Episode
30: Employee of the Month
Directed
by: John Patterson.
Writers:
Robin Green, Mitchell Burgess.
The
Antisocial Truth behind the Socially-Acceptable Fiction.
Review
by Jon Dunmore © 19 Mar 2001.
The Sopranos leans
heavily on Freud. And I'm a Freud kinda guy (over a Jung kinda
guy - as I am
a Nietzsche Kinda Guy over a Kant Kinda Guy - and no, I did
not appreciate the shot at Nietzsche in Episode 20 ("D-Girl"),
"Nietzsche wound up talkin' to his horse"). Freud
postulated that, among other things, dreams are a form of
"wish-fulfillment" - and this Episode 30 conveyed
that aspect in layered spades.
Any
popular series will always have its audience and detractors
conjecturing over the reasons for its popularity. With The
Sopranos its truthfulness is a major reason - the fact
that that truth may go against the grain of popular consensus
does not inhibit the filmmakers from conveying it. Or, it
would seem, the populace from enjoying it. This Episode
30, with psychiatrist Jennifer Melfi's rape and subsequent
vengeful contemplations, touched upon that raw nerve that
scares society into viewing itself as it really is; where
Justice is truly only a euphemism for revenge. (We only
feel that justice has been done when the level of retribution
has sated our desire for revenge.)
Let's
remember that the series originally hinged on the anti-socialism
of its protagonist, Tony Soprano, and his attempts to 'better
himself' through society's prescribed means of cure. Though
the humor in this concept was not lost upon us, the incongruity
touched a deeper vein of introspectiveness. We were constantly
called upon to ask ourselves, "IS this man irredeemable?
If so, 'irredeemable' from whose point of view? And if he
IS incorrigible, can ANY form of prescribed cure work for
him? And if none can, why do we continue to watch this futile
exercise with such a surfeit of lascivious pleasure?"
This episode, more than any before it, brought forth that
hypocritical paradox that Society must face every single
day of its 'civilized' life: though it tries to suppress
(read as the euphemism 'heal') all those who supposedly
cannot control their violent/primal impulses, ultimately
it would like to be able to address its issues AS DIRECTLY
AS a person in Tony's world is perceived to address his,
without having to analyze and subsequently repress its emotions.
And THAT'S why we all marvel, mouths agape, at the intensity
of TRUTH encapsulated within the framework of this fiction.
As
Melfi was spouting non-PC retribution against her malefactor,
venting to her own psychiatrist, the viewing audience is
forced to assess its own societally-inculcated morals. How
do YOU feel about retribution in this instance? Only now
can those who travel in Melfi's social circles understand
the measures that must be taken - and WHY those measures
need to be taken - in certain circumstances. If it only
seemed like a worn cliché before, now Society in
Melfi's echelon can truly comprehend what Tony and his ilk
mean when they say, "This thing of ours - it's a thinguv
AHnor."
Melfi's son, Jason, understood - as ALL humans do in a visceral
part of their reptilian brains - that the ONLY honorable
thing to do would be to exact grim retribution immediately
for the wrong perpetrated upon his mother. But 'civilization'
has decreed dysfunction on all those who would act impulsively.
Why? (As Tony once said, "cos if dey got Gary Cooper
in touch wid 'is feelin's, then it's dysfunction dis an'
dysfunction dat and dysfunction buh fungul!-" ) The
writers made Jason seem like he was being impulsive at the
time, but after Melfi fell victim to The Law's callous handling
of its retributive methods (the rapist was captured and
subsequently allowed to walk on a technicality), the viewing
audience is shocked into realizing that Jason was in fact
RIGHT.
No
Repression, No Dysfunction, No Therapy Required.
Ironic
that Melfi's epiphany of how violence can be used to solve
psychological noxae should come in the form of violence
visited upon her person. Now she realizes how ultimately
cogent Tony's world view is, in relation to her fragile,
sheltered existence.
She
dreams of a ferocious black dog that threatens her when
her hand is caught in a vending machine. Though fearful
of it, in her dream, she was suddenly confronted by a greater
peril - her rapist, whom the black dog attacked. It was
obvious that the dog represented Tony Soprano: a fearful
presence, yet with the potential to protect and avenge her.
