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by Bill Gibron

1 Nov 2009


While it’s rare, it is indeed possible for a single element to save an otherwise standard piece of cookie cutter cartoon entertainment. For the last few decades, Hollywood has been cranking out the CG family films, animated efforts relying on quirky pop culture riffs and stunt voice casting to provide minimal amounts of superficial entertainment. While character and narrative depth are often secondary considerations, the funny business formula forged after years of Shrek-ccess must be met. Luckily for the latest installment of the Ice Age franchise (Dawn of the Dinosaurs, new to DVD and Blu-ray) that Simon Pegg came along. While the rest of the movie meanders along like a miserable Mastodon, this engaging tre-quel uses the Shaun of the Dead star to singlehandedly revive the series’ sagging fortunes.

The story picks up after the big Meltdown of the previous picture. Mammoth Manny (Ray Romano) and his equally hulky honey bunny Ellie (Queen Latifah) are expecting a child, and with the responsibility of fatherhood comes the inevitable cracks in close friendships. Sabertoothed Diego (Denis Leary) feels the need to leave the pack, while simpleton Sloth Sid (John Leguizamo) wants kids of his own. When the dim-bulb beast falls into a sinkhole and discovers a group of eggs, he immediately adopts them as his own. When they hatch, Sid is suddenly the father of…three baby Tyrannosaurus Rexes. When Manny and Ellie find out, they insist he return the foundlings to their rightful species. But this causes a major problem when the group gets lost in an underground domain of dinosaurs. Thankfully, heroic weasel Buck (Pegg) is around to protect the neophytes from danger while showing them the survival ropes.

It’s a little off-putting at first. Fans of the Ice Age films really don’t come to this material expecting danger and derring-do, but the moment our one-eyed adventurer shows up, all the cloying skrat love and kiddie oriented concerns fall by the wayside. While parents might balk at the notion of having to put their wee ones through a mega monster mash, Dawn of the Dinosaurs is clearly out to be a meatier, more menacing version of the series. Like Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen without Michael Bay’s desire to play sledgehammer visionary, this installment takes everything that made the first two films tolerable, tweaks it with the addition of some genuine action energy, and the pours on the 3D gimmick du jour to make sure we get the appropriate cerebral overload (sadly, home video can’t recreate the real dimensional feel of the theatrical film).

For their part, the regulars show up and earn their paycheck. Romano does urbanized Droopy better than most similarly styled comedians, while her Majesty has little to add. Leary is really the odd man out here, shuttled to the side so that Leguizamo’s Sid can play proportionally dumber than ever before. Primary director Carlos Saldanha (also on hand for the first two films) does make great use of the supporting characters, including Seann William Scott and Josh Peck as charming frat dude possums Crash and Eddie. But it truly is Pegg that saves the day. While the four credited screenwriters are busy trying to find a continuous string of jokes, the English icon’s dry, devil-may-care wit takes everything Buck does and turns it into a post-modern manipulation of old school Hollywood heroism. He’s like a combination of Errol Flynn and Eric Idle.

If there is a flaw in the execution, however, it’s in turning the dinosaurs into one dimensional villains. Instead of infusing them with the same complicated characteristics of the stars, it’s all teeth, terror, and really bad attitudes. Mama Rex gets a moment or two of maternal attention, but that’s it. Like the water - both frozen and flowing - in the first two films, this inarticulate element really adds very little to the narrative…and that’s a shame. Kids really love those prehistoric creatures, and by giving them some basic personality traits, the series would have a whole other tempting talent pool to draw from. As it stands, Ice Age 3 feels like a film that said everything it had to say this time around. Where the series goes from here is anyone’s guess (and, one assumes, on the mind of everyone currently working at Fox).

At the very least, the recently released Blu-ray version of the film looks fantastic. The high definition medium really enhances the detail and depth put into CG film like these. Granted, there’s no 3D option, and the 1080p image can only go so far in recreating the theatrical experience, but the end results are stunning - specially when our heroes enter the lush, verdant dinosaur world. As for bonus features, Fox really lays out the content. We get a great commentary, a series of behind the scenes featurettes, a look at some deleted scenes, and a piece with Pegg about creating his character. There are also several episodes of Fox Movie Channel Presents, all focusing on different actors from the film, as well as a clever compendium of Skrat Shorts (known as the “Skrat Pack”). Each one illustrates how the mute little mouse-thing singlehandedly strives to revive the art of slapstick. While a few wear out their welcome before long, the entire package (including a regular DVD and digital copy) supplements the main feature effortlessly.

