Chapter 4: The Man With No Name
American movie goers can count on a few things every Fall. The days will get shorter, the winds will get colder, and the horror movies will be out in force. The cinematic gods have decreed that the annual slew of horror movies that follows the summer blockbuster cycle be particularly robust, both in terms of quality and cost of quantity. Audiences can rest assured that the requisite number of ghouls, witches, and werewolves will be present, especially in the movie Slice.
Let’s talk about the film that should have won Best Picture at the 91st annual Oscars. Let’s talk about the most visually stunning, thematically striking film to premiere in 2018 (Sans Spider-Man: Into the Spider Verse, but that’s a topic for another day). Let’s turn back the page and look at Roma, Alfonso Cuaron’s cinematic ode to 1960s Mexico.
Rona didn’t need long to take stock of the new arrivals. Only three of them managed to stumble through the gates once they opened, but they at least had the sense to enter as soon as the sun rose. Getting a good night’s sleep with the Greenbeans would have exposed them to dozens of curious eyes. Instead, they flitted through empty streets, guided by armed escort, with only Rona watching. She hunched over the ledge of the roof where she had crouched waiting for them. An early morning summer breeze blew across her face, but her hair went untouched beneath her red hood. The night before, she had tied up her burgeoning afro into a bun. The hair bulged against the inside of the crimson hood now, but that didn’t concern her. The camouflage spell woven into the Red Cloak would shield her from curious eyes.
“Did mosquitoes ever sleep?” he wondered. There were creatures who rose with the sun every morning, their strength fueled by that golden orb’s warmth. There were fiends of the night, monsters and demons and animals who prowled the darkness. There were even beasts who slept through the winter, their eyes shut against the cold and barren world. Even Maugoru needed rest, or so Adrian assumed. Insects did not sleep. The first frost of each year pushed the bugs onto new courses for warmer weather and smothered those left behind. On nights like this, in the middle of summer, it was easy to forget that men and women ruled this world. For, when they fell silent, the ever present bug buzz held dominion over the land. It was this buzzing that nudged Adrian back into his senses, nightmares of the burning forest replaced by the soft light of the Rangers’ medical house.
He had grown used to the howling. Adrian pulled the green hood over his blond hair as the wolf howls reached a crescendo. The chorus of shrill voices could be heard every night, even inside the city walls. As a child, he could remember sneaking into his mother’s room, afraid that the wolf pack was just outside the bedroom window. Adrian could hardly remember his mother’s face, but her words from those nights still reverberated in his ears.