Public perception of The Law is along these same
lines, yet Melfi has realized the REALITY of The Law is
as diametrically opposite to the perception, as her life
is from Tony's: The Law looks like it's there to protect/avenge
wrongdoing, but ultimately, through its convoluted miasma
of underhandedness, bureaucracy, injustice and inefficiency,
it ends up stultifying and destroying what it has been instituted
to preserve.
Melfi
wanted Tony out of her life because she did not want to
get drawn into his world - but after the rape, she wants
him as close as ever because his world exists, and
she has been jarred into realizing that that world can have
its benefits.
After
spending the last few years vicariously drawing titillation
from Tony's proximity (and, by association, her proximity
to the underworld), Melfi now comprehends exactly how wondrously
violent Tony's world must really be. And she senses, more
than ever, his potency. She now knows that the element that
wounded her so nonchalantly could just as nonchalantly be
decimated through the power that this man wields so comfortably.
One word from her - and her assailant would be nonexistent.
Yet she cannot bring herself to unleash that power because
she realizes how all-consuming it will be. Once tasted,
like heroin, she would crave that taste again and again.
No indiscretion would become too small for her to avenge.
Her fate, her mind, her body, would all become Tony's possessions
were she to "ask a favor" of him.
In assessing the strength it requires to AVOID acting upon
every impulse, Melfi now also realizes just how powerful
this man is, in refraining from those acts which
he could accomplish so very easily.
Lorraine Bracco scaled new heights in her portrayal of this
character whom we thought had attained a ceiling of complexity.
Her turmoil was incredible to witness. Her character, Melfi,
ultimately had to concede that since she had relinquished
her will to the beast of Civilized Society, she could never
set foot on that dark road that Tony stands upon, where
he waits for the slightest sign from her, to lead her down
it.
The
episode's last lines were like thunderheads, as Tony asks,
"Is there somethin' you wanna say to me?" and
Melfi replies with a soul-empty, "No." Cut to
Black.
END
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Episode
32: University
Directed
by: Allen Coulter.
Teleplay: Terence Winter, Salvatore Stabile.
Story: David Chase, Terence Winter, Todd A. Kessler, Robin
Green, Mitchell Burgess.
Bringing
True Violence to the Simulated Screen.
Review
by Jon Dunmore © 3 Apr
2001.
Once again, the nature of True Violence is explored graphically
in The Sopranos, in a story constructed with such
precious care that it impacts our atrophied sensibilities
in the most livid manner. But how is this particular representation
of screen violence (the beating to death of a stripper)
so successfully disturbing to our supposedly hardened psyches?
Surely
what we have seen over the years on our cathode-ray tubes
and in darkened theaters has prepared us for the shock
of witnessing simulated violence? We've seen William Holden
in interminable, mercilessly ruthless gun-battles in The
Wild Bunch; we've seen De Niro and Pacino burp 200
rounds a minute in the painfully overwrought Heat;
we've seen Mel slice and dice his way through English
infantry in Braveheart with bloodied longsword
and arrows protruding from his forearm-protector; we've
seen Arnold with twin rocket launchers in Eraser,
quipping laconically as he fires off projectiles which
should realistically careen him off the back walls and
dislocate both his shoulders; we've even seen a bear-trap
close over Dustin Hoffman's attacker's head in Straw
Dogs...
We
think we've come away unscathed; we believe we are the
tougher for having been able to digest this violence and
still get on with our lives with nary a sociopath amongst
us (drooling schoolkids with automatic weapons notwithstanding);
oh, we really believe that we are veritably inured to
violence - but the masses of square-eyed Great Unwashed
should ask themselves: what kind of violence have we become
inured to? We have become inured to a cartoon representation
of violence. And in this sense we have been psychologically
scarred into erroneously believing that we are tougher
than we really are. Oh, we're scathed all right - because
though we believe we are Hard Guys when faced with True
Violence, our innards behave as if they were amidships
during the rounding of Cape Horn in monsoon.
This
"cartoon violence" has developed purely because
of the medium of the FLAT SCREEN, where the ethereal "feel"
of three-dimensionality is nonexistent (despite all efforts
to involve audiences with quadrophonic audio, vibrating
seats, smell-o-rama, foisting ill-fitting, dual-colored
plastic glasses upon them and skewing the film's composite
visuals et al). Without the visceral "feel"
of reality (i.e. three dimensions), filmmakers have to
make up for it by overstating a point. (I speak in generalities;
not all visual fare demeans its audience by representing
violence so casually, so offhandedly, so comically. But
we will come back to The Sopranos soon enough.)
