qarrtsiluni

The latest chief of police looks like Bruce Willis, which is good, considering. About half of the population seems to be bonding, casting looks at the other portion who will be sacrificed to heighten tension. Weather unbelievably benign just like on 9/11. It gives us creeps but sets up a good vibe: scary, pregnant. Meanwhile, the heavy artillery starts and so we fling ourselves into the one working elevator. So cozy with its strip of fluorescence, its inevitably fucked machinery. This is when certain character traits are supposed to sink or swim us, like how Shelly Winter’s swimming prowess saved the day in Poseidon Adventure but then her bum heart gave out. How the plucky kid’s knowledge of computer programming saves his family in one movie but not in another. But the workmanlike script for the next persuasively apocalyptic disaster film has been lost or shredded and eaten by the third world. Somewhere the next election results are being dipped in money to make them possible, China’s pollution is being bagged and sold into interstellar bondage, and your grave digs itself out. The credits begin rolling before we’re ready and the gorgeous names of funeral directors ripple in front of our faces as if we were drowning, right now, drowning in our houses.

by Alice George

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