So it’s clear that there is more to Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs than Simon Pegg and his fearless ferret. Indeed, from the look of the “lost world” to the various interpersonal (or interspecies) issues drawn upon, the movie is definitely an improvement over the standard stereotypes and formulas employed by the genre. On the other hand, Saldanha and the gang have kind of painted themselves into a corner. The next film in the franchise will have to focus on kids, since the whole third act centers on Ellie giving birth, and when movies take such a turn toward the juvenile, a huge section of the audience ends up being left out. Still, if any series can find a way to make their next installment work, it’s Ice Age. While other wannabe franchises have come and gone, this one remains flexible, and fun. And as long as they keep casting talent like Pegg, they’ll be perfectly fine.

by Bill Gibron

31 Oct 2009


One of the most profound dogmas in Chinese (and other Asian) philosophies is the notion of balance, yin and yang, the equilibrium between light and dark, good and evil. It’s a basic ideology, a mindset that is applied to elements as divergent as cooking and art, science and interior design. Yet within each discipline, the same faith in stability and the strength from same applies. As part of their Halloween release schedule, newly formed Palisades Tartan offers up to excellent examples of this foundational back and forth. The excellent ghost/demonic possession tale P offers a subtle, often scary look a life as a Thai bar girl in Bangkok, with some frightening folklore and magic thrown in for good measure. On the other hand, The Butcher is the kind of geek show nightmare that makes Hostel look like a sunny Eastern European travel ad. Gory and gruesome with no more desire than to completely shock its audience, this Korean scandal was recently banned in its own home country as being too brutal for audiences to endure.

In P, we meet up with notorious “witch’s granddaughter” Aaw. In order to help the child’s failing self-esteem, the aging relative teaches her magic. Laying down both the benefits and the backlash, the girl grows up into a beautiful teenager. When the local merchant demands reimbursement for all the credit she’s given the family, Aaw is sold into white slavery and shipped off to Thailand’s sex capital to work as a dancer in a bar/brothel. The madam sees real possibilities in the new country rube virgin, and the re-named Dau is soon seeing customers, getting paid for unspeakable acts she could have never imagined during her life back home. Suddenly, she remembers her magical gifts, and starts using them to get revenge on those who’ve wrong her. But she fails to heed her grandmother’s rules, creating a demonic entity that invades Dau’s dreams - and then heads out into the night to feed.

As for the storyline in The Butcher, there isn’t much of one. The premise is rather simple - a filmmaker hires local mobsters to kidnap people. He then brings them to a remote location set up as a combination studio and slaughterhouse, attaches cameras to his hostage’s heads, and then he films them as a masked maniac in a pig get-up murders them in completely inhuman and horrific ways. During this particular session, a married couple are caught, and the filmmaker has a field day with this unusual dynamic. While making his sickening snuff entertainment, he gives the husband an actual chance at survival. All he has to do is suggest a new, nasty way for his wife to die and the auteur of atrocities will let him go. Of course, there is a catch. Just because one member of this perverted production company says he will live doesn’t mean the man with the chainsaw agrees.

The differences between P and The Butcher are a primer in conflicting approaches to terror. One is a sly story of prostitution and personality clashes inside a combination of superstition and supernatural sorcery. The other is a first person POV assault on the senses, a nonstop stream of video splatter inter-spliced with endless screaming and character pleading. P plays on its characters with style and a sense of purpose. One could easily see The Butcher as a cruel commentary, a slap in the face of foolish American audiences who, as the “director” here laments, simply can’t get enough hardcore violence. While both rely on the culture and customs of their particularly country, one makes better use of the sinister subtext they provide. The other simply sits back, turns on the ever-present camcorders, and watches while people are vivisected with vicious callousness.

