The Spaghetti Western as stories go begs for a villain. Riding into town he climbs down off his saddle, pushes his way past a freckled faced boy, wraps his grubby hands around the mother’s waist kissing her against her will. The dastardly villain’s snicker trots into a menacing chuckle unhanding his victim only after fondling her breast.
Sergio Leone’s mastery of the tormented, the overlong close-up, in tight on the actors eyes, the swelling orchestration, Ennio Morricone moody-vengeful heartstrings, misconduct has been witnessed, order now must be restored.
In a confrontation one or the other character may not care what happens to the bystanders. Self-preservation can be a weakness, protection of the innocent a distraction. Best of all is to allow for our adversary enough rope to hang himself.
We have been waiting, until now our frail billionaire, if he is even that, has by incessant lying escaped the inevitable.
Fragile, petulant, quick to be psychologically wounded, his weaknesses are there for the world to see. The gleam on his allure dulls with time. Predictably he hits back at the least insult by returning all volley with a more squalid insult than the truth he has been forced to confront.
But, the counterpunching has made his challengers only more determined. Never the quitter, fighting to the metaphorical death, our villainous adversary deep within his fragile security system of an ego can’t admit the jig is nearly up. But, it is.
I am sure the blow to come will be a beauty, a real bolt out of the blue. We may not recognize that the punch has staggered our villain or that he is on the ropes groggy now and ready to take his inevitable fall for the count.
It’s coming. The agony his election has caused bares too great a burden on our democracy. Had he the sense to have moved to the middle, to govern as promised on the stump, not betray his own not so well to do conservative voters.
Our boorish occupant of the Oval Office has an entire opposition party, a significant fraction of deputized investigators, forensic accountants and members of the free press delving into his darkest corners. The great orange one will soon be vanquished, it is obvious. He might have had a happier life, but there was this one last skirt to chase, one more sovereign private part to grab. Nobody is above the law or more equal than a mistreated-innocent-involuntarily hit-on woman. I see the end to a movie that ought never to have been made.
Tyranny’s Last Ride
