Francis Ford Coppola
Apocalypse Now

By killing his inhumanity, Kurtz short-circuits the deceit of this belligerent "God wills it" that drags almost everyone into damnation. And "ending his command" is no longer a euphemism to try to deceive the commandment "Thou shalt not kill," but is a direct action against those who impose their vision of a Kingdom on those who already have total Kingdom in this dimension.

In short, playing transversely with evil, through mystified evil, stirs up the malevolent where the dimension of this world is his. And redeeming oneself and others does nothing but trigger eruptions where the wild shards make those who should shatter fall apart, and obstinately pursuing belief in free will does nothing but worsen things. It is not emulation of evil but a contrast with another "evil" that is close to truth, where there is no damnation: napalm is fought with sacred fire.

Kurtz evolves death from within each of us, accelerates the programmed unconscious suicide we are unaware we have, changes the distorted frequency. No wonder all this obscenity breaks the clichés of the multitude's just-getting-by, fluidifies the coagulation of lies by sowing dangerous seeds of freedom, the real one, the one from ourselves: "leave everything and follow me", en bref.

The violent shattering of the crust of any will to power is the ecstasy of realizing one nurtures no deviance, internal or external, and truly applying "lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil", even if the drudgery of "in sæcula sæculorum" should be savored like the efficiency of our conscious boredom compared to eternity. Planning anything automatically gives a function to everything, there lies the problem that mostly produces murdered dead. Distrust glory. It is an open grave waiting.

But it is precisely the overcoming even the delirium of the violence of war with Kurtz's pure delirium that gives us the key to feel the horror of forgetting one's vanity and gives us the strength to surrender to the humanity reached by the colonel, which is unacceptable but irreplaceable, sooner or later. The transparency in seeing no veil between life and death makes the sacrifice of the redeemed soldier inevitable, because for Kurtz, after fighting and winning with the miserable of the human being, await other battles, beyond counts of desires even otherworldly.

Noting for Kurtz the estrangement in recognizing acting in service of a higher good by others, it evolves in him mercy and alien feelings where the pathological as the only form of life finally reigns beyond good and evil. The hypnotization à la Herzog of all unwilling protagonists remains, of planes carcassed over trees, of shots to helicopters with helicopters, filming that damned journey of the Demeter barge that vampirizes all the reverse suspending anemias, to smell the burnt human skin from napalm as when grandma singed chicken wings over the open flame, to glide on the still river in constant company of the "shallows," to surf between John Milius' screenplay with hope forgotten on the shore.

Captain Willard, already agitated by dossiers and dispatches about Walter E., capitulates in that osmosis moment of demigod when he machetes the Brando and spins the omnipotence disk backward, discarding the blade, "laying down arms," after sensing being an instrument of God.
Everything is chaos that allows death to dispense evolution, everything is a desertion from nothingness. And this "nothingness" allows him a return backward on Charon's boat, together with the surfer, grabbed by the scruff, now pantheistically mounted on an anomalous wave.

We are left just "the horror" until the leap that will determine a change of essence with the capitulation to everything happens, the river flows with or without us.

"May God have no mercy on us," this is the right prayer.