P is the much better film, for reasons that have little to do with the amount of blood being spilled. In fact, there is probably as much arterial spray in Dau’s demonic revenge as there is throughout The Butcher‘s callous corpse grinding. Western filmmaker Paul Spurrier, no stranger to Thai ways, also recognizes the need to keep his fellow fright fans laden with grue. But unlike the 8mm miscreance of director Kim Jin-Won’s eviscerating excess, we shudder at the thought of our heroine’s horrific secret. Indeed, The Butcher is more for the confirmed gorehound, the person who can’t enjoy a scary movie experience without seeing organs removed and eyeballs garroted. There is nothing wrong with such an approach: it has its own unique, visceral qualities that when handled properly, make the menace practically leap off the screen. But P finds a way to make it work as part of an actual story. The Butcher is just a sideshow with a high tech sheen.

There’s also another issue with the latter title that bears discussing. With everything from Paranormal Activity to Cloverfield mimicking the now infamous Blair Witch style of handheld shaky cam creep-outs, it’s hard to look at The Butcher as something new. In fact, films like The Pooghkeepsie Tapes and [REC] have illustrated caught on tape carnage better than most of the material here. In fact, the only thing this movie really has going for it is the insane killer with a passionate Porky complex. Watching this animal-headed freak walk down a dark corridor, his fatalistic intent ever-present and palpable, is more than enough to conjure up a good case of the willies. But then the rest of the narrative is taken up with endless whiny, our husband begging for his life like a schoolgirl being unfairly grounded by her parents. In the end, we enjoy Dau’s determined attempt to rise above her degrading circumstances. The Butcher just wants us to wallow around in its senseless splatter.

Still, as perfect illustrations of the whole hard and soft, subtle and sledgehammer style of Asian horror moviemaking, this duo is almost definitive. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find two films as patently polar opposite of each other than these - and yet, we can still see the same traditions and cinematic trademarks within both. For all its sleazoid suggestion and underage smuttiness, P is really a tale of payback gone mystical, while The Butcher breaks down the basics of onscreen violence into three practical components - maker, murderer, and those who enjoy watching both. And the determining factor for both is blood - lots and lots of blood. While that meaningful monochrome symbol showcases the inherent concept of yin and yang, P and The Butcher discuss the conceit in clots of brazen blood red. While neither film is perfect, one clearly wishes to engage, not enrage, its audience. 

by Bill Gibron

29 Oct 2009


While the comparison has been made before, the passage of time has confirmed it as fact: Monty Python’s Flying Circus is indeed the Beatles of sketch comedy. True, similarities do stop at content and culture-shaping impact, but there are a few undeniable facts that link to two UK phenomenons together. Both came out of Britain to conquer the world, forever changing the way we look at certain artistic styles and creativity. Each used their distinctive personalities and divergent interests to shape their approach, and the final results remains relevant even 40 some years later. There’s even the same sentiment toward a “reunion”. With the death of a significant part of each outfit, bringing them back is just never going to happen.

And so, like the Fab Four, it’s time to cement the remaining members place in history. It’s time to tell the truth, Anthology style, to pour on the context and explain away the misinformation - or in some cases, create a few new myths along the way. Recently, IFC Films presented the stunning, six part overview of the group’s founding and immeasurable success that followed. While far from definitive (even at nearly five and a half hours, it still skips by many of the more important aspects of their origins) it still represents a massive attempt at explaining away Python once and for all. In that regard, A&E is releasing two separate documentaries on DVD, a pair of features that, in their own way, supplement and support the Almost the Truth take on Monty Python. While The Other British Invasion does repeat some of the same stories and anecdotes, it argues for its place as part of the overall sketch god Bible.

The first offering, Before the Flying Circus, is the best. It covers the boy’s formative years, from Eric Idle’s 12 year stint in an authoritarian English boarding school to the awkward physicality of a young John Cleese. Terry Gilliam was a BMOC A-student in Minnesota while Terry Jones and Michael Palin showed an early love of the theater. Because he is no longer here to speak for himself, Graham Chapman’s switch from doctor to performer is handled in a perfunctory is pleasant manner, and we get nothing on unofficial “seventh” member of the troupe, actress Carol Cleveland. While a few of the same faces show up (Palin’s old school chum who introduced him to cabaret, UK comic icon Ronnie Barker) and a few more make an exclusive appearance here (most notably, David Frost).

