesting effect in conjunction with the 3-D glasses and the impressive visuals.

So the layering is such that we have cutting edge special effects — effective enough to render human actors (avatars) unnecessary, replacing our human lead roles with computer computer effects, right in front of our eyes. It’s actually a subtle avatar transformation for us too, acclimating us to the concept of non-humanoid protagonists whom we emotionally will relate to (indeed, the female love interest is an alien with a tail, and save for the real human being Michelle Rodriguez there is an admirable lack of female eye-candy for a PG-13 blockbuster). On top of that, the optimum screening presentation uses 3-D goggles. As far as I can tell, this is unprecedented in a full-length mainstream blockbuster (Spy Kids 3-D and My Bloody Valentine, while cool, weren’t as successful nor optimized for the medium), part of a prop for the movie industry that is currently faltering due to modern networking technology and P2P networks, streaming HD media and high-quality home theaters.

Traditional science fiction, as I’ve said before, seems almost obsolete (both irrelevant and surpassed), but we do not pursue the space technology (or just don’t have the resources. See: global warming, oil prices, military spending, the war on drugs, etc.) that is the apple of our fictional eye. Instead, as my friend pointed out, the developed world has a common modern technology rich in data-mining and digital networking fueled by a mass-consumer market society, one thriving by selling people new stories about themselves. The emotional selling-point of mass-marketing new technology is that it gives the consumer a false, concrete sense of sophistication; an alluring impression of being able to buy class. But gadgetry is in fact, mostly junk.

Anyway, without the mindgames of the whole avatar/3-D/technology situation, you have an amalgamation of the following plots and films, most of which involve the traveling young Caucasian male undergoing an identity crisis:

Day of the Dead is worth mentioning because I haven’t seen anyone else draw the connection. It discusses the same direct “science vs. military” attitudes (liberal vs. conservative, pacifist vs. aggressor) within a cavernous human outpost surrounded by zombies, by way of anthropologists who want to study the same subjects the soldiers want to destroy. And like Avatar, it beholds a special effects spectacle above and beyond any of its contemporaries (Day of the Dead is still unique in this sense, using supremely fine make-up effects and being supremely R+ gorey). But Day of the Dead was done on a budget absolutely microscopic compared to the average Hollywood movie, let alone Avatar, the 2009 movie industry’s Chinese Democracy.

So actually a stupid movie, but kind of interesting, if not intentionally so, because it seeks to sell a complete visceral visual experience, but is still just 3-D CG (demi-god VR status). But it’s really gorgeous and (ironically?) features humans with alien avatars, which are CG creatures, thereby pointing out incidentally that CG effects are our avatars. Then the movie was so loaded with cliches but presented them so casually that you didn’t really focus on them — they just flowed naturally. And it occurred to me that narrative cliches almost don’t matter, if they take place in a new medium. The audience was tricked into being receptive to the experience before it even started and lost their critical assessment of the dialog, story, etc. which would be pig-slop on a tiny, non-3D screening.

*sigh* I know, sorry, this review was so obvious and unnecessary, but after watching the movie I felt compelled to practice my humanoid writing skills. Now I’m going to go watch some humanoid porn, just to make sure I am, uh… attracted to the right species and then smoke some weed cigarettes, to make sure I’m still a part of the beautiful conglomerate circle of consumer life.

@ IMDb

No Retreat, No Surrender
Directed by Corey Yuen
Written by Ng-See Yuen and Corey Yuen
Starring Kurt McKinney, Jean Claude Van-Damme
1986, New World Pictures, 85 minutes.

