Of relating to secretion

"No human being has the right to own another."-- John Phillip Law, a progressive magical realist

What does a film like The Fury bring to the table? It puts the restraint of caste on the working class hysteria which Stephen King wrought fairly well in Carrie. In the "me" decade, liberalism was in a virtual stampede toward all the ills that made the US into "the Great Satan" and movies tapped into that underlying anxiety of forsaking god and hierarchy. The Exorcist had a subterranean dimmer effect on the liberated woman, just as the Omen suggested Kennedy's assassination may have been the beginning of the end. Carrie exposed misogyny as a corrosive disaster, and De Palma upgraded it just a bit, gave ESP a certain hauteur, allowing the audience to snigger at the military industrial complex, the Saudi family no more than obliquely referenced. People gave credence to extra sensory perception. Rod Serling used it as a scientific method to try to keep Night Gallery alive, my diet of ad hoc camp, which upon reflection is simply the stuff of silly. De Palma did not need Christianity as an apologia, like those which came before it, and dispenses with it in Durning's litany of awe for telekinesis. Who needs the supernatural when being human is enough of an inexplicable frustration? Andrew Stevens Robin has a petulance which is off key in comparison to Douglas and Cassavetes' playful bouncing ball as industry elders, one to die in his cirrhosis mystique, the other regressing into his amazing second childhood. Kirk's life nearly spans the history of cinema itself, and the definitions he carried with such a razor's edge in his post war films, by 78, are ridiculed, even impotent; there is a subtext in The Fury that masculine definition is under significant threat, but excusing Stevens not offering more subtly to his tantrum, we were worried about turning ourselves into weapons of mass destruction, something Sacks attempted to mitigate, going into neurology. I do not know how many of you may have read Christopher Hitchens series in Vanity Fair on dying. Hitchens pieces carry an undercurrent of a smoker's corrosive guilt. Sacks is sanguine, and as is typical, concentric in the focus of his fortune life, putting himself at the service of the damned.

If there is a perspective on terminal illness and mortality I have not read in over forty years of literacy, perhaps it is in Sanskrit.