Why, Americans randomly shooting ourselves has become so common the sting that once pierced us, the outrage which once consumed us upon hearing the news, has dulled. That news has gotten short-lived, too.
Quickly now, name the last wanton outbreak of death delivered by an asocial man who’s shattered a peaceful day with his assault rifle. One we’ve foolishly permitted him to possess. Perhaps killings are occurring or will occur while you read this. Doubtlessly shortly thereafter then. Continue reading Precipitating Violence
More than an “s” differentiates the Boris Vian novella I Spit on Your Graves from both schlock movie versions of I Spit on Your Grave. Nor does the former serve as source material for the latter pair.
Book and movies arrive from distinct places.
Vian’s 1946 tale is an oozing helping of exported Americana strained through culture, news, music, and propaganda into France. While the United States and Soviet Union won World War II, it would take Stalin’s death and Khrushchev’s admissions of the deceased commissar’s criminal excesses before the workers’ paradise gleam assumed a rightfully heavy tarnish.
Until that happy day America alone occupied the whole ambivalence spectrum.
Each movie follows one simple arc. A damsel in distress turns tables on her tormentors and becomes Ellie Mae Clampett on meth. It’s carnage deluxe. Continue reading Graphic Thrills