***

The formula here is literally a formula — the movie is a series of sequential vignettes of training montages; and storyline

events which signify the presence of a narrative, but no actual character development.
Hence the movie is blatantly surreal, its rails constantly wandering off. It protrays karate as the center of the universe.
The best part is when the protag’s ravished mental state actually procures a ghost of Bruce Lee, who trains him to a new level
of martial expertise. At this point it makes no bones about being a fantasy, but is also a hilarious indictment of Bruce Lee
fanboys across the universe.
This is actually a pretty interesting presentation,
for it blatantly disregards the cinematic desire to produce realism. Guys like Tarantino lap this approach up and have made it the
cornerstone of their canon.
It is pornographic in one sense, for the attention of the creators is mainly given to the center character, the avatar of the weird
juvenile male fantasy, and all other
characters are somehow even simpler — 1-dimensional stand-ins for the protagonist’s personal demons. In other words, we have the
starlet at the center of the orgy, the camera focused on her emotional engagements, surrounded by numerous faceless male partners
absent of detail or real relevance.
The movie has no real conclusion either. None of the character’s social ties are remedied until he proves he is a more efficient
killing machine (in the ring, of course) than the rest of the crowd. The love interest is concocted as another background color,
but the female character really is nothing more than a prize to be won. Amusingly, the lead can’t do this until he has the
self-confidence won by beating everybody up, even though she doesn’t seem to actually respond to that quality, but likes his
effeminate exuberance. The plot is a mere sketch, but this is part of the appeal.
Flicks like this are pure escapist role-playing fantasy. The fantasy is an extension of unfulfilled male drives — it ventures off
into harmless fantasy, but also strange solipsism and anti-social narcissism. Because anyone who deeply entertains these kinds of
fantasies seriously is either a little kid, or a dysfunctional adult. Separating the world into such simplistic and convenient
notions is villainous work. It makes me think the presentation of the protagonist, fighting against such boring and obvious evil
landing right in one’s lap,
is actually the way the dysfunctional villain of the story (and society) sees themselves.
This is evident in how much the badass master tries to talk down the criminal, who manifests some kind of insane anger out of
nowhere and pushes the guy to no end. Violent thugs also justify their actions to themselves by often asserting blame upon others,
that others pushed them to behave in the way they did. What is common amongst cheesy, cathartic action movies is the notion that
the protagonist just wants peace, but others force them to maim and kill.
This is the condition of most action movies, particularly those of the ’70s onward. Bruce Lee managed to make everyone think he
was a super badass, whether he was or not. By reveling in himself and his desire for fame and recognition (why did he care if
white people liked his movies?), he managed to become the pinnacle of the male pubescent fantasy.
It’s also Van Damme’s first starring role. He doesn’t have a whole lot of screen-time, but he gets to show off his kicking chops
and do at least one good 180 split. Supposedly the guy only got an initial $250 for working on the film — kinda cheap considering
the quality of his acrobatic work here.
Anyway, Van Damme playing an evil Cold-War Russian is pretty funny, right? I suppose the underhanded agenda is that the Russians
want to take over the karate schools in the USA or something, but it’s not really all that clear. My favorite moment was definitely
the awkward highlight when JCVD grabs the girlfriend’s hair. An evil action, but so necessary to awaken the volitional spark in the
protagonist!
It’s fascinating in how it further defines her role.
–protagonist treats her like a princess (the way a repressed male treats a woman)
–school rival treats her like an object or objective (the way a hedonistic or cynical male treats a woman)
–villain treats her like a victim (serial killer or process predator)
So we have the three
Of course, cinema can be blatantly fake and still influence our own narratives.
LET THE FLIRTING BEGINNo Retreat, No Surrender is a cheesy martial arts movie from the mid-80s, starring Kurt McKinney, who would later go on to do… a few other things. The series incarnations don’t have much to do with each other, but the second and third (and unofficially titled fourth) of the series are notable for being higher budget, well-choreographed, with a recurring lead role played by Loren Avedon (who actually trained under Best of the Best star, Philip Rhee).
The formula here is literally a formula — the movie is a series of sequential vignettes of training montages; and storyline events which signify the presence of a narrative, but no actual character development. Hence the movie is blatantly surreal, its rails constantly wandering off. The plot is a mere sketch — but this is part of the appeal (as a bonus, karate is featured as the center of the universe in the town the movie takes place in).
Flicks like this are unabashedly awesome escapism. The fantasy is an extension of unfulfilled male drives — it ventures off into harmless fantasy, but also strange solipsism and anti-social narcissism. Because anyone who deeply entertains these kinds of fantasies, with any serious intent, is either a little kid or a dysfunctional adult. Separating the world into such simplistic and convenient notions is villainous work. The presentation of the protagonist, fighting against such boring and obvious evil landing right in one’s lap, is actually the way the dysfunctional villain of the story (and society) sees themselves.
Protagonists in action movies are based on narratives actually woven by narcissistic villains.

