I can remember rolling out of bed one day and turning on the television.  What was featured, I don’t recall because I’ve grown numb to the barrage of network pablum pandered about as entertainment.  However, my attention was pulled away from its usual wandering and focused happily upon a face in the pixels.  Why, here was a man who behaved like a man should, or at least like the men I had read about in Regency literature.  This was not one of the blown-dry corporate skeletons that have been rattling about on my screen.  In fact, I imagined he do rather well swaggering into a room and destroying a four-poster bed without even breaking a sweat; unless of course, a sheen of perspiration, properly backlit, might lend itself to the glamor.

Have I become so inured to the parade of emos bleeding onscreen that when an actor refuses to spill his guts I suddenly sit up and take notice?  There’s something to be said for mystery, isn’t there?  I don’t need to know everything!  I don’t want to be coddled by film industry opiates; real life is bad enough. 

I don’t know every last filthy secret of my best friend; nor do I want to know.  The same can be said for my imaginary friends in book and screen.  They behave in ways that are contrary to mine and that’s fine.  I don’t live in a perfect Seuss-like world where the inhabitants labor selflessly in a group singalong.  My world is populated with ruthless men and woman who advance themselves by stepping on the heads of others. 

If James wants to shoot all the corporate matinee idols and laugh in the face of our collective uneasiness, he has my blessing. I don’t mind being slapped out of my stupor.


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