|Cluebat For Retards: Mayor Vaughn is not the secret hero of this film.|
Apologies if that was news to anyone.
Theatre is life.
Film is art.
Television is furniture.
- (Entertainment industry truism.)
Art imitates life. And vice versa.
Let art inform your real life.
Hint: When the guy on the front lines and the smartest guy in the room have sussed out the full nature of the problem, and the danger it represents, don't be the guy digging in his heels, and yelling the loudest to re-open the beaches on the 4th Of July.
You're just ringing the goddam dinner bell, fer chrissakes.
And it never works out well.
This would all be hilariously funny, and terribly ironic, if it wasn't real life, with actual dead people stacked up like cordwood in freezer trucks outside NYFC hospitals, knowing that a 20-something-year-old nobody named Stevie Spielberg had this figured out in the late summer/early fall of '74.
And a little point about the guy who told you the truth, before you listened to the yappy ignorant assholes, and the cheapskates worried about being on welfare the whole winter:
Yeah, he dies in the end, saving cheap bastards who couldn't care less, but you decide: would you rather be the Tragic Hero, going out swinging till the very end, or be the archtypical Asshole Of the World until the day you die, knowing every waking moment that your pigheaded stupidity and petty greed killed your friends and neighbors, who foolishly misplaced their trust in you?
I've made my choice, and I can sleep like a baby at night.