James Bond is a crier. The former apex of man-cool has capitulated.
Even the Vatican is on board, but this comes as little surprise.
Seventies Bond was well-established. In 1971 I was a few thousand beers away existence but I would like to think the world was sane then. Still, thousands of empties, stubby brown bottles later, recycled a thousand times over by the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, God knows I've probably drank from the same glass reconstituted glass as my father.
I suppose if my family remains in the general area of repeated reproduction, my great-grandchildren, assuming they've the discerning palette of their provaus augusti (moi), will drink beer from the same recycled receptacles.
What a legacy. A queer assumption of beer consumption.
Even the Vatican is on board, but this comes as little surprise.
Seventies Bond was well-established. In 1971 I was a few thousand beers away existence but I would like to think the world was sane then. Still, thousands of empties, stubby brown bottles later, recycled a thousand times over by the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, God knows I've probably drank from the same glass reconstituted glass as my father.
I suppose if my family remains in the general area of repeated reproduction, my great-grandchildren, assuming they've the discerning palette of their provaus augusti (moi), will drink beer from the same recycled receptacles.
What a legacy. A queer assumption of beer consumption.
In the early seventies, my father had probably just learned to drive and was selling mickeys of rye for a small profit to his high-school friends between math and shop class. Nepean entrepreneur. He and my mother were high-school sweethearts. Captain of the football team and the head cheerleader, says the math book with inscribed hearts, that gathers dust in my basement.
That same year, Charlton Heston starred in "The Omega Man". Clearly my father never saw it.
It was a remake of the 1964 film "The Last Man on Earth" starring Vincent Price. Forty years later, Will Smith would star in a remake called "I Am Legend".
Admittedly there is some crying in that version. Tough guy crying, but eye-leaky nonetheless.
The word 'Omega' incidentally, in addition to being the last and 24th letter of the Greek alphabet, literally means the "Great O". Heston, before he became rifle-weilding pariah of the apologist social-justice-warrior movement was the "Big C." Baritoned, chiseled with a mouthful of teeth.
Heston was Ben-Hur and Moses, for Christ's sake. He stood up to an army of speaking apes once. Shirtless, bearded and wearing a loincloth, he represented what is now considered to be an archaic example of manliness.
If Hemingway were alive today, he would be internet-shamed for his love of hunting. Journalists would speculate why his mother dressed him in girls clothing. Experts would hail-mary transgender theories. The only thing Hemingway's burger recipe is missing is a tiger claw and rusty nails.
Heston is a relic today. His legacy been cherry-picked by a lazy liberal media. Often overlooked, Heston was a civil rights advocate long before it was fashionable, and LONG after it went out of fashion. He was the bell-bottomed, frilly-shirt, perm-sporting voice of the US Constitution.
His death in 2008 was undoubtedly a relief for today's thought-police, who mistook his NRA affiliation for right-wing fanaticism. He was, at least in his prime, an articulate, suave, critical thinker.
Here is Charlton with some of his contemporaries discussing civil rights in America.
In the film "Omega Man", Heston does not soften. He loses hope, he becomes frustrated. Between showering the black-cloaked-undead with bullets, he finds time to cook and have chess games with mannequins.
He's just a doctor dammit, just looking for a cure.
After a long, drawn out story of loneliness and survival, peppered with more sub-machine gun fire, we discover that Heston really isn't the Omega Man after all. The movie ends when a truck pulls up filled with uninfected, cherub faced survivors. A handsome young fella emerges. Heston gives him a large vile of blood containing the cure. He dies, Heston's character, bloody, in a christ-like slump hanging off a fountain.
Judeo-xtian chop.
Zero tears.
The last-man-on-earth narrative is a misnomer. We simply can't imagine a world where we're totally isolated and alone. In practically every film ever made on the the subject the protagonist is never and can never be the last survivor. Extinction is not an option. The human condition, as absurd as it is, must be shared with other humans.
All last-man films require the hero to pirouette through the motions of solitude. Collecting supplies. Making fire. Talking to himself. Blah blah. It's the original two-way mirror. Who didn't weep when Tom Hanks had to abandon his bloodied soccer ball confidante? We wait though, as hopeful and desperate to find another living soul with which to talk to.
I'm going on a hike.
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That same year, Charlton Heston starred in "The Omega Man". Clearly my father never saw it.
It was a remake of the 1964 film "The Last Man on Earth" starring Vincent Price. Forty years later, Will Smith would star in a remake called "I Am Legend".
Admittedly there is some crying in that version. Tough guy crying, but eye-leaky nonetheless.
The word 'Omega' incidentally, in addition to being the last and 24th letter of the Greek alphabet, literally means the "Great O". Heston, before he became rifle-weilding pariah of the apologist social-justice-warrior movement was the "Big C." Baritoned, chiseled with a mouthful of teeth.
Heston was Ben-Hur and Moses, for Christ's sake. He stood up to an army of speaking apes once. Shirtless, bearded and wearing a loincloth, he represented what is now considered to be an archaic example of manliness.
If Hemingway were alive today, he would be internet-shamed for his love of hunting. Journalists would speculate why his mother dressed him in girls clothing. Experts would hail-mary transgender theories. The only thing Hemingway's burger recipe is missing is a tiger claw and rusty nails.
Heston is a relic today. His legacy been cherry-picked by a lazy liberal media. Often overlooked, Heston was a civil rights advocate long before it was fashionable, and LONG after it went out of fashion. He was the bell-bottomed, frilly-shirt, perm-sporting voice of the US Constitution.
His death in 2008 was undoubtedly a relief for today's thought-police, who mistook his NRA affiliation for right-wing fanaticism. He was, at least in his prime, an articulate, suave, critical thinker.
Here is Charlton with some of his contemporaries discussing civil rights in America.
In the film "Omega Man", Heston does not soften. He loses hope, he becomes frustrated. Between showering the black-cloaked-undead with bullets, he finds time to cook and have chess games with mannequins.
He's just a doctor dammit, just looking for a cure.
After a long, drawn out story of loneliness and survival, peppered with more sub-machine gun fire, we discover that Heston really isn't the Omega Man after all. The movie ends when a truck pulls up filled with uninfected, cherub faced survivors. A handsome young fella emerges. Heston gives him a large vile of blood containing the cure. He dies, Heston's character, bloody, in a christ-like slump hanging off a fountain.
Judeo-xtian chop.
Zero tears.
The last-man-on-earth narrative is a misnomer. We simply can't imagine a world where we're totally isolated and alone. In practically every film ever made on the the subject the protagonist is never and can never be the last survivor. Extinction is not an option. The human condition, as absurd as it is, must be shared with other humans.
All last-man films require the hero to pirouette through the motions of solitude. Collecting supplies. Making fire. Talking to himself. Blah blah. It's the original two-way mirror. Who didn't weep when Tom Hanks had to abandon his bloodied soccer ball confidante? We wait though, as hopeful and desperate to find another living soul with which to talk to.
I'm going on a hike.
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