05-18-2017, 10:39 AM
Quote:Channel 9998766643232323308989 - The Other Horror Movie Channel - The Secret of Evil ( film presented in its entirety).
The title sequence begins. We're treated to an image of that poster-child for evil, Milton Friedman, as haunting cello music begins to play. Suddenly, the image is ripped down the middle, like a strip being torn from wallpaper, to reveal another image - Benedict Arnold. As the music increases in tempo, that image catches fire, and pieces of it fall away, revealing ancient tabloid headlines regarding Jack the Ripper. These crumble in their turn, disintegrating into to dust and tatters, to reveal a scattered stack of photographs depicting armies on the march.
As each new step of the sequence occurs, the name of someone involved in production drifts somewhere near the image. Not just a title sequence, then, but opening credits.
The photographs scatter as the music swells, showing a grainy black-and-white image of crime-scene tape stretched in front of a farmhouse. This image peels off like a sticker, and we're treated to an image of a mushroom cloud - specifically, the one over Hiroshima. This image burns entirely to ashes. As they drift down, the camera pans to follow them, settling on a pile of debris from all this stuff we've seen, and then pans out, changing angle. The collage of ashes, and photographs, and dust, and what-have-you forms the words "The Secret of Evil" each letter an island in a pool of blood.
Fade to black.
The movie starts. A tall, thin, suntanned man, with sunken brown eyes and no hair is seated in a police interview room, squarely in the center of the frame. His eyebrows are bushy and black. There's two way glass on the wall behind him, the walls are padded, and the floor is tile. He's sitting in an extremely uncomfortable-looking chair, behind a bare metal table. Florescent lighting, white-tinted-violet, glares down upon him, making his dark suit seem grayer than it is. He stands, ramrod straight, pushing the chair out from the table as he does so, and adjusts his red silk tie.
The man leans forward very slightly, towards the camera.
"It turns out," he intones, his voice crackling like hailstones on a tomb, "That it's mostly subjective."
Cut to black. A bass rumble of existential angst fills the speakers.
The end credits roll. They're an hour and a half long, and taken up almost entirely by a list of "Philosophical consultants". The caterers are a distant second.