I am not a movie reviewer. Movie discussions, save the likes of Charlie Wilson's War, which is directly related to the business of this Blog, have no place here. But there is something I must get off my chest.
I got, at birth, for better or worse, a full dose of the male gene set. I am not very squeamish, and I must reluctantly admit a predilection for rather nasty movies and TV shows—from Platoon to Syriana, to my favorite movie of all time, Apocalypse Now, to 24. (I even own an old video called, I think, The NFL's Hardest Hits.)
I suppose I've been a solo moviegoer for 50 years. And I've never walked out of a movie, no matter how many bombs were exploding or how much blood was flowing.
Until this Sunday.
At the 15 minute mark I left the Rutland VT Movieplex 9, where I was watching No Country for Old Men. It has won a bucketful of awards, and reviews have indeed remarked that it is pretty violent.
I can state without (personal) doubt that I have never seen such continuous, gratuitous, barf-inducing, disgusting violence in my life, including dog shootings, which I abhor.
If the movie wins the Academy Award for Best Picture, I will probably throw a rock through my TV screen.