Example #1 in Overstating A Point: When there is a malfunction
on a jet, or any kind of conveyance in which there are
lots of lighted controls, something always blows up with
SPARKS flying out of it. Now you know as well as I do
that for your car to malfunction, there doesn't have to
be any noise, any lights flashing, any indication at all
that you have been rendered powerless - if something actually
BLEW UP WITH SPARKS FLYING OUT OF IT in your car, not
only would you suffer a myocardial infarction, you'd return
the car to the dealer and probably shoot him in the head
for selling you a deathtrap. (Yes, I know - shooting in
the head is hyperbole, generated from our Cartoon Violence
background.)
Example
#2: In the days when it was not permitted to show the
gunner and the gunned-down in the same framed shot (who
can fathom the mind of the intrinsically-braindead Censor?),
the victim would have to really make a melodramatic hash
of his death, knocking over chairs in a saloon, falling
off a flat roof - even though the force of the bullet
would have knocked him backwards instead of off the roof
- smashing through a glass window, etc., to alert the
obviously mongoloid audience that HE was the one who had
bought the farm (even though there are no entry OR exit
wounds on his corpus delectabilis, not even a trace
of ketchup masquerading as blood).
Example #3: How many times do you knock over garbage cans
when you come to a skidding stop at your destination?
This aspect of overstatement was satirized viciously in
the Police Squad series (precursor to The Naked
Gun movies) with Leslie Nielsen somehow knocking over
conveniently-placed garbage cans whenever he would come
to a stop, no matter his location.
In
modern times, overstatement has become the norm. Ironically,
audiences need to see and hear this overstatement,
or events onscreen will not seem "real" enough
for them - all explosions are tweaked sonically, so that
they resemble The Coming of The Lord, or viewers won't
feel that the explosion was a major catastrophe; there
is sound portrayed in airless space, or viewers will feel
disoriented, because they have only existed in an atmosphere
all their lives; every knife makes a steely "shink"
sound at its appearance, even if it is being plucked from
a leather holster; a car has to blow up if it crashes;
to be stopped, a train has to derail...
Yet
the other end of the pendulum of cartoon violence is the
Wile E. Coyote syndrome: Steven Seagal can jump off a
moving train, roll down a rocky hillside and walk away
with only a scratch above his left eye as testament to
the bad day he had; a bus can jump a freeway chasm with
no form of approach ramp (Speed); a punch can send
a man flying through a plate-glass window, only to get
up
again and go at it like he was just hit with a pillow;
and James Bond can do just about anything he pleases...
And
then there is the redundancy overstatement (which is probably
tautologous and oxymoronic): not only do we get
to see a car explode, we see it from four different angles,
one after the other, the same explosion thundering over
the THX Digital again and again; the same train goes over
the same trellis from three different angles...
So
we get the idea - that we have been insulted no end with
the gradual insinuation of stupidity into the movie-making
community, who take it for granted that we, the viewing
audience, are AS DULL AS THEY ARE. Keep in mind that people
who happen to be involved in the movie industry are "only
human" as well, prone to all the same foibles that
any one of us outside the movie industry is prone to.
Therefore, there is nothing that precludes them being
the same DULLARDS that you would encounter at the DMV
- the movie industry just happens to be their job. It
says nothing about their intellectual proclivity.
And
the same goes for Censors, who are, without a doubt, as
a collective entity, THE narrowest-minded, most hypocritical,
contradictory and inept gaggle of morons ever to be granted
the seed of life by an insensate god. Only Censors could
conceive of this inanity (which eventually does relate
back to The Sopranos, I promise): creating acronyms
for categorical descriptions. Graphic Violence = GV, Adult
Language (an egregious tag which I won't begin to dissect
in this essay) = AL, etc. Do these bean-stems actually
foresee a time when these subjective, impotent acronyms
will enter common usage? Will a parent ever say, "I'd
let young Berty watch Caligula if it weren't for
the GV, SR, PN and AL"? But here's the point of this
paragraph: There is a designation for Simulated Rape -
SV. SIMULATED rape? Why does the word "rape"
have "simulated" appended and the word "violence"
does not? Are they implying that the violence is REAL?
