Saturday, April 10, 2010

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Oh Sister

These are the lyrics to Jeff Mangum's unreleased song, written during the Aeroplane era, and available (as far as I know) only on a recording of his solo appearance at Aquarius Records in San Francisco, on July 4th, 1996. That recording is not listed on either the Wikipedia entry for Neutral Milk Hotel's discography (, nor is it on the normally very reliable Discogs page for Jeff Mangum himself (, so I'm not sure if it was ever formally released as anything more than just a fan-distributed bootleg, unlike the more common Live At Jittery Joe's, which was put out by Orange Twin in 2001. I've had the mp3s of these songs for a long time, probably 8 or 9 years now, so I no longer remember how I got them. That being said, I am 99% sure that I didn't buy a copy of the recording in a store. Each of the songs are available now, though, on the Los Angeles-based Aquarium Drunkard blog, at

I am posting the lyrics here because like most song lyrics available on the internet, they are only posted elsewhere on ugly, pop-up ridden sites, posted and re-posted with all previous mistakes unfixed. This transcription is my own, and isn't necessarily perfect, so if there's a question about particular words or phrases I chose, I have annotated them below (along with explanations, where appropriate). Here goes:

Oh Sister

"Oh, sister
Don’t be afraid of me
I won’t be nailing you down in the nursery
Just like the rest of them did with those watery,
Wandering fingers
With spit that was supposed to be (1)
Glorious and fine

And oh, sister,
Won’t you believe in me?
I only wanted to be hard on your family
Here with you now in Brazilian infirmary (2)
Your mother makes friends who get drunk calls from Germany
All of the time

And oh, sister,
Sweet brown in coloring (3)
I will be milking
With you making fun of me
Now that my moods are
Not what they used to be
There was no one alive laying next to me
For such a long time (4)

And oh, sister
Sweet brown and Beulah-ry (5)
Milk from your blisters on your grandmother’s jewelry
There in the parlor
All naked in front of me
Watching the lights from the cracks making archery
Animal designs

Rose Wallace Goldaline just moves her mouth over anything and
Fleshy free and flowering with oranges out in the open
But don’t you wake your sins again
She don’t need you or won’t fuck your friends,
And you, you’re American,
So important, boiling over
It proves she must still exist
She moves herself about her fist
And could never ever give a shit
Bout all those words your wasting
Again some pretty, bright and bubbly
Wondrous dream you learned to kill and clean and claim her as your own
But don’t you worry
All those dainty and dirty
Emotions just go away, fade out on their own

Sister, now that we’re grieving
Our fingers’ll falter, our lungs will be leaking
All over each other
Without even speaking, we’ll know that it’s over, and smile and go greeting
Whatever comes next

And oh, sister
You’re getting married
With some angry twister that you’ll have to carry home
Drunk every evening from
The cemetery,
If he makes it back
Half alive you can bury him
Under your sheets

Oh sister,
Now that we’re leaving
I cannot imagine
There is any meaning
Forgetting you ever could
Once have the feeling that
Made you keep on and continue your breathing
All over this world
And in an age of empty ring
I don’t want to feel a thing,
I don’t even want to know
Rose Wallace Goldaline, don’t you ever die on me,
All the way it goes and flows..." (6)

1 – This line is transcribed elsewhere as “fingers that slipped,” but I think that is incorrect. I base this not just on my repeated listens, but also the context of the song. “Slipped,” sort of makes sense, but “with spit” recalls the earlier description of the fingers as “watery,” and also more clearly—and chillingly—evokes the root of the sister’s fear, which is apparently a history of sexual abuse. The “rest of them” she fears aren’t explicitly named as family members, but I believe we can take them as such, because only family members would likely have had access to the child’s nursery to commit an assault in the first place.

2 – This line is transcribed elsewhere as “zillionth infirmary,” which is plausible, and makes sense if the sister has been subject to multiple sexual assaults, but the line that follows, which explicitly places the drunk phone calls from Germany, makes me believe Mangum is actually singing “Brazilian infirmary.”

