The Dead Body Politic

The adage has it that truth is stranger than fiction. I swear that's true in Mexico. One of my favourite writers, hardboiled crime novelist Paco Ignacio Taibo II, has to struggle to keep up with the absurd plot of his beloved nation. Although Taibo is a fine writer, I come to him more for his cynical but humanist view of Mexican society, which lends itself perfectly to the private eye genre.

A Mid-'70s Drive-In Triple Bill!

Pin open your eyelids and get ready to scream like a mongoloid! This week I'm highlighting a trio of 1970s exploitation drive-in movies that have mostly been forgotten by today's movie renting public that rarely stray from the "New Release Wall" in their local Blockbuster. I'll tell you what -- fuck Blockbuster. They won't have this stuff, so support your local indie video store.

Teaching the Value of Human Life

When you're put behind the crosshairs of a gun, do you assume you have to shoot to kill? Better still, do you have to shoot to win? For the majority of First Person Shooters, that is certainly the case. What if you were given the choice to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, but still be able to complete your objectives? It sounds like the trend of stealth action games starring super-spies in skin-tight bodysuits. But it’s not. It’s a law enforcement simulation.

Happy Bloody Holidays

True crime isn't new. It wasn't invented by Truman Capote for In Cold Blood, although Capote certainly raised the bar for many crime writers. True crime has evolved from 19th century police procedural nonfiction, popularized in weekly journals like the Police Gazette, and later in crime pulps of the 1930s and 1940s which depicted the glamorized lives of contemporary criminals. True crime books, like popular mysteries, combine page-turning depictions of violence, the tribulations of a fictional or real investigator on a case, and obsessive rants on the nature of human evil. What better antidote to excessive family cheer than wondering if the relative you're passing the Christmas turkey to is actually a serial killer?

Life is Better Underground

Since the first Cro-Magnon man set foot in the limestone caves of Lascaux, we have has a bittersweet relationship with cool, dank places. They provided mankind with much needed shelter from the elements, yet in their dark recesses they also supplied material for our nightmares -- whether they materialised as a flesh-ripping cave bear or a knife-wielding street thug jumping out as you fumble with your keys. Thus the instinctive and primal fear that grips everyone of us anytime we venture into the bowels of our urban sprawl: underground parking lots.

The Trouble with Endings

I've noticed recently that otherwise good stories have been let down by their endings. It's partly due to the expectations of the audience: you can imagine any kind of ending you want, but when the ending finally arrives, it's been narrowed down to a single one of those possibilities and it might not be as good as the one in your head (I argued this was the case for Stephen King's Dark Tower series).

The other reason for a bad ending: nobody in charge thought about it. And in the case of Minority Report, the filmmakers clearly had no freaking idea what to do with the conclusion of the story, and decided to just keep throwing more and more junk at the screen.

Cracking a Moral Code

Making smarter trash cans

They're watching a program called "Lords and Ladies" when I burst in on them, my 9mm taking one of them out immediately. The other one is able to roll behind a pillar and return fire so I leap over the couch to get a better shot at him.

Time slows down. Bullets fly by me and hit the television -- as it goes dark, I'm able to reflect that a gun is also a remote control in a pinch. In mid-air, I turn and squeeze off three shots, winging him. I hit the ground and continue firing from a prone position.

After he slumps dead against the bloodied wall, time returns to normal and I notice another movement -- I swing my gun around but I realize it is just something that's been hit in the firefight falling to the ground.

I immediately forget the cleaners, my angst and my mission and investigate it -- it's a painting. A few more shots make it jerk across the floor, splinters bursting from its wooden frame.

I am impressed.