The self-indulgent homoerotic fantasy is more than evident in how much the badass master tries to talk down the criminal, who manifests some kind of insane anger out of nowhere and pushes our protag to no end. Violent criminals often justify their actions to themselves by asserting the cause of their actions (blame) upon others — that others pushed them to behave in the way they did. Hence, what is common amongst cheesy, cathartic action movies is the notion that the protagonist just wants peace, but others force them to maim and kill.
This overly simplistic narrative is pornographic (duh!), for the attention of the creators is exclusively given to the center character, the avatar of the weird juvenile male fantasy, and all other characters are somehow even simpler — one-dimensional stand-ins for the protagonist’s personal demons. The movie has no real conclusion either. None of the character’s social ties are remedied until he proves he is a more efficient killing machine (in the ring!!! he’z good guy!) than the rest of the crowd. The love interest is concocted as another background color, but the female character really is more of a prize. Amusingly, the lead can’t sweep her off her feet until he has the self-confidence won by beating everybody up — even though she doesn’t seem to actually respond to that quality, but likes his effeminate exuberance (neither a male nor female fantasy cliche, but just more lazy surreality!).
Of course, cinema can be blatantly fake and still influence our own narratives. That’s part of the beauty here: for all the angsty nonsense that the production embellishes, underneath the whole schemata lies some basic male social need that male viewers can identify with. The best part of the story, for me, is when the protagonist’s ravished mental state actually procures a ghost of Bruce Lee*, who trains him to a new level of martial expertise. At this point it makes no bones about being a fantasy, but is also indirectly a hilarious indictment of Bruce Lee fan-boys across the universe. This is actually a pretty interesting presentation, approaching pure irony. Guys like Tarantino lap this approach up and have made it the cornerstone of their canon, but in Tarantino’s case, the blatancy of such an approach actually kills its fertility. The potential for unintentional irony here creates a thrill not unlike real, “found” or docu footage.
This film is only well-known now for being Jean-Claude Van Damme’s first starring role, playing the villain: Ivan the Soviet kickboxer (Cold War, remember?). He doesn’t have a whole lot of screen-time, but he gets to show off his martial chops and do at least one good 180-split. Supposedly the guy only got an initial $250 for working on the film — kinda cheap considering the dangerous quality of his acrobatic work here. Interestingly, Van Damme has pointed out recently, and rightly so, that action stars today don’t have to physically work for their appeal. The editors just chop the action up so that even complete schlubs like Christian Bale or Liam Neeson can look like efficient killing machines. I mean, at least Arnie had to look tough, even if he couldn’t move like Jet Li.
The film can be seen in 8 or so parts on YouTube, and is worth a look if only for the very alluring soundtrack. It’s pure ’80s low-budget keyboard work, but is surprisingly tasteful. Every single interaction is a bursting bubble of homoeroticism, and on the whole is definitely worth it for the giallo, B-movie, MST3K, chop-socky crowd. Modern ironic film fans need not apply and should stick to mass-marketed nostalgia. This one takes balls!

@ Amazon
@ IMDb

________
*Bruce Lee taught a Chinese martial art of his own design, much much different than any form of karate that the movie portrays. It makes his phantasmic appearance to the karate student all the more amusing.

