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Typhoon SSBN

Red Scare

Posted on 2014.02.03 at 00:00
Current Location: 67114
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1960's only-slightly-saturated movie, third-person perspective. A gentleman in a black suit and tie pulls a single mauve coffee cup from the small bathroom cabinet and fills it with coffee. He sits at a small laminate table in the combination bedroom/kitchen and opens a paper. We feel the depth of his loneliness.


A Boeing 707 approaches landing at Washington National and a man in a tweed jacket and tie puts his fedora on as he steps out to hail a taxicab. We know he is a Russian spy on a dastardly mission and feel his mix of fear and excitement despite his calm exterior.


A businessman, wearing a hat and holding a briefcase stands amidst a group of people. Somewhere nearby, we see a close-up of a revolver being pulled - a shot! The man with the briefcase falls - a woman screams - another woman makes a furtive glace at the Russian spy, who conceals the handgun. The spy memorizes her face and we feel their apprehension; the peril of having been discovered, and the doom of one's own life.


The coffee-drinking gentleman from this morning is assigned to protect the lady who saw the killer. He escorts her to his office near the White House after the police investigation. They spend several days together and manage to fall in love despite (or perhaps due to) the stress of the worry coupled with the long-hours. The next morning we see the man, wearing a robe this time, pulling out two mauve coffee cups to fill his coffee. I appear from nowhere, grinning at his good fortune and he pulls out a third. We're all three giddy with the kind of happiness that wholly permeates. We feel completeness.


The man and the woman dress and make their way to the office on a clear morning. Somewhere nearby, a close-up of a revolver being pulled - a shot! The female witness crumbles, and the man, trying to comfort her last moments - having only just had her and now she's ripped from him; ripped from us - We feel despair. We feel his individual despair, and collectively our mutual loss.


Later that same day a White House aide explains to the man the protocol in approaching the President of the United States right before opening the door to the Oval Office for a briefing about the spy and what all has transpired.


The next morning he pours a single cup of coffee. We feel its so much worse than it was before, because for a moment in time, it was magnificent.


1960's only-slightly-saturated movie, third-person perspective. I am watching his pain, feeling it, but cannot console it. I wonder if my inaction makes it better for him, or worse.

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