Lemme clue you in on an aspect of the movies, you Censors
- the laughter is forced, the tears are crocodile, the
orgasms are faked, the killings are staged, the blood
is makeup, the background is bluescreen, the saloon is
a soundstage in Burbank - the whole celluloid concoction
is SIMULATED - that's why they call it ACTING, you dunderheads!
With
this subliminal slipup the Censors have demonstrated that
they - the self-proclaimed and publicly-endorsed highest
authority on moral standards - CANNOT TELL THE DIFFERENCE
between simulated violence and true violence. Any
wonder that we have grown up believing that a man can
rise from the dead? (Here comes
Easter like a dog in heat!)
Into
this vernacular of Cartoon Violence comes a show which
pulls no punches in its PORTRAYAL of reality (something
which even the pus-ridden 'reality-based' TV shows cannot
achieve - after all, anything that winds up on broadcast
tape is tailored to fit the perceived needs of the target
demographic
- and the 'reality-show' target demographic has grown
fat on a diet of Cartoon Violence, ergo Cartoon Reality
served up). Note that Sopranos fans are well aware
that it too is only a television show; we are aware that
it is only SIMULATING violence, rape, murder, etc. yet
it is the way that the producers have chosen to PORTRAY
these aspects that leave us spent psychologically. They
have chosen NOT to go the worn-to-shreds route of Cartoon
Violence and have opted to portray the gritty realism
of personal, intimate True Violence.
[N.B.
True Violence and True Crime are two separate entities
and should not be confused. "Crime" is a subjective
term, altering with the political environment, whereas
"violence," though it may affect people subjectively,
is a destructive element no matter what politics it is
couched in. Buying your meat from Ralphs in neat, sealed
packets is an indirect result of True Violence. How many
people really want to see their family meal being BUTCHERED?
Every aspect of True Violence has been slowly leached
from the forefront of society's consciousness, which is
why it is so hard to face when confronted by it without
a Hollywood safety net.]
In
Episode 31 ("Another Toothpick"),
Mustang
Sally golf-clubbed an Aprile family member into a coma.
Unlike other portrayals of golf-clubbings, where the victim
of such an attack would come out with a small Make-Up
Department scar above their left eye, The Sopranos,
in giving us a "realistic" outcome of such an
attack - a coma - drives home its brutality and realism.
And when Sally gets his come-uppance at the hands of a
fragile Burt Young, his shooting, though a violent vignette
(and edge-of-humorous affair, with Young trying to focus
his murderous intent over his hacking cough), is upstaged
in "realism" by Young crashing his car into
a pole; this car did not catch fire, did not magically
leap over another car and land on its roof - it simply
hit a pole, violently, and killed its passenger. True
Violence. It's just around the corner.
In Episode 30 ("Employee of the Month") we are
confronted with Melfi's rape scene. Though we know it
is "simulated," the seeming unpreparedness of
the actors' positioning on the stairs, the brilliant terrified
acting by Lorraine Bracco and the suddenness and viciousness
of the attack elevated it far beyond any Censorship-Endorsed
"Simulated Rape."
And in this Episode 32 ("University") a young
stripper named Tracee is murdered - but not in any conventional
way. She is beaten to death with full fists by her boyfriend,
Ralphie. It was this death which made me contemplate the
desensitizing nature of violence in the visual media,
and how true violence is much rawer than we think
it is.
Tracee's murder was made even more tragic by the insidious
way that the writers cajoled both sexes of the viewing
audience into sympathizing with her. Firstly, it's obvious
how to get the male viewers onside: achingly beautiful
nymphette with sob story (a guy can go all night LISTENING
to a bee-atch's woes if there is even the whiff of Count
Dooku at the end of it. But mind: us males won't listen
too long to a chick's woes UNLESS she looks like our flat-bellied,
angel-faced, luscious-breasted Tracee). Getting guys onside?
Easy.
Now
getting the female populace onside would be trickier,
considering Tracee's profession is one which is usually
disparaged by females in average, suburban society (and
even by many who are more than willing to dance naked/hook/sell
their wares, yet are too monstrously ugly to do so). But
there is one universal selling-point that can get even
the pointiest dyke, even the hairiest-backed truck-driver;
even the filthiest, butt-cracked cement-shucker onside:
get her pregnant. And make her want to keep the baby,
which gets the Right-To-Lifers onside AND any guys who
just want to MOTHER her. And make her get pregnant to
an ASSHOLE - an obvious asshole, not just the type who
thinks it's an unnecessary expense to re-wallpaper the
baby's room in that stunning loden pastel that you picked
out after much consultation and deliberation with your
manicurist. And lastly, make her realize that she needs
help with her personal situation i.e. she's not just some
bim who is going to drink the baby into an early miscarriage.
