My darkness isn't as original as that of Hitchcock's appropriated lesbian. Revenge killing over betrayal of trust is as old as the hills. Highsmith utilized more complex repressions and triggers, those which basically sucked good people into suspense-filled, dangerous situations, and by today's standards, faggots are the new angels, except for those Christians who feel the power of apostasy, and thus, even Highsmith's bitterness, which Matt Damon brought to life as Ripley, is passe. What bothers many people about me is the belief that I am capable of the beheading in Oklahoma, at least morally, or that like Cumberbatch, I can go up against a nearly invincible opponent, and shoot a bullet through their skull, while the Catholic laity rejoins harp to homily to ask, "What is this doing to you?"
What it has done is destroyed a time in my life wherein I should have been able to relax with a decent man, visit Tuscany, greet my damn family who stayed at the other end of the pond. Although I may annihilate myself in the process, I am going to dissolve and destroy the Philadelphia disability center. I'll send Tony Stiles the pre-written saga which always leads to these poignant trajectories of destruction.
To steer these insinuations back to the literature and the screen plays themselves, for all of Benedict's attuned energies, and all the mobility of the modern camera, His Last Bow ends on a disappointing, anti-climatic note.
Doyle is... Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a master mechanic, conceptually, but his high and corrupted Victorian voice, ushering in the ambiguity of the modern, Edwardian? era gets on my nerves. Sorry.
This be it said, me believes I have the etext in the cabbit patch. I'll check. Someday, if I don't keel from arteriosclerosis triggered by starvation, it is worthy to compare.
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