Many Neutral Milk Hotel songs written in this era are inspired by Anne Frank and the Holocaust. Historically, aside from other countries across Europe, a large number of Nazis who survived the war and managed to evade capture frequently chose locations in South America to hide out, particularly Argentina and Brazil. I believe the mother in this song sits by her injured daughter’s side in a Brazilian hospital, where she befriends fellow Germans who also left Europe and still get calls from their homeland.

3 – The last word in this line is sometimes transcribed as “comely,” but the word Mangum sings pretty clearly has three syllables. “Coloring” fits, rhythmically, and also obviously within the context of the “sweet brown” description that precedes it.

4 – The six lines that start here with “I will be milking” and end with “such a long time,” are sung quickly and are difficult to clearly understand. Furthermore, the surrounding context provides several possible variants, instead of clear answers. In the rest of the band’s oeuvre, and more importantly, in this song’s companion piece “Oh Comely,” the image of milk is used to connote fertility and pregnancy. In “Ghost,” the song immediately following “Oh Comely” on the actual album, milk is mixed with holy water and blesses the birth of a child with a miraculous shower. Here, though, the usage is not as clear. If the sister is making fun of the speaker, we are lead to believe he’s ejaculating, but the next lines complicate that interpretation. If we take them to mean that the speaker is no longer the way he used to be, his “moods” changed because he lays in a pit surrounded by corpses, masturbation and ejaculation seem very unlikely. The actual meaning, then, in my opinion, is that the song is being sung after the deaths of the speaker and his sister, taken from the perspective of spirits in the afterlife.

The siblings have suffered deeply. The girl has been molested and killed. The brother lost his life in a mass-murder and was buried unceremoniously in a large grave with the bodies of many other victims. This interpretation not only fits here, but also helps explain the opening of the song, when the speaker tries to comfort his sister and ease her fear. The beginning portrays the moment the little girl’s spirit arrives in Heaven, and is reunited with her dead brother. The speaker has been there for a while and knows that the pain of the world is gone, but the girl has just gotten there and doesn’t yet realize that she has escaped from the crimes committed unto her in her life on Earth. If you accept this interpretation, the triumphant exclamation from “Ghost” really comes into focus: “And now she knows she’ll never be afraid…”

5 – I think this is the noun “Beulah” turned into an adjective, but these words are pretty hard to hear clearly. The female name Beulah comes from the Hebrew word for “married,” though, which fits the other parts of the song really well.

6 – Wow. Undeniably a masterpiece.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

My Neighbor

My neighbor was in Vietnam, and about two weeks ago, we heard this throbbing outside our door. It was a little after midnight, so at first I thought it was a car passing. After two minutes, I realized it was right by us, so it wasn’t passing by. It was audible, but faint, so about three minutes after that, I thought it might be my brother falling asleep with the TV a little loud. Maybe two minutes after that, I got up and went to the kitchen and looked through the blinds and tried to see what was out there, because there was no way my brother’s TV was that loud and he was still asleep, and there was no way he was listening to country music, either.

I looked outside and didn’t see anything, so I went and laid back down and thought about it and forgot about it. One of our neighbors, Steve, is a legendary drinker. He lives with his elderly mother, and is independently wealthy because he slipped on a patch of ice outside a hotel, and got hurt, and sued the corporation. He apparently got a ton of money. It wasn’t just a superfluous suit, either, apparently. My Mom told me that he had to have a colostomy bag for awhile after the accident. So I’m not sure exactly what organs or appendages were ruptured, but Jesus Christ, if it was serious enough to warrant a bag, we all thought, than he deserves that Mercedes wagon. The Mercedes wagon was missing a hubcap, also, which seemed sort of right.