The
stage is set for True Violence.
When
her sociopathic boyfriend callously kills this girl who
is so obviously in need of understanding and help, we
see the darkest human emotions surface onscreen. We are
disturbed by it - THIS was never in Tom & Jerry. We
see again the deep, bestial side of humanity - the side
of us which, if there were no societal inhibitions imposed,
may well be loosed at any time. And we realize, in our
ids, in that place where we thought we had overcome
the sensitivity to human suffering, that what we have
been seeing in World Vision ads and Stallone movies is
truly NOT what this is - we realize we have inured ourselves
to nothing but FANTASY and that THIS reality is still
out there. Just around the corner.
Ralphie
beat Tracee to death with his fists alone. True Violence.
It wasn't "just business." It was very, very
personal. Each punch was felt like a baseball bat to the
back of the head. And we see even deeper into the psyche
of men like Ralphie: The baddest men take the greatest
pleasure in taking life from those who most value it.
And
we come away from the truthfulness of The Sopranos
once again... disturbed by the "reality" in
its simulated portrayal of such truths.
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Episode
38: Amour Fou.
Directed
by: Tim Van Patten.
Writer: Frank Renzulli. Story: David Chase.
Women
Be Crazy.
Review
by Jon Dunmore © 17 May
2001.
"O
god, why hast thou made this gleaming snare / Woman, to
dog us on the happy earth?" - Euripides, Hippolytus
428 BC.
Amour
Fou - love so intense it drives one to madness. Mad
love.
Gloria
Trillo (Annabella Sciorra, filling the tv screen more
than lusciously), the latest in a long line of Tony's
mistresses, who would seem to be a simulacrum of Tony's
self-pitying, sado-masochistic mother, is truly, upon
closer inspection, the archetype of EVERY woman. In the
afterglow of sex, her ant-chatter so inane that not only
Tony, but the tv viewer also, starts contemplating appropriate
pastels for re-painting the ceiling - until she starts
dancing in her underwear, gyrating sensuously to arouse
the male of the species. Then attentions turn to svelte
breast and satin thigh…
When
will Woman apprehend that this is specifically Her sole
role; that this is what She was designed for by evolutionary
fashion-stance? Many a time has Woman accused me of not
listening. Truth. I don't. Woman, would it be too presumptuous
to suggest leaving the talking to men? Please: Just -
Don't - Talk.
In
finding her car tires slashed, Gloria somehow, circuitously,
places the blame on Tony. I put the question to Men of
Earth: is this not one - if not every woman - you know?...
For
the past few hundred years, women have used violence against
them like a Get Out Of Jail Free card, never more so than
in this present politically-gutless paradise. The heftiest
threat that men enact upon each other subliminally is
the tacit threat of personal physical violence. Respect
is a euphemism for FEAR. (This review is not the ideal
forum for lengthy psycho-babble on societal duplicities,
so if you would like an expansive discussion on this topic,
please visit my office and I will throw you against the
wall.) This is why men NEVER act as boneheadedly toward
one another as women seem to believe they have the right
to act towards men. (When men breach that unspoken edict,
violence ensues - but it would seem that this society
can more easily tolerate man-on-man violence - that, too,
is another essay.)
Only
women can get away with the brainlessness they so openly
exhibit toward men - whenever a woman does so, its extremity
is in direct correlation with how self-important and attractive
she believes herself to be - working that trump card and
backing up against the social stigma of violence against
them, coupled with the actual unjust laws that that stigma
spawned. Result: perceived impunity.
Yet
they claim equality....
Mz.
Trillo, in forgetting that Tony Soprano stands outside
any societal law and outside any social stigma,
opened up her own personal can of female whup-ass.
We men should not thank Tony Soprano and David Chase and
HBO for openly portraying violence against women. We should
thank them for taking a stand against brazen defiance
of respect and honor and plain ole Chick Bullshit, expressed
in the form of Tony restraining Gloria in a manner which
befits her open assault and battery of him.
