Grindhouse

I realize that the subject of psychopaths and other types of mental illness, given the recent events in Virginia is a hot one. Suddenly I am more aware of their presence everywhere. It's like shopping for a car and seeing that same model everywhere. It isn't that there are more, you just notice it.

So I'm watching Tarantino's latest pile of crap down at the Raven theater, mildly entertained throughout most of it, but wincing, closing my eyes, and generally having difficulty with the tremendous gore and violence. While much of it is humorous, as usual, his movies don't have much more going on than that. There has been a slow downward spiral in his films since Pulp Fiction (which a friend of mine thought was an amazing classic, and I, not sophisticated enough to realize it.)

In any case, I laughed, I moaned, I had a fairly good time. The problem was that there was one other guy in the theater, and he did not say one word the entire time. After testicles flying, brains squirting, and moment after moment of exploding bodies, I became more than a little uncomfortable at the way in which he never reacted, ever. I became downright disturbed.

I finally reached a point in the movie, where the second feature started (the first was actually Rodriguez' film, and the second Tarantino) that I was so utterly creeped out by that dude that I had to leave. I glanced over my shoulder and he stared blankly ahead. Nondescript white mail, middle twenties, short brown hair and a neat, sporty jacket.

I will admit I was also bored. But I would have been a lot more likely to stay if it wasn't for the instinctive, sixth sense feeling that something was amiss....