Michael Davis
Shoot 'em up

ANNOUNCEMENT FOR A DATING SITE.

Let me introduce myself: my name is Palmiro... yes, like the great Togliatti. I am 45 years old and single by choice. I live in a mountain area because I love walking in nature, reading books, and meditating in the unspoiled green. I adore Mozart and jazz. I could talk for hours about the cinema of Eisenstein and his conceptual montage.

I like biking, writing, and thinking. I hate chaos, cars, and pollution.

THE REALITY.

Our protagonist is a muscular guy full of tattoos. His favorite is the barbed wire that wraps around his right bicep like ivy. Completely shaved head. Tight tank top. Black leather pants. Faux python boots. Hobby: modifying cars. His green Saxo has green neon lights, side skirts, and a spoiler worthy of a formula 1. Holiday tasks: devour the Fast and Furious saga for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And after dinner, hit the club for chicks, chicks, and more chicks!

"The disco is closed tonight. I’ll rent a movie."

Shoot ‘em Up. A movie that will bring out the “tamarro” in you. Stop being so cerebral, damn it! Be big, sweaty, stinky ruffians for once! Enjoy a healthy mix of boom boom and bang bang to the rhythm of Motorhead and Nirvana. Blood. Shit. More blood. And more shit. This movie is an extreme video game. Clive Owen, in Sin City mode, shoots, kills, always delivers the right punchline at the right time, and eats carrots (used like power-ups to improve sight and thus aim). Bellucci, in all her MILF-glory, flirts, parades, overdubs herself like a porn actress, but, above all, is constantly on the verge of showing us her lovely big nipples. Paul Giamatti is the big bad guy with a big, big gun. Ironic, self-ironic, moto-ironic, train-ironic, and even a bit tram-ironic.

The festival of liquids: red in rivers. White: breast milk and sperm. Brown: liquid poop. And the plot isn't even that predictable. Spectacular shootouts and cheeky grin scenes. An infinite hyperbole of adrenalized exaggerations. This is how an action movie should be in the noughties.

EPILOGUE.

Our hero will sleep content like a baby. Christmas came early for him. And he feels kinder. So kind that he reveals the mystery:

"My real name is not Palmiro. Nice to meet you, I am VINCENZO GASOLINE (the Italian version of his idol: Vin Diesel)".

PS. I apologize in advance to the following categories:

•1)      Muscular, tattooed, and kneehead people

•2)      Those who own a Saxo (hang in there!)

•3)      Owners of python boots

•4)      Soviet cinema fans

•5)      Bicycle enthusiasts, a true remedy against the end of the world

•6)      Lovers of the Fast and Furious saga

•7)      Monica's nipples

•8)      Vin Diesel