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The summer of 2019 will remain an exceptional summer and august is just announced as being possibly slightly less extreme.
To spend some peaceful time under the coconut trees in your back garden, I suggest you get in touch with:
1- Queen, “Bohemian Rhapsody”;
2- “Black Panther” from Marvel Studios;
3- “The Soft Machine” by William Burroughs;
4- The series “The Fall” by BBC Northern Ireland;
5- “Congo Tales” directly told and collected in Mbomo, Republic of Congo (Brazzaville);
5- “NOS4A2” by Joe Hill, but the series version though the book is good too;
6- “Stephen King The Maverick Rapscallion” by me, myself and my own;
7- Stephen King’s “Cell,” the book if you can find it and the film, a simple entertainment;
8- Stephen King’s “Bag of Bones,” the book again if you can get it and the mini-series which is exceptional;
9- Stephen King’s “22/11/’63,” the book if you manage to put your greasy hands on it and the series which is in many ways quite good, though maybe too short.
And when you are finished with all nine (an Apocalypse with a Beast and a Dragon) I will suggest some more in let’s say four weeks
Have a good summer.

QUEEN — BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY — 2018

This band could have been a simple boys band and they were not because they had something more powerful in their guts and they dared to put it on the stage, set it up for us, the audience who wanted to rock and roll but a music that spoke about our real world, not the real world that we suffered all along but the real world that we suffered all along carved in the stone of our victimized minds that provided us with the glyphs of ecstasy in some codex of a cosmic ritualistic calendar of eternal time. Queen was able to bring together for us the real world and the way we experienced it in our minds, to the point of us becoming mental, to the point of getting so far into the margin and so deep into the unknown that at the time, and we were in the 1970–80s we could not imagine Queen was anything else but the truth coming from ahigh, from the sky, but the sky of our own existential madness.

There were many other artists in those days who tried to show us the world through our own belly button windows, as Jimi Hendrix called them because our eyes only saw what we suffered and enjoyed experienced and ran after all over in our life, in this life that has no return ticket to the other side of normalcy, or fashionable normalcy, the normalcy of those who accept to be nothing but bone, flesh, and blood droppings from the nest of some god or monsters who dominates our minds so much that we cannot even go into the closest Water Closet without being accused of some onanistic crime. And if we by any chance met someone in this Water Closet we would be accused of some mental and diabolical fornication, and fornication is an understatement for these moralistic deranged people because they visualize all the things they would like to do and yet never do at all, except when they find enough courage to push the door of the local Maison Close, as they call them in French in the text, and buy from the Madame the human thing they need to do all the things they want to do that are not allowed in any ethical treatise. We all have a Marquis de Sade in our dendrites.

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But what enthused us then? What in us made us love this music and these lyrics and the noise they caused all along their way, along our way, because we projected ourselves into them and we transferred our minds into their spiritual experience and we became the loving human animals that could really shock our parents, our friends, our relatives, if we dared to say it, to tell it, to publicize this transference activity of ours, being Freddie Mercury and his band, and getting into his clothes at first and then into his skin not to satisfy our hormonal desires with him but to engulf ourselves into the bliss of satisfying all our desires through, via, by sheer dint of Freddie Mercury himself and his band. We were becoming the ghost in the Opera of this Queen band of extra-real extra-social extra-cultural both geniuses and devils. And we finally could paint the city red, blood red mind you, “Mama I’ve just killed a man,” and finally as William Burroughs would say in “The Soft Machine” in over some odd 140 pages “a young captive was tied to a stake and the priests who were translucent lobster men with wild blue eyes and shells of flexible copper, tore his s** off with white-hot copper claws to throw the writhing remnant of the emasculated boy into the brown iridescent lagoon infested with sting-ray, freshwater shark, Arequipa, candirus, water boa, crocodile, electric eel, aquatic panther and other noxious creatures,” dreamed up by the never lying Freddie Mercury, “which infest our minds with marginal ambitions and ritualistic symbiotic human cannibalism.” We enjoyed these visions of fatal, lethal, morbid and supremely enjoyable blissful, I mean full of bliss, orgasmic realization of our deepest impulses and fears because we were both the young captive and the Mayan priest. Were we ready to perform the self-sacrifice this Mayan priest required, take the stingray spine and pierce our penile being to offer our penial blood to the climactic discharge of our souls into the eternity of cosmic life?

That was Queen for us, and the film magnificently recreates this nostalgia with the necessary softening not to frighten the younger souls who may wonder why we liked such barbaric exploration of what we had deepest in our marrow and spine. The actor is of course surprisingly able to impersonate the artist who will at the end be himself in their final concert in Wimbledon or somewhere else for Bob Geldof and Midge Ure’s Live Aid campaign.

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Most of us though, would not admit that depth and brutal viciousness of our mental world that only finds its way out in a war when all is permitted on one side or the other, on all sides actually because there often are more than two, provided it is wrapped up in nationalism, patriotism, socialism or simply the revolution like today’s Artificial Intelligence revolution. As Lee Harvey Oswald would say “Have you read Karl Marx?” and he would hand us the Manifesto of the Communist Party, as a first step towards our liberation that implies that we torture and execute all those who disagree with our revolution. “Good Morning Vietnam” as another actor would say in a famous film. But it is nowadays something like “Good Bye, Lenin!” for this Freddie Mercury who sang in all the tones and colorations possible that “I was born to love you!” Would you really refuse to be loved by such a Luciferian archangel? In the time of the yellow vest turned black blocks I am afraid Freddie Mercury has wasted his love on all those who came after him. He is singing in a desolate, desertic, and empty jungle of many million wild spiders in one small pot. Then it is real body language indeed, or should I say the Mayan Centipede is back again on Les Champs Elysées for Bastille Day 2019. Can you hear them singing “What can we loot, what can we raid, what can we spoil?” I am sure it is high time to get all these Queen’s lyrics and read them as if they were a flame in the night, to follow Leonard Cohen’s testament poetry book.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

MARVEL STUDIOS — BLACK PANTHER — 2018

To really have a black superhero in Marvel Studios is a good thing. I just would like to point at a few options within that choice, that make it wider than just a plain color choice. The first option is to center this superhero on a “clandestine” black state in Africa, Wakanda. So, we go back to Africa and the Blacks in the USA are African first and their roots are in the Black continent, which in fact is only two-thirds of the continent.

