I think Hardcore Henry’s misogyny felt weirdly acceptable (even though it wasn’t) because it seemed to be the product both of an insane telekinetic sociopath and an emotionally stunted/split scientist?
Otherwise the movie, for all of its excess, seemed to believe in love or a kind of love that was emotional, not sexual. Even if it demonstrated that belief sexually or through sexual means and placed love of the father above all other kinds of love.
Biking home, life was more visceral after watching that movie. I was chasing “The Nose” up Beverly and down side-streets. Yevgeni Zamyatin’s We had became guns and explosions instead of mandatory calisthenics and forgotten homes in a bubble-enclosed city… The bottle glinting madly in the moonlight in Yuri Olesha’s Envy a musical performed by a series of saluting body-doubles.
In the Russian tradition they have learned how to do without exposition, which in clumsy hands often makes things worse. Instead, a flurry of unexplained signs that bleeds or leaks unreality down from the screen.
This isn’t my last post, but I am approaching my last post. Like a motorcyclist frantically trying to make up the distance between himself and a retreating convoy, frustrated to find that he can only cover half the distance at a time.