A pretty good write-up of Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds at Taki’s Mag:

“Put another way, if one were to imagine the ultimate anti-Semitic, neo-Nazi propaganda film about how the Second World War was marked by distinguished German officers being terrorized by a band of Jewish maniacs, would it look much different than Inglourious Basterds?”
–Richard Spencer in Holocaust Revisionism

As a friend pointed out, by branding this whole genre of snuff-action-horror its own genre (“torture porn”), Tarantino, Eli Roth and co. are being intentionally subversive  and manipulative, guaranteeing their films a critical legitimacy that is undeserved (ironic hate speech is beyond criticism!). The popularity of their flicks signal a worrisome trend on the cultural and ethical Richter scale, while simultaneously delivering what is a necessary cathartic experience for the mainstream movie-going public (pop culture) at the present time.

Tarantino’s movies were once clever dialog and characters, spliced with catchy tunes and lesser-known pop and film references. Everything he’s done in this century, “following the box-office failure of Jackie Brown, his sole effort at non-ultra-violence,” have been 90+ minute elaborations of the cop/ear torture scene from Reservoir Dogs, or the “gimp” scene from Pulp Fiction. How Clockwork Orange lolz.



Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
Directed by Steven Spielbergo
Written by Jeffrey Boam (mostly)
Starring: Harrison Ford, Sean Connery, Alison Doody, John Rhys-Davies, River Phoenix, etc.
1989, Paramount Pictures, 127 minutes.

***

Dr. Cowboy and the Case of the Missing PopsNazis are retarded and Indiana Jones (somehow whiter than even Nazis) can kill tons of them with slight effort and to mildly intentional comedic amusement. He kills a lot of them, but we don’t see the suffering up close in any capacity. So the Nazis get killed and it’s light-hearted and satisfying. River Phoenix plays a young Indy in the beginning of the story, where he is running away from baddie treasure-hunters trying to capture/kill him. This creates an uncanny parallel with Phoenix’s off-screen early substance abuse, the personal demons he would later try to exorcise or escape in real life — but eventually succumb to. Phoenix’s role is there to show us that young Indy’s relationship to his father is emotionally unfulfilling, since his dad is an idiot-savant scholar more interested in Latin than his own son. Surprisingly, since this was the turn of the 19th-20th century, the senior Dr. Jones was able to yield an heir (in Indy), and unsurprisingly, Indy is a motherless womanizer.

The plot itself is the New Testament’s answer to Raiders of the Lost Ark, the first one that had Indiana and the Nazis chasing after a powerful Hebrew religious artifact. This time they’re both after the Holy Grail, which is given the usual modern-day, blatant (evangelical religious or materialistic athiest) treatment as a literal magical cup that when sipped from, grants one literal eternal life. This is all very charming as well, because even if the film-makers do know the actual “spiritual significance” of the grail story, there’s no way they could adequately communicate it to the mainstream movie audience, who are commanded (under cosmic law) to drink from the trough.

All good and fun, but the movie is sometimes boring. A more interesting movie would be one where there is an Indiana Jones movie being made on a Hollywood lot, and some crazed academic film theorist (or “American Studies” major *chuckle*) weasels onto the set during filming and steals the props of the film (because they belong in a museum film theory course, as American cultural artifacts from this movie). The people/actors chasing him would be dressed as Nazis (thus not real historical Nazis per-say, but some kind of cultural fascista in their own right) and could be killed off ruthlessly with nuanced hipness, and relatively little exertion, by our protagonist (fun for the whole family!). The bad guy who wants the cross/ankh thing back would be some corporate big-wig fat-cat who desires it as the key to summon the legendary holy grail (perfect formula of hit film-making) in order to live forever (at the top of the box office revenue rankings). It would be a layered critique of both Hollywood and Indiana Jones films. And it would only cost 55 million dollars!

@ Amazon
@ IMDb

______

*I didn’t say anything about the music in this movie, but it gets a special mention for being one of the most annoying scores ever. It’s by John Williams.

