Quite honestly, did it speak of times and places we know so familiar? Or was it particularly hanged into space and time like a discarded Grand Wizard cloak?
Dare we, beneath the surface, scrub and then hover about the geode that is the life of Faulkner, the intellectual cache of Faulkner, indeed, the stories of sleepy mule's slowly Samba-ing their buttocks along in front of a convict, "working another man's soil".
Till, till, tockery, a didgery and a whimsical doddering about the infinite space between wires and computer server banks.
The thing is to move along with nature, for good or ill, and what is dealt to both good and ill is neither good nor ill, but simply nature. But from the standpoint of faith, all dealt from nature, is, at bottom, good.
Of Savini, this was his moment, and he pressed them hard, tasked them to emote to a kind of pitch intsensity: its the material, babies, the consequences of losing the day scrawled on their brows as they contest. The actor artist makeup man director pushing from his own unique perspective, inspiring an intensity, an energy from his actors and crew, and that, cut fairly well to keep the story moving with scarcely a second's breathing space, but mostly devoid of things like shock cuts and so forth.
Harry is a big vinegar douche.
Ben is black.
Of the day itself, the twenty-fiff. Twenty-fifth, and all that, one in a row, a subset of a larger set in a storage bank of various days, years, collapsing into seconds and minutes.
Of Barbara and f*cking Veronica Lake, I have not much to add which she hasn't already tried to say, or failed to say, of herself.
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