The second choice is to state these Wakandans have been endowed with the highest level of technology that makes them real competitors to the rest of the world. And this question is a debate among Wakandans and Black people. Should this high-tech society be reserved to Wakandans or generalized to all Blacks in the world, and in the USA first of all? That is the crucial question in the whole film with two potential crown princes who will fight to the death with first the victory of the contender and then the victory of the legitimate son of the previous king. And the final decision is that this high-tech has to be shared with everyone, including the whites.

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Do not cut off the film with the final credits. There are two small scenes after the credits and these two scenes are essential on this sharing perspective, especially the last one where a white man is living in a hut in one Wakandan village and being observed by three black children and when he emerges from the hut he seems to be at home, or at least nearly at home, though one white man in a black village does not make integration a reality. It takes more than one swallow to get Spring after Winter.

That’s the next remark. Politically the Wakandan system is neither very democratic since the leader can only be the descendant of the previous king or from his family, hence the son of the king’s brother killed a long time ago by the recently deceased king. Democracy is not the reality of this system. One can only become king if challengers are called forward and then a real fight will take place between the two “contenders” or the legitimate choice and his contender, and the fight can perfectly go as far as killing the loser. That picture is shown as being typically African, and that is not acceptable. Especially when it is doubled up with another tribe which will be crucial for the end, being dominated in the same way by an absolute leader, and between the two tribes there is one main difference. The Wakandans are dominated by men but with an important position for women who are the royal army. The other tribe is entirely male-dominated. This question of democracy and gender equality is shown in their limitations as being African, but a superhero film can really be a little bit more utopian. There are a couple of important women on the side of the legitimate Wakandan king, but they remain secondary characters. As the legitimate heir to the throne says to one woman: “You are too stubborn to be a queen!” And the concerned woman answers: “I can be a queen because I am stubborn!” That’s good rhetoric but it is nothing but rhetoric.

In the USA the situation is shown as being totally different. The whites are mostly thieves who want to steal Wakandan technology to be able to organize some criminal activity with the certainty to always be dominant. Only one white CIA agent is shown as being open to collaborating with the legitimate king, which means meddling into the affairs of the Wakandan royal family. The life in the USA for black kids is shown in the 1990s as being miserable and the boys, not girls, are playing basketball but they do not have a net on the ring, nor a ring, but they have a square fruit plastic box whose bottom has been removed and that has been set in the place of the ring and the ring net. So, they play basketball with a square scoring ring. In modern times the same boys are better dressed, and they finally have a scoring ring and a ring net but what has changed? Nothing. The three dilapidated buildings around this basketball court have been bought by the newly victorious king and he is going to develop them into a national identity center. In other words, he is on a black nationalist line and that is not a great change from what the Blacks have always been confronted to in the USA: the obligation to fight for their being recognized as being equal citizens in the USA within their own differences. In other words, President Trump’s tweets are fully active here. The white nationalists would say about women of color, “if they don’t like it here, they can go back to where they came from.” And the answer is “We are here to stay, to have equal rights and to be recognized as a nation here in the USA.” That’s not so far away from what the Black nationalists of the beginning of the 20th century who used to speak about separate but really equal with a Black Star Line, a Black National Guard, a Black Nurse Order, etc., and first of all Black education with Black schools, Black teachers, Black students, and Black economic development. The national identity center could be better. Like turning a Los Angeles Prison into a Multi-Ethnic Cultural Center to remember the multi-ethnic population of such a prison.

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The last thing I would like to say is that the elite in Wakanda have the hi-tech they are speaking of, but the simple urban and rural population of Wakanda is still having a traditional life raising cattle, and not even big herds really, and some agriculture, plus street traditional markets in the streets. Where is hi-tech progress for them? Tomorrow’s Africa is not that kind of archaic non-development but it is the same, or rather similar, development as in the “west” because the “rest,” and particularly the Black African (two-thirds of Africa) “rest” has the right to get the same hi-tech means adapted to their mode of living and climate or landscape. But we are not there yet, as they sing at the end of the film:

“Tell me what you gon’ do to me
Confrontation ain’t nothin’ new to me
You can bring a bullet, bring a sword
Bring a morgue, but you can’t bring the truth to me
Fuck you and all your expectations
I don’t even want your congratulations
I recognize your false confidence

and calculated promises

all in your conversation
I hate people that feel entitled
Look at me crazy ’cause I ain’t invite you”

The model of this superhero film is in fact perfectly standard for Marvel Studios and it is basically western if not white western. This makes me slightly disappointed. You will say it is the first “episode” and many others exist in comic book form. But we would like to really see the future world the way it will have to be with Artificial Intelligence and all for everyone, and everyone being active and creative within that new technology. Maybe in the future episodes but hurry up otherwise Black Africa might turn Chinese-friendly if it is not already the case.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

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All The Stars

Kendrick Lamar, SZA

Love, let’s talk about love
Is it anything and everything you hoped for?
Or do the feeling haunt you?
I know the feeling haunt you

This maybe the night that my dreams might let me know
All the stars are closer, all the stars are closer, all the stars are closer
This maybe the night that my dreams might let me know
All the stars are closer, all the stars are closer, all the stars are closer

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Tell me what you gon’ do to me
Confrontation ain’t nothin’ new to me
You can bring a bullet, bring a sword
Bring a morgue, but you can’t bring the truth to me
Fuck you and all your expectations
I don’t even want your congratulations
I recognize your false confidence and calculated promises all in your conversation
I hate people that feel entitled
Look at me crazy ’cause I ain’t invite you
Oh, you important?
You the moral to the story, you endorsing?
Motherfucker, I don’t even like you
Corrupt a man’s heart with a gift
That’s how you find out who you dealin’ with
A small percentage, who I’m building with
I want the credit if I’m losing or I’m winning
On my momma that’s the realest shit

Girl, let’s talk about love
Is it anything and everything you hoped for?
Or do the feeling haunt you?
I know the feeling haunt you

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This maybe the night that my dreams might let me know
All the stars are closer, all the stars are closer, all the stars are closer
This maybe the night that my dreams might let me know
All the stars are closer, all the stars are closer, all the stars are closer

Skin covered in ego
Get to talkin’, I get involved, like a rebound
No control, no off switch in the way that you bringing me down
It’s a turn on, get it away from me
Know you mean wrong, keep away from me
And it’s all wrong, get it away from me, yeah
I just cry for no reason, I just pray for no reason
I just thank for the life, for the day, for the hours and another life breathin’
I did it all ’cause it feel good
You could live it all if you feel bad
Better live your life
We are running out of time

