Indulge me. I like RZA’s The Man with the Iron Fists only because it falls under the terms in which any rubbish can be transformed into a gem, somewhat, at least in my purview. Not because it satisfies today’s latent thirst for gore, going through great lengths to turn it into kitsch, thus finally dispelling all arguments that Kill Bill or ─ wait for it ─ even Battle Royale holds our attention as long as there’s blood magnificently gushing forth from severed arms and heads; nor because it comes off from the same team (Tarantino, Roth) that brought us the fantasy production called Inglourious Basterds, something that can now be safely tucked away for its earnestness – you want revenge, we know, it’s funny, ha-ha – but simply because The Man with the Iron Fists deploys all possible cinematic techniques that will make you want to hate it for you to love it.
I like things that, from the outset shouts, “Hey, love me!”; spectacles, we are taught to assume, operate within this parameter but it’s actually quite the contrary: for a spectacle to work, you must not care about it all the way (a fireworks display for example is just that, a spurt after the glow and nothing follows) or else you’re not going to ask for more.
Kadyo is a playwright and a cinephile, and he loves D&D. No, not Dungeons & Dragons. He loves decadence and debauchery.
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