Three Days of the Condor
A complex story of moral turpitude against the square-jawed personification of justice and valour. Such is the moral righteousness, it sways even a lonesome skiing photographer.
A lowly CIA analyst (no Jack Reacher, more Winston Smith) stumbles upon a plot to invade the Middle East (and Venezuela, probably) for the oil. Imagine that, the scandal, the outrage. He dodges two hitmen (the mailman by force, clumsily; Joubert by guile, fancifully), and leaks the story to New York Times.
We don’t know it they printed it, or if the Condor lost its wings for nothing. It’s not relevant, for only truth will set you free.
Our hero kidnaps a random girl on a random shop, and she is scared shitless for a long time. Panic, it’s a fright night she goes through. But after opportunities for real damage are skipped, our Stockholm victim reaches around. Drawing the blood of the mailmen only stiffens her resolve, she even flushes that Higgins fellow for nought.
As for Joubert, the wildcard, he just wants to paint his miniatures in peace. He has no attachments to anything or anyone, just a tool in the hands of the highest bidder. Peaceful, he calls it. Our hero refuses this call of nihilism, he rather pay the ultimate price to prove American exceptionalism is more that just empty words.
It’s the square-jawed blue-eyes pursuit of truth and justice. They have to print it.
A lot of familiar faces here: Bonnie, The President of the United States. Apparently the CIA has offices on the World Trade Center, conspiracy intensifies.
This is my place for ramblings about sequences of images that exploit the human visual limitation know as persistence of vision.