Love, let’s talk about love
Is it anything and everything you hoped for?
Or do the feeling haunt you?
I know the feeling haunt you

This maybe the night that my dreams might let me know
All the stars are closer, all the stars are closer, all the stars are closer
This maybe the night that my dreams might let me know
All the stars are closer, all the stars are closer, all the stars are closer

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Alexander William Shuckburgh / Kendrick Lamar / Mark Anthony Spears / Solana I. Rowe / Anthony Tiffith

All The Stars lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

WILLIAM BURROUGHS — THE SOFT MACHINE — 1961–1966–1968

We have to keep in mind this book was written and published in three successive edited editions in the 1960s, at the latest in 1968, one year before Woodstock but all in the dynamic period of Hippy flower boys (more than girls, except that then the girls were the flowers the boys picked along their way). The main motto that emerged in this period was “Make Love, Not War!” And it was clear that love meant s**, practically only s**. Burroughs only seems to push the context into practically exclusively gay (and at the time this word did not exist with this meaning) s**.

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The second particularity of this book is that this gay s** is pushed to an extreme that finds its reference in a totally mythical allusion to Maya civilization and practices of human sacrifice, and even if we follow the author what he calls symbiotic cannibalism. We will discuss the Maya reference later. But the sadistic gay perspective is always defined and graphically described as rape, through the backdoor nearly exclusively, emasculation, blood sacrifice, hanging, beheading, all kinds of dismembering, domination anyway till death ensues. There is no escape for the boys that fall into the trap of this predator: they will end up used intensively, and they will probably die of it, and possibly as slow as the violence permits, meaning the violence is calculated for death to be suspended as long as possible and that does not often go beyond 24 hours. The boys are some commodity that is used, discarded and recycled into natural compost, in fact, manure pile rejects for decomposition.

The most surprising wrapping up of this tale of sadistic gay preying by a lethal human predator is the reference to Maya civilization. Even, in the 1960s we knew better than what is said here. Altogether Maya society, for William Burroughs, was a sadistic society based on human sacrifice under the authority of sacred calendars managed by priests who were nothing but extra-human beings coming from some extra-natural universe and whose carapaces were something like the merger of a lobster and a cockroach or scorpion. These priests only found satiety and satisfaction in all kinds of physical amputation, emasculation, dismemberment, or for the elected ones eternal survival locked up into some kind of glass jar in which they were glazed like a real live being within that jar to be put on a shelf and admired regularly. They were also, these glazed ones, the privileged audience of the processing of any new victim from human shape into a pile of blended bone, flesh, and blood. And it is clear that this blending is done progressively so that the subject remains alive, howling and suffering as long as possible.

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Of course, the reference to all kinds of cruel animal predators, including some mythical ones is constant with stingrays whose spines are used for self-sacrifice and bloodletting, freshwater sharks, crocodiles, and the famous centipedes. The centipede is a real animal, but it is a giant centipede that is extremely aggressive, voracious and cannibalistic, meaning it devours everything that is of the flesh nature, and particularly human flesh so that the death by the centipede is constantly in the pages of this novel. A human being, generally here a boy is thrown naked, after his clothes have been ripped off, to a bunch of centipedes who devour the boy alive of course and the show is a real audio-visual spectacle for the happy few priests or future victims who can see it. You can’t imagine how far Burroughs can go in his sadistic imagination. And since it is gay and only gay, we can think the author’s mind must have been so severely repressed if not violently redressed all his life, so that now he can only find satisfaction in his gender-orientation if it is a preying episode, him being the predator and the others being the prey.

This approach to s** is typical of the 1960s and the beginning 1970s. But after Fritz the Cat, after the s**-films of Andy Warhol, after the descent of the Love Hippy Boys (and girls) into the stalemate of the Vietnam War turned defeat of Saigon, and the Post Traumatic War Stress Syndrome of the whole nation (USA) and West, Zabriskie Point could be on the horizon, if not directly on the tea table in the psychiatric clinic’s waiting room for PTWarSD patients queueing for treatment. William Burroughs reveals with power and horror how far the West was going to fall thirty years later when it engaged in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria and a few other places, and when it was confronted to the real challenge coming from China and of course technical Artificial Intelligence 5G communication.

William Burroughs is the very deepest reality of western consciousness, or unconsciousness because we, in the West, live with this sadistic stowaway in our cranium without any chance of ever being liberated from its tyranny. Things have not improved really, but they have become mostly clandestine and unexpressed. They have become some kind of ghost in the opera of our life and we are haunted by it. There is no cure for this disease. So, I guess the only solution is to get rid of humanity and encourage the machines we are inventing to take over and absolutely eradicate the human species.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

BBC NORTHERN IRELAND — THE FALL — 2013–2016

That is a serial killer series, but we know the serial killer from the very start, like in Dexter, but in this case no notion of justice, of killing criminals. Just killing young women of a special type in a special way. Nothing to brag about. That’s the very definition of a serial killer: a type of victim and a mode of operation that are always the same or similar. But we are dealing with Northern Ireland and though the religious details are not insisted upon, there are a few that are important. The serial killer, Paul or Peter, or both according to the situations, was raised by his mother who committed suicide by hanging herself when he was six or seven. Then he went in foster care for a short while and then to orphanages. It appears, when he was a teenager, young teenager, that he was made the “pretty boy” of one particular priest, which meant for one year the boy (of 12 or 13) had to satisfy all the requirement of his patron and that could be any oral act or handjob with the priest, with himself in front of an audience, with any boy in the group concerned and any member of the staff if required.

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That’s the most important trauma you can imagine: an orphan, his single mother hanged herself when he was young but old enough to understand (if that sort of trauma is understanding) and then moved from one institution to another to end up in an orphanage where he became the pet, the toy of adults or other teenagers his age or older. It is, in fact, amazing that he managed to get some kind of qualification, to be able to do something in life to earn a living, to get married and have two children, in fact, the third one did not come to the end of his/her gestation because of a miscarriage. But the point is that he had a double life and his wife was in love to the point of being blind to this double life.

And this double life is called PTSD and that PTSD can lead the victim to any kind of behavior or crimes, and here it is crimes, you can imagine. I will not discuss the details of the crimes. But what is interesting is that the chase went on for a while but the police only needed to get the hard evidence to arrest him, and hard evidence was difficult to find because he was very careful and because he used at least two identities, one socially known and attached to his family and another attached to his second life’s activities. This is a case of split personality. He seemed to control the two sides of his personality perfectly well until he was shot by someone who was connected to one of the victims. This person did not survive the shooting he started and caused and was shot on the spot by the police present, but our serial killer was severely wounded and he lost his spleen. He survived and demonstrated a loss of memory from a certain date to another, in fact, the whole period of the serial killings he was accused of at first.