As with Almost the Truth, happenstance seems to play a great part in the Python’s evolution. We get the impression early and often that many of the opportunities provided to the fledgling superstars literally fell into their lap. No horrific tales about waiting tables, working in a factory, or slogging away in an insurance office before the “big break” arrived. No, once they entered University and took up residence in the Oxford/Cambridge theatrical societies, it was graduation, TV shows, and eventual world domination. Of course, the gang would argue differently, though it is odd to see how someone like Gilliam went from Occidental College to a national humor magazine (Help! ) to Python while having no set career path. Apparently, talent trumps even the most rudimentary of individual struggles.

Throughout, it’s the stories that sell us on Monty Python’s lasting legacy. We hear how certain partnerships took shape, how the guys bounced ideas off each other while staunchly supporting their own vision. Unlike Almost the Truth, which set up the various battles inside the situation (Jones had the notion of constantly breaking down barriers, while seasoned performer Cleese was convinced the group was prone to repeating itself), this is a prologue, a primer in preparation for the real story behind Python’s astonishing success. If you’ve seen Almost the Truth, Before the Flying Circus will function as a fascinating fill in the blanks (why no mention of the seminal Complete and Utter History of Britain, IFC?). Together, they take us to the moment when a group of English jesters carved up the court of international satire.

The second feature, Monty Python Conquers America, is more of a tribute than an actual narrative. We get dozens of doting celebrities - everyone from Hank Azaria, Carl Reiner and Luke Wilson to Judd Apatow and South Park’s Trey Parker and Matt Stone - expressing their appreciation for what the group did for post-modern humor. In between are clips of classic sketches as well as input from various PBS personalities, all of whom marvel at how an initially unsuccessful show (at least in US) became perhaps the most important comedy series ever.

The Pythons also offer their two cents, suggesting that much of the hoopla came not from the show itself, but from the otherworldly success of the Holy Grail film. Of course, Almost the Truth took three hour long episodes to cover most of this material, meaning we get less factual analysis and more famous fawning. Still, as a glimpse into how their peers felt (and still feel) about the Flying Circus, Conquers America is an indispensible indication of the group’s lasting impact.

One of the best bits here, however, is reserved for the DVD bonus features. Found on the Before the Flying Circus disc, “Animated Gilliam” allows the now famous filmmaker to comment on the four distinct cartoon opening he created for the series. While some of his reminiscences are rather obvious (“I was clearly thinking about sex then”), he does try to decipher the mystery behind some of the faces, and feet, used. The other extra is taken from an old PBS vault copy of an episode in which the opening sketch “A Party Political Broadcast on Behalf of the Conservative and Unionist Party” was presented. Later cut from UK versions of the episode (the BBC felt it was blatant political pandering and pulled it), this “Silly Walk” like effort is very funny indeed (a version of it appears live during the Hollywood Bowl ‘concert’).

As with the lads from Liverpool, history and its various clueless contrarians have tried to rewrite the truth about Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Some dismiss it outright, claiming it’s dated and fails to deliver on its overhyped, overexposed promise. A few will take it further, acknowledging the group’s importance but then pointing out how others did it better and more bravely. Still, there is an undeniable truth that even the most notorious naysayer can’t deny - like The Beatles, the efforts of John Cleese, Graham Chapman, Terry Jones, Michael Palin, Eric Idle, and Terry Gilliam endure. Monty Python’s Flying Circus is indeed the most important comedy series of the post-modern era. It really doesn’t take a definitive documentary (or set of same) to prove that. The continuing laughter speaks for itself.

by Bill Gibron

28 Oct 2009


As a cinematic rule of thumb, animation and horror do not go well together. Not that many have tried such a mix however, and with its wealth of invention and imagination possibilities, it seems odd that cartooning and the creepshow haven’t comfortably co-existed before. Maybe the right artists weren’t approached. Perhaps the studios who sell pen and ink to the public believe no fresh-faced family will sit through an example of hand-drawn dread. But again, since so few have actually made the effort, the verdict is still out on the craven combos possibility. Thanks to the French, and the fabulous anthology Fear(s) of the Dark (new to DVD from IFC Films), however, we get our first real glimpse at how the two genres would function collectively, and it’s an eerie, ethereal experience indeed.