Maybe two or three minutes later, I heard one of our inner doors opening and I knew my mom was awake and was coming out. She looked at me, half sleepy, and like me, half expected the noise to be coming from here, from within the house. It was instantly obvious that it wasn’t me, so she also parted the blinds and looked out and said, is that coming from Paul and Joanne’s? She opened the garage door and looked out the window that faces Paul and Joanne’s house, and sure enough, Paul’s truck was sitting in the driveway, its headlights were on, the engine was running, his driver door was open, country music was blasting out of the speakers, his leg was draped out over the door opening, and he was smoking a cigarette, even though he quit for Joanne maybe three years ago.

Probably only two days before this, we had a robbery on our street. A car had been broken into a couple years ago, but nothing appeared to be stolen. This time, though, Paul’s truck had been opened, and he lost something. Papers between the front two seats had been rifled through, and two of Paul’s handguns had been taken. My mom knew from Joanne that the guns were not registered. I said, this is how criminals get guns that are used in murders.

My mom looked out through our garage window, and said, I think it’s Paul. He’s sitting in his truck listening to music. The temperature at this time was maybe 19 or 20 degrees. My mom started putting on her slippers. I said, what are you doing? She said, it’s Paul out there, I think he’s been drinking, and she laughed. He’s sitting out there in his car. I said, Mom, do not go out there. Joanne is going to deal with it. If we can hear it in here, she can hear it from in their house, and she’ll be out in a second. Don’t go out there. She looked at me with her fleece pullover halfway over her arms and said, Danny, what if he had a heart attack? I need to go out there. I said, he didn’t have a heart attack, do not go out there. What if he just got robbed and that’s why he’s sitting there, maybe knocked out? Joanne will go outside in a second. My Mom said, I’m gonna go talk to him. My Mom secretly had a minor heart attack maybe two years ago. My brother was really upset. She told me the week it happened, and I was in Chicago, so what could I do? But I said, well, you know that you need to start eating healthier. I don’t know why she didn’t tell my brother then, but she didn’t. She eventually did. He was upset, I think even angry. My Mom went outside because she thought about heart attacks.

I un-paused the TV episode on my computer, and listened to our garage door open. The inner house door closed, and my Mom walked out.

Probably six or seven minutes went by. I watched TV, and I once got up to look outside, to check on my Mom. I didn’t see anything through the garage window, except the two beams from the headlights of Paul’s truck. My Mom came in after about nine minutes, shivering. I thought she was going to laugh about Paul blasting music outside while his damn wife was inside, not coming out, and not doing anything. Instead, she toed off her slippers and said, I forgot that Paul was in the war. He was in Vietnam. I didn’t say anything. She said, He said, Anne, sometimes when I listen to these tapes, and I think about the guys I knew over there, I get emotional. I get a little emotional. So he was listening to cassettes. My Mom went out there.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

The Century

This is the song of the century so far.

The parts do reveal pieces of the magic whole, but an itemized description is too small to fully capture the total’s essence. The synths are gigantic. They sound like sinister engines revving themselves in idle, like they are self-animating for some astronomical task. It is roughly as though the ghosts of the vessel’s buried sunken dead recorded the heavy engine blur of the Titanic as it struggled and sank deeper into the frigid Atlantic, and then ran that captured feed through bent circuits and subwoofers. The sounds don't fully come in until the middle of the first pre-chorus, either, so the song’s structure creates rabid anticipation, or torture, as stunning as the eventual euphoric release.

“Now put your hands up.”

Beyoncé sings her own background vocals, creating a polyphony that is paradoxically multitudinous, and yet borne of a solitary source. It manifests an auditory immersion chamber, a fraction of total sound.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Winning Is Everything: Sports Traditionalism, Sports Modernism, and the Cultural Work of Spectatorship

This is a little piece I've been interested in and working on. Please please please give me feedback and let me know if it is intelligible/worthwhile/etc.; whatever you think. Thank you!