But as he said, the police had done some intelligent work and on the basis of all sorts of documents that they seized in a storage locker under his non-official name, they managed to get some elements about other cases that were before the period he pretended not to have any memory of. So, he was incriminated in cases he could not pretend he did not remember. Was his loss of memory a real loss or a sham, we will never know because of the abrupt ending of the case by the stepping out of the serial killer from the case. He will never speak, and he will never appear in court, so he will never answer a question. His end was violent, super violent as if he hated the main cop, a certain DSI Stella Gibson, he attacked in an interview room, along with her younger colleague. Gibson had just explained how she saw the loss of memory as a practical trick that might enable the serial killer to end up not tried at all. But when the cases from before this loss of memory were brought in, he seemed to have realized he will go down anyway for these older cases. So, he had to perform what he dreamed of, one night: jump and fall from the top of a skyscraper.

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The series is so marvelously acted that you cannot miss an episode and it becomes slightly addictive. Yet the main actors are too often too static with close up shot of their faces that may express some emotions but at times express the total arrest of any emotional expression due to the horror of the situations or the facts they are confronted to, at least on the side of the police officers, and because a total lack of emotions is a good defense for a caught criminal. Though in this case violence came back when he realized he was just plainly going to fry anyway.

I did not say it before, but the serial killer and his orphanage experience must be Catholic and that is in a way debatable in Northern Ireland, the Good Friday Agreement country. Paul Spector, the serial killer, does not choose his victims according to their religion and demonstrates absolutely no religious opinion or feeling or orientation or affiliation. But yet only Catholic kids are sent to Catholic orphanages where there are Catholic priests who have emotional problems with young kids or teenagers, and the priest is very clearly identified as such. Some will say it is a simple fact in the Northern Irish context. But even so, all serial killers in Northern Ireland are not Catholics and all orphans whose mothers hanged themselves or killed themselves in a way or another, causing a trauma and subsequent PTSD in their children are not Catholics, and by the way, the children in such situations don’t all turn serial killers, Catholic or not.

But a good series and the religious elements are not that prominent as religious facts, so that we can concentrate on other issues, like the alcoholism of the Associate Chief Constable, Jim Burns, because it does not even give any density to the story because alcoholism is not an explication, and certainly not an excuse for several mistakes he did in his leadership role in the investigation of this serial killing case.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

CONGO TALES TOLD BY THE PEOPLE OF MBOMO — STEFANIE PLATTNER & EVA VONK — 2018

First of all, let’s say the pictures are absolutely marvelous and beautiful. Of course, they are all staged in order to fit the stories they are attached to, but they are really deep in colors and in showing how beautiful black people and black bodies can be. It is not a question of age, sex, or even the way the people are dressed or at times costumed that is important. It is a question of color. Black people have an appeal that goes beyond the simple color of their skin or even the expressivity of their faces. They represent the darker side of our human nature and by darker, I mean mysterious, fascinating, mesmerizing even. Some of the most pregnant months in my life were spent in Kinshasa, on the other side of the Congo River, living, working and being the guest of young black people in a popular parish of Kinshasa, eating, dancing, listening to music, drinking, sleeping totally grafted into a group of about twenty young people, mostly teenagers who wanted to know, learn, do things that could make them look on life, and on their faith since they were Catholics, differently, more constructively, more open and maybe also fascinated by the white man, the mondele I was.

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That was a long time ago but the pictures in this book, the people in this book, and the stories in this book are still what I remember of these months of 1968.

The second element that is important in this book is, of course, the stories. They are not the traditional stories you can hear and read coming from traditional Africa. I have read so many, I have published so many too. African stories in the good old animist line concern animals mostly and they are some kind of fables about the shortcomings, the defaults, the mistakes of animals clearly seen as representatives of types of individuals that could also be humans. Not in any totem-oriented way, but simply because there is a continuity between humans and animals, between all living beings, I would even say living individuals, and nature which is the living environment of these individuals.

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The stories in this book mostly have humans as characters. Some stories are in the animal tradition, but most of them concern humans. The stories are always moralistic in a way or another, not in the moralistic way some people are in the west, along with the ten commandments and all the rules that have to be respected. The moral dimension is more existential. This story is what happened, and the conclusion is not so much a morality lesson, but the obvious idea that there is some logic in life, in existence, in events. Nothing happens without following some naturalistic line, even human beings follow such naturalistic lines, at times without knowing it. In other words, these stories are illustrations of this deeper natural force that is at work in our life. That’s why animals can represent us because they are alive just as much as we are.

The last element that is important is that these stories have been rewritten, from old traditions, in the light and style of today. There is no radio, no TV, no cars, not even bicycles, but there is communication and it is typical of our modern world. That means these stories are not primeval — some would have said primitive in the old days, shame on us — but they are obviously in contact somewhere with the modern world, the way the people of a small village or community far away from the bigger cities can experience it from a distance. The stories are in a way a certain distance from modern life and I will say probably just some time before this modern world reaches the village, the community. So, in a way, it is nostalgic because it is this simple naturalistic and animist vision that is going to disappear within ten or twenty years.

This world is built around three dimensions. The forest on one hand and the river on the other hand and between the two the village where people go to the river to fish, go to the forest to hunt and gather what they can find and in the cleared space around the village where they grow things and raise some animals. This ternary vision is everywhere? The great Rainbow Python is a multiple animal because it is composed of seven colors, but it is also multiple because it joins the river, the earth, and the sky, because Mbumba, as it is called, is both female and male and the seven colors are connected to the seven stars and those seven stars are power.

The village itself is multiple with the common space called kandza of mboongi which is the meeting place for all villagers to come together for any collective action or discussion, and then the private spaces which are the houses, huts or whatever the dwellings can be called, and then beyond, the cleared earth which is the space of work and of growing food and raising animals. That makes three spaces but beyond these three spaces, you have the forest and the river building another ternary structure with the village as a whole. But there is even one more space you must not forget, it is the parallel world called Nyimbi. The concept of this parallel world is the place where spirits rest and live, the spirits we can invoke and call for help. It is not a religion with a god or whatever supernatural beings. These spirits in this parallel world are in fact nothing but dematerialized people we have known, we should know, we can meet in some situations, who can speak to us when it is needed. This is a universal human dimension and the religions that have been derived from this human dimension are most of the time abstract constructions that have little to do with this animist tradition. You will only find one mention of the creator of the world called Njambé, but at the same time this Njambé in story #15 is a simple man who has several wives and decides to marry another younger one, has a child from her but one day she exchanges the child for some honey. So, is this creator of the world really a God or just another a human being who — collectively with his community — developed the social life of the group, band, tribe?