Divided into sections, with some clever linking material in between, the five stories here (delivered by five different directors) each deal with a differing dynamic of terror. Filmmaker Butch brings us a glorious pencil to paper tale of a nobleman, his hounds from Hell, and the fatalistic fun he has with said pets. Charles Burns then gives us the story of Eric, his love of gathering insects, and his unearthly experience with a girlfriend named Laura. This is followed up by an Asian inspired saga from writer Roman Slocombe and director Marie Caillou. It centers on a young girl, a group of bullies, and the surreal spirit of a dead samurai. We then travel to a terrified township where people have been disappearing. Lorenzo Mattiotti gives us the details from the perspective of two young boys, one of which may know more than he lets on. Finally, a burly man breaks into a seemingly abandoned house, looking for shelter from a snow storm. Inside, he finds a sinister secret, and as Richard McGuire illustrates, a fate worse than the elements.

There is also an attempt by abstractionist Pierre Di Sovillo to deal with the essence of fear, his monochrome designs deconstructing audio only interviews with people as they admit their deepest phobias and apprehensions. Sometimes it succeeds, but more times than not, these otherwise obtuse images detract from the real macabre meat. In fact, much of Fear(s) of the Dark is so powerful, so solid in its scary movie statements, that we wonder why others haven’t been bothered to try this kind of project before. Right from the very start, as Butch’s bedeviled dogs snarl and growl with near demonic desire, we understand how animation can amplify fright. But it’s the moment when Burns pushes 3D CG to the point of perversion where we drop all pretense and get lost in the lingering terror.

Indeed, the unusual tale of love and locusts would probably seem silly if not for the artist’s well known style. The use of sharp, bold lines and simplistic, primal shapes creates an unsettling sense of heightened reality. Then, as the narrative plays out, we feel the impact of every plot twist, the spine-tingled truth behind every previously referenced act. Since it is rendered in black and white (all of the short films featured here use the same bi-color palette, with just a little ripe red bloodshed for added effect), there is a wonderful sense of old school schlock at play as well. It’s an approach that really works flawlessly for the rest of the segments as well.

Mattiotti makes wonderful use of it during his subtle tale of superstition and folklore gone gangrenous. As the narrator informs us of the various indistinct clues that seem to indicate a monster in the marshes, we get chilling imagery that suggests more than it shows. In fact, at a pivotal moment in the narrative, an important reveal is offered in a barely visible blurry design. Sensational! Things aren’t as understated in Caillou’s homage to Japanese ghost stories. The look is divine, but the plot is obvious in its revenge/payback ideals. We anticipate what happens with little suspense, allowing the lush application of Asian imagery as a means of making up for a lack of shock.

There is no need for such substitution with the last effort. McGuire’s classic dark house tale is masterful in its no frills approach to narrative. There is no dialogue, no voice over explaining what’s going on. As a lumbering ox of a man breaks into a secluded home, we see nothing except what the available light illuminates. It’s all eyes, odd angles, statements in silhouette, glimpsed deviousness, and subtle suggestion. As the layers build, as we learn about the building’s history, about the person who presumably still lives there, and the terrifying truth of our protagonist’s fate, we keep waiting for the other shocking shoe to drop…and wait…and wait…and wait…

If this DVD presentation from IFC films has a failing - and it’s a minor, non-feature film misstep at best - it’s in the inability to hear the creators speak for themselves. The extras consist of material that comments on the project (an art exhibit of some of the drawings) or discusses the basic nuts and bolts of the process (like how Burn’s images where turned into 3D shapes for computer manipulation). What Fear(s) of the Dark really needed was a collection of commentary tracks, or at the very least, interviews which would allow the artists to explain their ideas and judge the final product. Without said content, we feel like we’re missing something integral to this unusual (and otherwise masterful) marriage.

Still, the resulting feature is fabulous, a true integration of one artform into another. Fear(s) of the Dark should put to rest once and for all any qualms about mixing animation with angst. In fact, with the recent renaissance in CG titles, one could easily see someone like Pixar picking up the bedeviled ball and running with it. Considering their current track record, the possibilities literally boggle the mind. Still, just because a chosen few can make the concept work does mean it’s a universally applicable standard. Fear(s) of the Dark is special because of its rareness and singularity. Once horror and cartooning establish a norm, we will see what sort of benchmark it truly is/was. 

by Bill Gibron

28 Oct 2009


Before mass communication, globalization, and the easy availability of information, superstition was the stuff of horror. Myths and legends, folklore and faith mutated into a kind of communal angst, a way of dealing with the unexplainable, the unfathomable, and in many cases, the unconscionable. Early civilization was riddled with conflicts, wars and crusades meant to purge the world of certain evil ideas, and yet with each new battle, an entire series of fallacies were forged.

