The movie, Four Lions, reminds me of a ploy I used to use on myself, when, as a child, I would have recurring nightmares. I began to imagine the frightening boogie men of my dreams as Huey, Dewey, and Louie, or some such. Terrorists, as walking nightmares in real life, made impotent, when imagined as silly goofs.
On the way out the door to work this morning, American Graffiti was on HBO in semi-HD. I recorded it, to watch later. As I struggled with the buttons on the remote to do so, I wondered how Lucas could have devolved into a filmmaker who milked, again and again, his movies for cash and into a weird and grossly covetous person, who substituted the accumulation of wealth, for the making of great movies.