If you really want to feel how different and yet so human these Africans from Mbomo are, just get the book and read the stories and look at the pictures. It might be the door that may lead you to the parallel world Nyimbi.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

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JOE HILL — NOS4A2 — TV SERIES — AMAZON PRIME SEASON 1–2019

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If you have read the book, forget about it. This season is just another vision of Christmas that is worth enjoying by itself and on its own. The series is transforming the supernatural elements with special effects that are making the whole thing alive and dynamic, fascinating and mesmerizing. Don’t worry if you get hypnotized. You might come back to life afterwards, when you get out of the charm, curse or witchcraft. And be sure the witchcraft is a lot more powerful than anything you may have imagined.

Of course, the old Rolls Royce is a rewriting of the famous Christine by a certain Stephen King. Joe Hill has been all along under the proper influence. The car is absolutely attached to a man who thinks he is Father Christmas and he has to liberate all the kids who are suffering under the rule of their parents (singular or plural does not matter, separated, married, divorced or widowed does not matter either, though gay and lesbian are out. Parents are seen as altogether wrong, some being evil, other being unconscious, some more maybe procrastinating so much about their fate, curse or doom in life that they raise their children as monsters who will never be in any way happy.

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You thus have the two main themes of the series that were the two main themes of the novel. First the myth of Christmas every day and Christmas as the paradise for young people. Permanent Christmas is also magic, or rather witchcraft. The kids who are liberated from their parents are simply transformed into some kind of sharp-teethed vampiristic cannibals who enjoy being children forever and just expect their Father Christmas to bring them a good juicy adult dinner in the shape of a man or a woman they can devour, literally devour, revealing that in the desire for pleasure and entertainment in all kids there is a cruel, criminal, savage, wild, blood-thirsty side that can come out any time at all.

The second theme which is supposed to be the cause of this Christmas Land’s existence is the fact that all parents are sickos in disguise and that they are torturing their own children all the time, minute after minute, day and night with rules and duties, obligations and chores. It kills the fun of life and leave the kids dry-hearted and bored to death by the humdrum routine of this life where they ought to have to be obliged to be forced to do what they don’t want to do. We are not speaking of perverse pedophilia here, but of simple everyday absolutely correct and amenable cherishing action like feeding, loving, taking care of their children. It turns just giving a glass of milk to a child into a criminal and murderous act that negates the child’s freedom to desire, take and appropriate for his or her sole pleasure and benefit, whatever his fancy may fall upon, even if it is simply the flesh and blood of some appetizing living body.

The series shows marvelously that redemption, or at least some protection can only come from high school students in senior year or high school flunkies who are nothing but vagrant misshapen souls and individuals who can only pretend to be something useful for others so they can survive from the pittance they are provided with. And if they don’t find themselves satisfied with this lot, they just have to become anarchists or even worse, hooligans, drifters, thieves, shoplifters, delinquents of one sort or other, my own son might say political activists or prison inmates.

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The redeemers are attached to the use of a motorbike to be able to navigate in space and time and they all have some kind of shortcoming, or is it a unique and genial power or dimension, that enables them to know what to do or where things are and how to retrieve them. The main empowered people are girls, one with a magic motorbike, one with a sack of scrabble tiles that can read the future and tell you what to do, and they attract marginal boys who are not the brilliant representatives of society. They are kind of rejected or at least pushed or brushed aside, hence flunkies by segregation, or black, or fat if not obese, or over-violent. They are not within the range of normalcy, which has to be white, male and moderately integrated in the striving blind American society that does not ask silly questions that may embarrass your soul or your social prestige.

It is thus the fight between these supernatural forces, these marginalized super-qualities and super-powers on one hand and the evil always-lurking-about destructive, possessive, dominating ambitious people who want the whole world to be at their service, at their feet,; licking their shoes, and repeating over and over again, “Yessir (of course since they can only be men) Mister Master Sir, right away I will serve you diligently and obediently.” And all around this fight between these two groups of super good or super evil heroes, the mass of the people refuse to see, refuse to believe, but Joe Hill adds one female detective who decides, for her own reasons going back to her infancy and premature birth, to believe, though discreetly, nearly in secret.

If you let yourself go into the magic of this story, you will spend a tremendous amount of time enjoying the supernatural and the super monstrous. And I am sure you will find bliss and happiness in real virtual life.

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Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

JOE HILL — NOS4A2–2013

This is the proper book to read on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day. Don’t miss that opportunity to straighten up your vision of the world of children. Christmasland is the future for us all, to get rid of all adults and to turn the whole world into an entertainment and amusement park. Another version of Joyland of course.

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Joe Hill is settling accounts with life and he seems to have a lot. The slave maker in this world is an old Rolls Royce car of the 1930s and the Savior of this world is a Raleigh bike and a couple of Harley Davidson and Triumph motorbikes. He does not really like Father Christmas. He prefers the reindeers and the snowmen. And be sure the Moon is not any motherly figure but the great master of this world of total liberation known as Christmasland. Let’s sing together the debunking of all mothers, and respect the exclamation marks on that one:

“In Christmasland we’ll build a Snowgirl!

And make believe that she’s a silly clown!

We’ll have lots of fun with Missus Snowgirl!

Until the other kiddies cut her down!”

If you have the guts and the courage to enter one of the most cruel and gory book I have read lately (that definitely makes Stephen King the father look pale with his trilogy horrify / terrify / gross-out), put on your lifejacket and body armor and dive into this maelstrom of aggressive violence that is only believable if you are convinced there is a passage between this world of landscapes and the other world of your own secret inner landscapes, or inscapes. We all have an inscape, or several, but some of us have the tool to get into it and to bring into it the young boys and girls that will enable us to remain young forever, to rejuvenate ourselves with the youth of these children. That is not cruel at all for these children because that’s the only thing they want: to play all the time, to unwrap presents all the time, to indulge in games all the time, provided these games enable them to kill after some nice torturing sessions one or two adults a day, a night, a minute even if they would be listened to and followed into their own deeper impulses. Childhood innocence is an infantile deadly lethal disease.

