"The Departed" - Heaven or Hell

Fucking Martin Scorsese…

Imagine such a scene. Gathered in a warm friendly circle, the guys decided to play. Someone has put on a stylish suit that hides the rot. The other had put on a cap and sports clothes, trying to hide his heart, which was thrashing with fear, behind a show of carelessness. The boss rolled up in his hat, smiling. The experienced agent makes faces, making caustic comments. The remaining ones are small things and for the crowd. And all this motley crowd draws pistols, one in each hand. They aim right and left. Such a vicious circle. A single finger will twitch and all-a Rorschach spot with funny little men around the perimeter. The worst part is being one of the links in the damn wheel. Education, ideals, faith in God and the future do not matter. Some bastard will wet himself and everyone is dead. Presented? You ask why you should be in the line of fire? Oh, the movie people will take care of that.

You need to accept-meet on clothes. Some movies start out looking like a cheap chick from the intersection of sunset and wall Street. Then they gain momentum, and the audience, such a bastard with the rigidity of the brain, does not want to take the creation of someone's geniuses seriously. It happens differently. From the first shots, skilled fingers find a lever in the skull and click. And now there is nowhere to go — like a rat pressing the pedal to the floor until the nut-shaped organ is exhausted, sending curses to the ecstatic pleasure center. "Renegades" are just like that.

Works of art are required to kick connoisseurs. Beat the feelings out of them like the mafia does money. It's got to be a fucking fan. It's a simple thing that any donkey can understand. A wave and blood spurts from the nose. The patterns make the jaw drop, as if it had been knocked out. Each fold is registered by the designer and conceals at least a pistol barrel, ready to take out the soul on the tip of a crumpled bullet, at least a second bottom, a targeted blow to the back of the head knocking out tears. A few moves and the other side rips off the tongue: "What do you mean?" That's what a pointed peak of civilization is, on which you can plant even the Pope of Rome, and not tons of mud in a thimble with running water.

Having sunk an allegory and a metaphor in concrete shoes at the bottom of the "East side", you will go fishing for them the next day. Because it's not half as fun without these scum. In fact, what is there to tell? I feel like I've been snorting first-class coke instead of the shit that black-assed ghouls sell all over Boston. Scorsese, like a great drug dealer, checks every track, grabs you by the hair and runs a snotty nose along the route, getting you hooked on the system. Strapping yourself to a battery or an elephant won't help. It will seem unreal Jack Nicholson, with such bags under the stubborn eyes, as if he, his mother, Santa Claus, hiding in bottomless socks acting skills. DiCaprio is like a terrified paranoid, except that he doesn't hang himself. Matt, Bourne fuck him, Damon clinks his balls. Mark Wahlberg is so witty that he will soon chop his own intestines with his own tongue. The script was written by a stoned virtuoso who eats time no worse than an anorexic imaginary snack. The bespectacled man in charge is whistling a song with his whip, twisting it up like he's slicing mozzarella in his kitchen. And it works!

You're high and you're dragging yourself along. You're wallowing in a pool of tension, which will soon dilute about five liters of blood. You dive into a damn hot tub and you thought it was the coolest thing ever. You dream of working undercover, even though what you see makes you hide in a closet. You shake a firebrand, trying to figure out whether it's from the drug or really something unusual and slightly… falling apart? And this scoundrel, who grabbed the Golden hostage, suddenly takes and glues everything together, as if he pulled it out of God's bosom. Yes, he sold his soul to a horned dude! Normal garbage bags that live an average of seventy years do not take off like this.

In short, you collect your belongings, ready to travel to Africa, where they still sacrifice babies, adding years to the shamans, and then-Bang! What The ... Bang! What the ... Bang! Rip off his hands before he... Bang! Holy shit... it was a select party. Just a pinch of salt. And here's a bag of flour in the last bag. As if the greatest man on this vile ball of papier-mache at the end of his life released gases directly into the camera! Realistic?! Yes, I let you attack pokemon James from Team R!

I'm telling you-fucking Martin Scorsese…