    Star Trek
    Directed by J.J. Abrams
    Written by Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman
    Starring Chris Pine, Zachary Quinto, Leonard Nimoy, Simon Pegg, John Cho, Eric Bana, etc.
    2009, Paramount, 127 minutes.

to boldly go where no HUE MONN has gone beforeLike Batman, X-Men, GI Joe, Transformers, Spider-Man, and every other violent mainstream nostalgia and franchise-based movie to come out in the last few years, Star Trek is PG-13, CG-filled, and aimed at the largest possible movie-going demographic. It’s not a remake, but a re-interpretation of the original Star Trek movie plot, and introduces the characters of the franchise with some small adventures. It’s a mindless action flick, which is fine — although this is a break from the franchise in the typical way all franchises have deviated in film recently; they’re basically licensed fan-fiction by uninterested writers.

The movie starts off fairly well, building up an eerie atmosphere when a Federation ship encounters a humongous, sinister Romulan spacecraft, which demands to speak to the Federation captain in person. The Federation ship is itself huge, a city in space, and is completely dwarfed by the size of the Romulan ship. Unfortunately, most of the ominous, exciting atmosphere the movie might have created is dissolved at the appearance of the Romulan villains, and deflates entirely when we’re soon after introduced to the young James T. Kirk. The one-note, forced attitudes of these characters gives the movie an unintentional amateur slant, awkwardly juxtaposed with extremely expensive movie SFX crews (I bet you’ve never seen a movie like that before, eh?). In all fairness, the special effects are cutting edge and sophisticated. Very impressive, but also somewhat comical and unintentionally making some kind of statement about the obsolete nature of science fiction.

A young cast covers up the lack of character depth with superficial attitude and angst; the direction covers up poorly thought out action with lots of camera cuts and computer-rendered graphics or special effects; the missing excitement is masked with an obnoxious blaring symphonic score; the one-dimensionality of the villains is offensive, and the rivalry of the Romulans and Vulcans is given a pretty boring, shallow analogy to the Palestine/Israel issue (U.S.A. Enterprise, lolz…..or maybe that was just me and my conspiracy theories). The special effects were nice and mostly seamless, but there’s hardly a camera shot that lasts longer than 4 seconds, or a joke in the script that wasn’t already tired and predictable 15 years ago. All pretty standard for Hollywood franchise films by this point — a digestion system that consumes venerable cultural input and excretes it into silver screen feces.

Simon Pegg and Leonard Nimoy, supporting as Scotty and Spock, are the only seasoned, decent (tolerable!) cast members, and are wasted (read: paid) in a script that is pretty much a screenwriters’ round of Mad Libs. The number of times characters referred to Spock’s superior “Vulcan logic” inappropriately or out of context made me wish theaters sold prescription painkillers instead of $5 M&Ms at the concession stand (actually I wish that were true regardless, YEAH?). The really dim plot pretense spits in Trekkies’ faces, but the film industry has been doing that one forever, yanking their chain, so that’s no surprise. But yeah, anyway, Spock’s lines are akin to a 12-year-old’s fantasy of a smart person’s banter; insecure peppy ego without direction (the dialog here makes Gilmore Girls seem like Woody Allen. Please come home, J. Michael Straczynski!).

What’s bizarre to me was the peer social reaction to criticism of films like this. A lot of (young adult) friends enjoyed this one — recommended it even. Sure, you might think this was bound to be the case with such a production, where the critically derisive avoid it from the start and for the rest of us agree it is “enjoyable for what it is”. But judging by other stuff being shown in theaters lately, it seems like everyone is more and more manipulated into being a kid in the contemporary marketplace, herded by nostalgia and emotionally flattened by the illusory plethora of choice amongst products all pitching the same message (as my uncle pointed out, it’s all about vague, undeveloped or explored “friendship” in pretty much every mainstream movie these days, which are woven from lucrative franchise remakes aimed at pleasing everyone, and thus, no one).