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It is impossible to even try to give you a spoiler about this story because it is so twisted, perverted and logically illogical that I would sound like a ranting, raving and roving fool if I even and only tried to select one single spoiler about it.

So, let me remain simple. Joe Hill loves mothers, that’s obvious and the mother, Victoria, aka Vic, of the main character, a child of course named Bruce Wayne (a mixture of Bruce Lee and John Wayne, Joe Hill’s phantasms guaranteed), has to be sacrificed after she has fulfilled her only task, saving her son from the grasp of the monster Charlie Manx (don’t try to see Mannix in this one because he is evil and the good FBI agent is a female: Tabitha — like Joe Hill’s mother — Hutter — nothing to do with the Anabaptist Jacob Hutter, or in fact maybe perhaps everything to do with him).

The only redeeming character in this family, I mean the family of this poor Bruce Wayne, an unmarried family what’s more, Bruce Wayne being a child out of wedlock, a poor child who has all the stigmata of perdition, the only redeeming character thus is the father, Louis, aka Lou (no allusion to Louis Armstrong since he is not black nor Lou Reed, though this one is more difficult to justify) Carmody. We expect to have the triplets Huey, Dewey and Louie, but the other two, besides Louis, are two girls, Lorrie and Millie, the daughters of the Monster Charlie who is the fourth wheel of the cart, except if we see the triplets in Lorrie, Millie and Charlie, and Louis then is the fourth wheel of the cart since he carries an “s” at the end of his name and not an “e.”

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Don’t be surprised if the way to this Christmasland is in three stages: The House of Sleep, the House of Sleigh and finally Christmasland itself. Sleep is for the parents who are tortured into nonexistence to save their own children with dental anesthetic gas that tastes like gingerbread. The Sleigh is for the children to slide into Christmasland in one swooping slip into the dream, in the Rolls Royce of course since it is the sorcerer of the story that extracts the youth of the children to invest and implant it into Charlie Manx. Goody good and sweet candy.

Apparently under the influence of Joe Hill’s mother — so the author says — the last chapter was rewritten and the final destruction of all the children who were captured and abducted by the Rolls Royce, NOS4A2, the modern Nosferatu, the postmodern vampire, are finally redeemed though we can imagine the end was their total annihilation. No future indeed. We can thank Tabitha King for this last page of redemption.

The book is going to appeal to your deep sense of cruelty because that’s the main characteristic of man according to Joe Hill: man is cruel to all other human beings and to himself too. Don’t bother with women since they are only the salvaging character who has to be sacrificed to achieve the final salvation of the child. You understand then why the father is Lou, aka Louis. He is an eternal child, especially after he was cleaned up of his mountain of excessive fat. He is a child. And the FBI agent, Tabitha Hutter, can only be the merger of a mother, who will have to be sacrificed when she is finished with salvaging some kids, and a puritan punisher who will have to be sidetracked in her attempt to prevent children from being cruel as they naturally are, should be and have to be.

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And don’t expect the Moon to be a motherly character. She is the voice of vengeance and revenge against parents commanding the redeemed children to kill all adults. That moon who is a pure male in the deepest gender tradition of the Germans does not hesitate on words:

“GET HER! KILL HER! SHE CAME HERE TO END CHRISTMAS! KILL HER NOW!”

“SHE’S DOWN, SHE’S DOWN, CUT HER, KILL HER!”

“SCISSORS-FOR-THE-DRIFTERS! SCISSORS-FOR-THE-BITCH!”

In all that pile of supernatural events yet there is no real illogical twist, I mean no twist that is not logically illogical and certainly not illogically logical. Joe Hill’s children have reached the age of reason and they can make the difference between 2 + 2 and the fall of Babylon, though the fall of Christmasland is quite similar to the Book of Revelation of the Horror Planet of the King of all gory terror and his direct descendants.

There is only one shortcoming in this book. It is maybe slightly too short. The author used a couple of shortcuts here and there to make the trip hold within seven hundred pages. Maybe a couple more hundred pages might have made our pleasure last longer.

Dr Jacques COULARDEAU

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SLIGHTLY MALE-CENTERED

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GOD AND HIS TWO APOSTLES

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BUT WHERE IS THE HOLY VIRGIN ?

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KING THE MAVERICK RAPSCALLION

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

Editions La Dondaine — Amazon Kindle Store

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07DMYT1VG

When passionate ardent zealous readers have spent fifty years with Stephen King and his books, his videos, his films, his comic strips, either they become berserk or they become truth diggers, fear miners, horror finders-keepers, like the three chaps in the tub, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them with truth, fear and horror as the three maids, all rub-a-dub-dubbing with energy and intensity one another and each other and even themselves with rags, brushes and other hairy cilices.

Stephen King makes them obsessive-compulsive like most traumatized people surviving with PTSS. But their enjoyment is greater than anything you may imagine, and their pleasure can be cut up and minced with the butcher’s cleaver, and then wrapped up in the dough of a meatloaf before being pushed into the oven of the baker, and it all ends up with a candle-stick burning from both ends and being rub-a-dub-dubbed by the feverish shivering shuddering hands of the addicted mortified reader.

You will find in this maze of reviews and studies references to practically half the books and titles by Stephen King and half a dozen titles of books by his sons and a few other people, including a musical, and of course numerous films, series (mini or not) and videos. You have to enter the forest of these more than one hundred trees by assessing the table of contents and then letting you glide, slip and slide into the rich deep brewing witches’ midnight banquet with the devil on a sacred Black Sabbath celebrating the immolation of Isaac by Isaac’s father, the kicking away to the desert of Ismail and his mother by Ismail’s father, the two fathers being the same man in some sacred books revered by more than half humanity.

Accept your fate and enjoy it. Feel the knife of the executioner ripping your chest open and then his hand dipping into it and uprooting your heart out of your body. Feel your blood seeping out and curdling on the ground. You deserve that cathartic experience to simply survive your humdrum routine-like everyday life. This catharsis might liberate your imagination from all death wish and death instinct, but it may also neutralize all your desire to forgive, pardon and tolerate all your libidinal charitable and generous altruistic desires to be good.