During the early part of the 16th Century, Russia and Finland clashed for pride and property. After nearly 25 years, a truce was agreed upon and signed. Now, with aggressions ceasing, a band of surveyors are out drawing borders between the powers. Led by ex-soldiers and military officials, the process involves cunning, negotiation, and more than a little glorified game playing. But when two brothers, Knut and Erik, commit a horrible crime in one of the remote villages, they feel haunted by more than their duty to the crown.

Things come to a head in a small uncharted town smack dab in the middle of the proposed border. Most unusual, there’s a building in the center of a swamp, a place the fearful residents claim is either evil or ethereal, an oasis of horrid darkness or sin-free soul salvation. Thus begins the provocative, potent period piece fright flick Sauna, an amazing work of subtle menace by Finnish director Antti-Jussi Annila. Similar in style to the brilliant Let the Right One In, this story of blame and belief, terror and trepidation uses an unfamiliar era and event to lay the foundation for one undeniable work of fear.

Thanks to its antagonistic premise, the Russians and Finns constantly clashing back and forth over every little element of the treaty, we easily buy the actions of Knut and Erik. Anywhere else, they would seem like cruel opportunists, men using the foundation of enemy to relegate human life to an afterthought. As the story progresses, as the superstitions of the mystery burg begin to affect our heroes, we see that Annila has something even more serious to say. Sauna is, at its heart, a morality tale where no act goes unpunished, where irrational fears and baseless dread turn individuals against each other. It’s also a thought-provoking indictment of atrocities, since our main characters are literally “haunted” by an act that, just a few weeks before, was celebrated as patriotic (or at the very least, part of the process of war).

Thanks to the dour and grimy atmosphere, a time when swordsmanship was more important than the ability to read and write, we understand and accept the baseless brutality. We sense why Knut is so afraid, and why Erik is so melancholy. These men are tired - tired of the hypocrisy of mediating claims they battled over for years, tired of the long trips away from their homeland, tired of the dirty looks and intentional deception of the Russian, and tired of having to support each other out of familial obligation. There are many times in Sauna when we believe one brother will turn on the other. It’s not a matter of sibling rivalry, but the internal ravages of bringing death.

For his part, Annila creates a very terrifying if tactile environment. Light barely illuminates the sets and some of the sequences are purposefully lost in a never-ending darkness. Even better, the dirt and fifth of the 16th Century bathes everything in a kind of medieval sadness. We feel the pain these men have gone through, indirectly experiencing the senseless nature of their enterprise with every frozen step. The landscape is as bleak and lifeless as the soldier’s purpose and Annila takes every opportunity to use nature as a means of undermining their resolve. The endless snow, the dead forests all seem to suggest that nothing good will come from Knut and Erik’s mission.

And then there is the title element, the surreal concrete building which the villagers swear brings about penance for and freedom from one’s sins. Of course, such a sentiment flows reciprocally, but no one in Sauna sees it that way. After a quarter century sparring over small parcels of land, all they want is to be forgiven. But payment for one’s crimes can be equally cruel. This is especially true of our two leads. They carry a greater burden than one found in armed conflict. The sequences inside the structure have a sinister edge, even as they promise something far more righteous. Religion is not a major part of Sauna, except for the notion of how faith (and blood rituals) can battle even the most entrenched failed folklore.

Thanks to its wonderful cast (Ville Virtanen is especially effective as a gaunt and ghoulish Erik) and a primitive location, Sauna finds a way to get deep under your skin. This is the kind of horror movie that has you thinking more than shrieking, that offers dread in how it presents its ideas vs. how creepy things will get. We don’t necessarily indentify with these men or their mission, and recognize that they require punishment more than deliverance, but in the end, that’s not really why we watch.

Instead, director Annila works a kind of wicked magic over the audience, involving them in a time and predicament far removed from their current frame of reference. Even in this, the 21st Century, there are still parts of the world that drape their cultural ways in ancient, almost archaic beliefs. As Sauna shows us, the reaction to said convictions are often as unholy as the initial fears themselves.

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