. . . produced during a self-quarantine.
Your author has two things in common with Martin Scorsese.
It is not film. They consist of the same damn plot, void of any acting, encased in the best computer graphics on the planet. They raise the audience’s blood pressure giving them a vicarious workout, especially for those whose only exercise today is getting up to find the remote.
Archetypal heroes arise from every culture, from the ancient Greeks to modern days. They are designed and developed, as Jung would tell us, from our collective unconscious.
As Hitler rose to power in Germany, Superman appeared in comics. It should be pretty obvious, even to the casual observer, that the spate of superheroes exploding out of Hollywood is sending out a cry of desperation: “We need a hero.”
We are living in interesting times, and no superhero will save us.
Wanna know what a real hero looks like.
It’s that kid, a middle class kid, just out of high school, was probably on the wrestling team, who joins the fire department. In a minority section of his city that is suffering in poverty, a house is ablaze; trucks on the scene, firefighters scrambling . . . and this kid runs inside and pulls out a little girl. That is a hero. His superpower is just plain courage.
Those who have read this short novel have responded that it carries a message that everyone should hear.
I will stop right there.
I’m giving it away to anyone who has a bit of time on their hands, and during this pandemic, who doesn’t. (And lucky you: you’re getting it before my copy editor sees it, so expect some boo boos.)
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