Let’s hope after that experience you will be able to step out of Stephen King’s universe and live up to the demands from society and regain some humane love for others. Be sure you will encounter in these books, videos, and films many monsters who will brutalize you in all possible ways, but be sure too it is your deeper desire to be brutalized by these monsters over and over again in the middle of the night. Stephen King is your most enjoyable everlasting nightmares

Dr; Jacques COULARDEAU

File Size: 1370 KB

Simultaneous Device Usage: Unlimited

Publisher: Editions La Dondaine; 1 edition (June 9, 2018)

Publication Date: June 9, 2018

Sold by: Amazon Digital Services LLC

Language: English

ASIN: B07DMYT1VG

Text-to-Speech: Enabled

Word Wise: Enabled

Screen Reader: Supported

Enhanced Typesetting: Enabled

US$ 5.00, GB£ 3.80, € 4.25, €0.00 Kindle Unlimited

© Jacques Coulardeau 2018

All rights reserved in all countries

Editions La Dondaine

8 rue de la Chaussée

63880 OLLIERGUES

(33)4 73 95 59 17

editionsladondaine1981@orange.fr

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STEPHEN KING — CELL — 2014

A small film in many ways, well built, but in no way outstanding. This is a film for teenagers (over 15, or under if in the privacy of your home if your parents agree, or at least agreed before leaving for New York City for the day) who like to be afraid by meeting on the screen the people you would never meet in the street or they would systematically avoid on the street, or in high school as for that, teachers, principals, students or guidance counselors.

The idea in 2006 when the book was written, and even in 2014 when the film was shot was still in a way simple and virginal since we had not yet seen how social networks could be manipulated and could manipulate the people so well into getting the result they would like to get in an election, presidential or referendum. With this simple tools of millions, billions of cell phones always on anyway, someone who could access a dispatch center or processing tower or center, could easily send a message on all cell phones in the world and people could be 99,99% guided into doing exactly what would be funny for the manipulator. Violence for example, but that is only one example, an easy example.

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I think Stephen King has done a lot better with Mr. Mercedes, a trilogy, because then the manipulation is between one deranged person who has technical reach and knowhow on one hand, and particular victims chosen as being susceptible to enter a game on a console, and that game is hypnotizing, and the console is a tool to bring people down into obedience. When we are dealing with individual actions it is a lot more interesting. But when you are dealing with a mass phenomenon it is just frightening, gross, or whatever but it has little poignancy.

King manages to give some depth to the story by centering on one man, a graphic artist, who tries to reach his wife and his son. He sure finds them, but the wife is one of them, one of the rabid crazy lunatics that are obeying their cell phones, and he manages to find his son just at the right time, when he is, the son, on the point of passing over to the other side. But our graphic artist had managed along the way with a few immune people (immune is the proper word because cell phones are a disease) to gather a truck full of plastic that was supposed to be blown up at the end of the line, and sure enough you always reach the end of the line, and you instantly know when you are there, and then one call on a cell phone and the plastic goes up into flames and smoke.

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The film is thus slightly too general and fuzzy about details and individuals to really reach the level of angst that could give the story some deep signification. Just enough for a summer night if you do not have anything more interesting, I mean interesting, to do. You will follow the plot without any problem, even if you do not- follow the dialogue which is blurred by cheap production. That kind of blurred dialogue is supposed to be realistic and you listen to the sound tack as if you were listening to a person with a hoarse throat trying to speak to you from two seats away on a running underground train. Quite an experience!

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

STEPHEN KING — BAG OF BONES — MATT VENNE — MICK GARRIS — 2011

This two-episode TV mini-series is probably one of the best adaptations of Stephen King’s novels and the novel itself, hence the story, hence the plot are absolutely outrageously phenomenal and beautiful, though they are hyper dramatic and even tragic.

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The story is one rare story, if not the only one, in which the curse of slavery is followed step by step among a group of white people. It is definitely PTSS but Post Traumatic SLAVERY Stress Syndrome on the side of the descendants of the white slaveowners. The event at stake takes place in 1939. A bunch, half a dozen or so, white young men after some fair in their small-town rape the main female singer, a black woman, drown her daughter and eventually kill the mother. They bury the two bodies and the two black woman and girl are just declared “disappeared.” The black singer casts a curse on all the descendants of the young people who took part: all the daughters that will be born and the mothers of these daughters will be killed by the husband and father of the mother and daughter.

The main character is the descendant of one in the band. His wife gets killed in a road accident in a big city while her husband who is a best-selling writer is signing his books in a bookstore. She was pregnant and she was afraid it could be a daughter. She had spent several periods in the small town where the events took place, in a house on the shore of a lake, Dark Lake, owned by her husband. She had found out about the 1939 events and curse from one survivor of the band. The leader and instigator of the band is still alive, and he is trying to get the custody of his granddaughter that his son tried to kill along with his wife and mother of the child. But in fact, it went wrong and the wife and mother killed the husband and father. The grandfather wants to get custody of his granddaughter in order to purge the curse himself. But he is old and has decided to put an end to his life, so he deals with the main character Michael Noonan. “If you accept to take custody of the girl then I will drop my lawsuit to get the custody of her myself.” Michael Noonan accepts.

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And that’s when everything gets nasty. The “sheriff” or “deputy sheriff” kills the mother and wants to kill the daughter but Michael Noonan stops him — radically. Then he finds out, after the burial of the main culprit, the last survivor who finally tells him what he had told his wife. So, he knows what he has to do. Close the curse, but how? Some black magic from his dead wife helps with magnetic letters on the fridge door and by overriding his computer and giving him a message. He knows he has to use lye, the lye his wife had prepared, to burn the corpses and bones of the two black mother and daughter. But where are the corpses buried? He remembers a strange tree in the shape of a woman somewhere not very far away and sure enough, he gets to the two bodies and he manages to clean up the mess.

Yet the last woman-partner of the main culprit, who helped him put an end to his life, has invaded his house where the little girl is sleeping, and she is waiting for Michael Noonan to arrive in order for him to carry out the curse. Of course, a good ending awaits us.

The main question of this novel, and here TV mini-series, is the Post Traumatic SLAVERY Stress Syndrome of the descendants of slaveowners. This PTSS is irreversible all by itself, and it is a curse on American society, not only on a few people. How can the millions of slaves tortured to death, beaten to death, exploited to death or plainly lynched be put to rest and thus save the American society from the curse it represents among the whites? The same PT-SLAVERY-SS is just as bad on the side of the descendants of the black slaves, but the mini-series and the book do not explore this side of the story, or history, and how this historical damage caused to tens of millions of people alive today can be put to rest.

