The Question of Death Selection

November 23rd, 2008

We watched Frankenheimer’s Seconds, for the third time, and with this one the focus was stuck on Nora, and Nora’s job. Okay: She works for the Company so you know brings in a fine paycheck, and gets to live on the beach seducing reborns and attending pagan harvest orgies. Let’s invert that: she lives on the beach seducing reborns and attending pagan harvest orgies. And makes a mighty fine living doing so. The imdb’s keywords, always some sort of tasseographic good time, include faked death, female nudity, and plastic surgery, not a bad combination, and one which, together, yields only one other result. The other top keyword, though, was Snorricam, new to this dilettantish cinemaesthetic lexicon, but a quick consult of the Wiki cleared it all up. In fact, the concept wasn’t new around here, but internally defined as The cool camera-round-the-waist effect of Larenz Tate descending into a thugged-out club vertiginously while grooving to Sly Stone in Dead Presidents, admittedly probably the only lasting scene from that film, and now one, sadly, to be replaced with Scandinavian jargon.

It should be noted that New York, Drug Addiction, Drug Addict and Shotgun comprise the keywords for Dead Presidents, then, if that rings a bell. Which it won’t, because it describes about a million and ten drug-thug-and-heist movies. But the other top keyword, the one that makes it worth keywording: maggots. In fact, if you trust the IMDB, it’s the BEST maggot movie.

But back to Seconds, and back to Nora. Of course, there’s neither sign nor mention of a woman reborn, for obvious reasons (women weren’t the ones with money, they didn’t have unsettling soul-sapping careers or frigid, societally oppressed wives, and, okay, it may well have been just a tad more difficult to blackmail them into obeisance with video evidence of a drugged, staged sexual assault with a nubile little thing). And Mrs Hamilton during her visit with Wilson seemed, somehow, at peace. So, women are reborn when their husbands disappear, or, for those with a sex drive or just nice tits and a taste for the bacchanal, take jobs with the Company. It all works out just fine, really.

And Seconds isn’t a film about women, or a film about the lack of women. It’s a film about my dream job. And it would be perfect, if only it had anything to do with maggots.

Images snagged without any permission whatsoever from this guy and also this genius movieboy, both of whom have way smarter words than these about the whole thing.

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