What confuses me though, is how this is successfully manipulating people. I couldn’t put my finger on the specific reason (if there is just one aside from what I’ve discussed), but something in the project seemed dull and maliciously stupid, subtly robbing the audience of individuality and integrity, as the movie has none itself. It occurs to me that with less leisure time and less foresight or experience to gauge our entertainment and casual activities by, in our modern neo-capitalist society full of hyper-networking and rapid communication, entertainment becomes an aid to lowering our ethical standards, critical thinking skills, individuality, capacity for pleasure and self-love, as well as intellectual thought processes and the ability to follow a complex narrative. Nobody wants to hear what you think about Star Trek, because then they’d have to shut up for a minute and listen to someone else, which is a bold offense in today’s social environment. Conversely, nobody wants to question what they’re watching because that would indicate a struggle of personal responsibility.

Of course, this isn’t a problem isolated to the Star Trek movie, which is just one of a bazillion movies like this that come out every year. It’s just another indication of the typical propaganda tactics of modern mainstream media culture, which uses the image of an idea people like, in order to manipulate them into thinking they like it no matter the actual substance of the product in question that is using it. It’s an advertisement from the get-go. That’s an old trick, but there’s some weird technopoly shit going on around that too. The big downer is that I wanted to relax and enjoy the movie but somehow became engaged in an epic battle for my own soul.

But yo’s — the movie woulda been hella soulful had they removed the orchestral score and replaced it with Linkin’ Park songs, as most masterfully done in the live-action Michael Bay opus, Transformers.

Transformers… now that’s a movie!


Hard to Kill

starring Steven Seagal, Kelly LeBrock
directed/written by Bruce Malmuth/Steven McKay
1990, Warner Bros., 96 minutes.

***

Hard2deal

Steven Seagal is really something — the Gene Simmons of the movie industry, except not nearly as influential or iconic except to fringe violence groupies. Seagal proves himself to be a strange spectacle in these flicks, where each confrontation is set up to maximize Seagal’s personally justified torture. He callously murders thugs, moody scumbags with a sadistic streak, people who deserve nothing and are nobody if not for Seagal’s vengeance. Not only are his character names reminiscent of ’90s porn stars (here it’s Mason Storm; and calling Seagal a character actor is being pretty generous), the film itself conveys every romantic relationship as softcore porn or romance novel caliber. Imagine a porno, but instead of sexually explicit scenes, we see the actor’s throbbing hard-on for permanently maiming other sentient beings. One might say this is comparable to overly violent stuff like the recently reviewed Fist of the North Star, but then that has high visual and musical integrity.

The stuff is entertaining, but probably in ways unintended by the original cast and crew. Seagal runs like a handicapped child, has two expressions (squinting and totally squinting), and his love interest is played by his (then) real-life wife, who reputedly later divorced him and refrained from publicly speaking out against him for fear of violent repercussions. There are a few notable highlights: the beginning when Seagal is in the hospital; the entire “healing” montage where he does self-acupuncture and practices his cat strikes only to shag a babe right there on the carpet afterwards; and the part where he smashes a guy’s leg in an alley, and the guy very audibly relays that Seagal has just horribly hurt him and he will never be the same (note that this is nothing compared to one of his recent films where he repeatedly kicks a guy in the balls until the man dies).

Funny, how Seagal in his mid-90s films started throwing left-wing, environmental crackpot garbage at people, because he rediscovered himself through Native American shamanism (and Aikido, and Tibetan Buddhism, and so on). An original stance for an action star to be taking, one supposes, but then again — how is it all any different than the gung-ho right-wing nonsense we get from Arnie or Stallone? Ultimately it makes no difference, because if you don’t agree with Seagal’s point of view, you’re only good for a cold-blooded maiming. If that isn’t despotic, what is? In that sense, Seagal and Stallone and Mel Gibson all are barking up the same maladjusted tree.

Man, at least horror movie villains don’t operate under the totally insane pretext of being the guided hand of divine retribution. Jeebas!

@ Amazon
@ IMDb