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The book and mini-series seem to say that the only way is to make all the culprits pay and to bring all descendants and their friends put to rest the curse by making amend and repairing the damage their ancestors caused as slaveowners or beneficiaries of slavery, at the time and since then, since probably something like 80% of US riches were produced by the work of the slaves and their descendants. The whites just took advantage of it and their own share is rather minimal.

Of course, the problem and the solutions (in the plural) are a lot more complex, but all whites must understand that they have to make amend for what the whites in previous centuries did to the slaves and their descendants, with the salves and their descendants. That should be the first step on a rather Long March ahead.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

STEPHEN KING — J.J. ABRAMS — 22.11.63–2016

The book was deeply disturbing and disquieting, but this miniseries of eight episodes is deeply shocking for fragile minds. Altogether most of the important elements of the book are kept but these elements have been scaled up or down according to the new medium used here: a television series. Changes from one time (1960–1963) to another (2016) is visually visible and thus does not need any transition or specification. It is direct, a sharp cut in the visual landscape of one time to the visual landscape of the other time, with of course at the end the short modern time after Kennedy has been saved from assassination, and the least we can say is that the world has not improved.

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This is the general idea I would put forward here: the butterfly effect might very well be very negative even though we held at the time and still hold that JF Kennedy was a good president who could have saved the world from many evils, and first of all the Vietnam war. But all that is absurd thinking since, for one, we cannot change the past and we can only change the present in the present time, and second, history is a highly multiple-level contradictory reality that can neither be predicted nor, what’s more, predicted within the idea that changing one event in the past will make the future of that changed event brighter, more luminous, better, etc. The dystopic short vision of this changed future is definitely not better: it has become some kind of a jungle in which surviving has evolved into a highly competitive killing sport. Harry Dunning at the beginning in his GED class (General Educational Development) reads an essay about how his father killed one night his mother, his sister, and his brother and strangely enough only broke Harry’s leg. In the small episode of dystopia at the end he tells Jake Epping that he remembers when he came in the early 60s and saved his mother, brother, and sister by killing his father, but Harry Dunning says that he misses his father (though in the initial story he is missing his father, his mother, his sister, his brother) and that makes Jake Epping understand he made a mistake when changing the past, be it by solving the Dunning family’s problem or later on by preventing the assassination of JFK. So, he goes back to 1960, thus erasing all the changes he had caused and comes back as fast as he can after saying hello to Sadie Dunhill who should have been in Jodie Texas and not in Lisbon Maine. But well, let’s accept some ellipses even if they are kind of weird, as weird as the fact the two people who survive his adventures in the past are called Dunning and Dunhill, like a job well done, man, or is it Dunn, North Carolina, which was at the time of his adventure in the past a KKK Sanctuary as proclaimed on a giant billboard along the highway to Fayetteville). And he comes back to Lisbon and the diner. His two trips probably covered some four minutes, little enough to go to his friend the diner’s owner Al Templeton who had died just before he left the first time. And everything is back to normal. Is it? He goes to Jodie Texas to see Sadie Dunhill whom he had had a relationship with, in his back-to-the-past first trip, had nearly married, had engulfed into the prevention of Kennedy’s assassination which was prevented but Sadie had been shot dead by Lee Harvey Oswald before he was shot dead himself.

She of course only remembers the fast meeting in the second trip back-to-the-past. The rest is romantic gooey stuff from a third age lady for a young man in his mid-twenties.

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If by any chance you managed to change the past the result and effects would be catastrophic. You’d better not try the game. History cannot be rewritten because changing one event erases all that has happened beyond that event and the future sheet is a blank sheet again and anew that will be filled in the most procrastinating way by big grandmother history.

The story is well-built thanks to some empathetically gruesome situations. A father who victimizes all the members of his family. Violence in general. Killed a cow in a slaughterhouse with a simple heavy metal hammer which is neither ecological nor let’s say humane. Toilets for white only and toilets for colored, hence racist segregation: in America toilets have always been segregational, and think of the situation in schools, particularly high schools with toilets for girls, toilets for boys, toilets for trans people, toilets for gay males, toilets for lesbian females, etc., in present time, as if toilets were nothing but a hormonal circus. The prejudices against divorcees (women of course). Relationships between unmarried consenting adults that are seen as adultery or fornication, hence as a crime. Prostitution behind closed doors with regular police raids. But most of these social elements, cultural items, musical pieces and references, the real stuff of real life in the early 60s are very short vignettes, at times, not even a vignette and not more than a post-stamp. That gives to the cutting and editing of the series the sole architectural power that makes it run like hell, and hell it is.

But has Jake Epping in any way improved the world? Of course not, since he found out it is impossible to change it except for the worse. But, and this is a super but, has Jake Epping changed? It does not look like it. He is the same teacher as before teaching literature in the very traditional multiple-choice-questions style in classes that are not responsive because he is not provocative enough. He is the same mellow romantic superficial man with other people and does not have any personal relationship of any depth, except the one with his fake brother Bill in the 1960s, his accomplice for a while who becomes an obstacle for his “mission,” and he will have him institutionalized to neutralize him and later on he will visit him and cause his suicide. This chap feels no empathy and no human appeal, the appeal that makes a human being establish some personal and emotional relationships with other humans, and I am not speaking of hormonal sports. He hasn’t changed and he doesn’t seem to want to change. That gives a picture of America in 2016 that is desolate, sad, uncreative, shallow and even unambitious. And we all know that in this kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed can become kings or be elected presidents, and anyone is one-eyed when they only consider one side of the picture, one side of a coin or a sheet of paper out of twenty or even more other sides that are rejected into opposition neutralized by the media, social networks, and security agencies of any sort against migrant people or against any criticism declared and proclaimed to be socialistic or communistic, not to mention of manipulated by the Russians. And on that last point, the series is crystal-clear about the way Lee Harvey Oswald went to Russia, was indoctrinated into Marxism there and came back with the mission to assassinate the president. Russia the all-powerful puppet master. Doesn’t that ring a bell in our present?

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So, this series is good for the speedy action of the roadrunner Jake Epping. It is good for the nostalgic vision of the 1960s in cars, furniture, fridges, the music, of course, vinyl records and turntables for them known as gramophones, and . . . etc. It is good too in the simplicity of the story. But it lacks some human depth and it is short on the historical and even social side of things. And that was not the case with the book.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

Written by

Dr Jacques COULARDEAU, PhD in Germanic Linguistics (University Lille III) and ESP Teaching (University Bordeaux II) has been teaching all types of ESP

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