Come
home drunk and arbitrarily beat your woman and you're
a stupid, ignorant menace to humanity - but if that woman
is physically battering YOU, psychologically attacking
you, berating, threatening, destroying your property or
livelihood, purposefully grinding your face into her glibness
because she wields the impunity of an agricultural-age
ethic anachronistically and hypocritically superimposed
over feminist-age rhetoric, who are we to stultify instinctual
animal behavior hardwired into us since the battle for
food and procreation began in primordial swamps?
It
is a glaring truth that women are only good for
one thing, and most of them aren't even good at that…
Amour
Fou - when one angle of crazy love is not enough…
Carmela,
Tony's selfishly-suffering wife, whose character seemed
to follow an arc of complexity over the last few episodes
(in questioning her moral integrity by aiding and abetting
Tony's Mob Life), has at last lifted the albatross from
her neck - and proven her superficiality in the process.
Though she fooled us - and herself - in braving a quest
for catholic righteousness, her simplistic resolution
illustrates definitively that she was not really searching
for a direction out of her hypocrisy, but for someone
to give her hypocrisy direction.
After
visiting a Freudian psychiatrist (who advised her to leave
Tony) and her randy priest, Father Phil (who advised her
to change Tony), Carmela ultimately settled on
the fence-sitting advice of the Nubian priest, who advised
her to simply give up "extravagances," which
left her swimmingly overjoyed at her new-found chosen
path - the exact same path she had been following
all along! She just needed to hear endorsement from
an authority figure. Absolving her from the responsibility
of taking any kind of stand, the Nubian priest presented
her with the path that *every* christian seeks - the path
of least resistance.
Carmela's
selfishness and hypocrisy were never more evident. She
never really wanted to give up The Life, so could
not reconcile the advice of both the Freudian psychiatrist
or Father Phil - to leave Tony or to change Tony would
mean sacrificing The Life for a less enabled and less
socially-ostentatious existence; instead, she would rather
walk that lazy christian middle ground between good catholic
and mob moll, courting the salvation that her god promises
and wallowing in the material goods that Tony's profession
provides.
Of
course, this is merely her perception of being
a good catholic. Like every christian, she has molded
her rules to suit herself; and she sought an authority
figure to endorse her pitiful parameters as satisfactory.
When Tony's gift ring is noticed more than once, she imbues
this ring with the symbolism of the "extravagance"
that she could do without and truly believes that in getting
rid of it she has shucked off her material fixations.
Carmela is now content in the belief that she is living
on the cliff-edge of poverty for jesus's sake. But here's
the clincher: as with all christians, Carmela's limit
for sacrifice.... will CHANGE, as her moods and circumstances
do. Witness the apotheosis of christianity.
The
wives of Tony's crew, over an extravagant meal, banter
over Hillary Clinton's humiliating situation (having to
keep her upper lip stiff for the American public through
her husband's philandering), smugly behaving as if they
were not also in exactly Hillary's position: wives to
powerful men, who bear the humiliation of their husbands'
cumares, wearing fake smiles in public, in return
for the benefits and social standing that their powerful
men provide.
Anyone
for a second helping of hypocrisy? Refusing to see that
their husbands are paying for their silence and loyalty
in exactly the same way that Bill Clinton's power keeps
Hillary's trap shut, the wives bluntly come to an unspoken
realization that maybe they are simply four Hillarys,
bought off and kept women, able to partake of extravagant
meals like this whenever the whim takes them precisely
because their husbands are who they are.
They
eye each other, as if to ask, Are they mad to love their
husbands? Amour Fou, indeed…
To
curb amour fou, Patsy Parisi, one of Tony's goons,
must hold a gun to Gloria's nipples, with a contender
for one of the best lines of the series, "My face
is the last one you'll see - not Tony's....It won't
be cinematic."
The writers then prove the exemplary nature of this series
by choosing to show us nothing happen in the very
last scene. Jump-cutting to Patsy carrying groceries to
his car, entering it and driving off whilst on the cell-phone
to his wife, we are so geared to having scenes such as
this resolve in ambush or car-bombs, that the masterstroke
of mundanity rocks us out of our chairs. We are being
shown the "other side" of these Bad Men's lives,
illustrating once more the multi-layered nature of every
human being.
Patsy
has just threatened the life of a woman with a gun under
her ribs; what does he do next? The grocery shopping,
of course...
Amour
Food.
END
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