A columnist named Jeff MacGregor has written an interesting article over on ESPN’s web page ( about the purpose of sports in our lives, “Do Sports Teach Lessons or Provide Distractions?” As the title itself demonstrates, in the piece, MacGregor identifies a fundamental binary model of classifying sports’ cultural meaning: sports are either reckoned in an older, more genteel way, as a teaching tool of ethics and competition, or they are viewed with a more modern lens, as mere fun distraction, a “floor show in which any lesson is not only unnecessary, but undesirable.” The truth of these options, as is usually the case with complex, abstract philosophical questions like this, is of course that both views are true in certain measures. It is not just one or the other, exclusively, but actually some sliding confluence of both. The old-fashioned opinion is truer for the person who chooses to believe it, just as the new model is truer for the person who believes that. The most important question here, then, is not which of the two notions is more ‘true’ or ‘accurate,’ but what the proponents on both sides of the argument “get” out of their beliefs. The great critical lever for analyzing this is the following question: What cultural work does the opinion perform?

The fundamental background assumption of this question is that people believe what they believe not because their choice has a greater inherent truth value—though they absolutely believe it does—but rather because adhering to their chosen belief accomplishes an important cultural, social, or ideological task for them. The task, or perhaps more accurately stated, the performance, is most often something which eases a disconnection between two conflicting perceptions, or two potential truths. An example here will be illustrative:

To the question of why people believe in a God, a critic applying the cultural work lever will posit that theists believe in a God not because there is some greater weight of evidence or truth to the notion, but because the belief itself performs a gratifying ideological function for the believer. It may ease fear of an afterlife-less death; it may inspire hope in an omnipotent guiding intelligence, assuaging fears of a chaotic and ultimately inscrutable universe; it may help him make friends, via public ceremonies, in the face of our increasingly sequestered private social spheres. Whichever of these answers is true for the theist is “true” for them because it produces the most desired effect for them. The answer is unique for each individual. The cancer patient with Burkitt’s lymphoma who is terrified of death chooses to believe in God because that choice performs the work of pacification for them. The lonely divorcee, on the other hand, goes to Mass and has the work of socially interacting in public performed through the ceremony’s gathering and ritual. Both believe in the same thing, God, but their beliefs are essentially different.

What is key in both cases, though, is that an ideological rupture is being mended. The cancer patient’s grim—but realistic—perception of their impending death is a million miles away, psychologically and conceptually, from the promise of an infinite living rapture in the afterlife, and so the belief in a God helps close that gap, seals the break. Whatever verb we choose—“mend,” or “close,” or “seal”—the fact remains that belief is always, necessarily a verb we are choosing, an action, a performance: work. It is cultural work.

Posing the question of what cultural work is being performed is such an astoundingly effective way of getting to the core of a subject because it pierces through the layers and layers of ideological façade and signifiers stuck to the subject. Language attaches both intended and unintended semantic baggage to terms, and this can mislead the critic in her analysis, or obscure deeper elements. The cultural work question distills the idea of truth into its most essential form, a choice between two or more potential truths, performed after an intellectual inventory of the assets and debits of each potential truth are considered. Truth is an act, not a concept. It is a choosing. It is not a piece of information existing out in the real world ready to be plucked and analyzed by the observer.


To summarize up to this point: everything above has been a case for examining important cultural artifacts by using the question of what cultural work the belief performs upon the believer. We will now apply the cultural work lever to both sides of the sports’ purpose debate and see what interesting values or assumptions lie at the heart of each viewpoint. For ease, let’s label the first option the sports traditionalist view, and the second the sports modernist view.

On one hand, many people—perhaps an older demographic—do view sports in the traditionalist view, as a contest of strength and valor on some sort of idealized proving ground. Whether one agrees with that opinion or not, MacGregor’s characterization of the adherents to this theory is nonetheless historically accurate. Traditionalist “ideas of sportsmanship and character,” he writes, hold that

“sports have to teach a moral or ethical lesson to be of real value. That's what our coaches always told us. And our folks, too. And that's certainly the way sports have been presented to the culture at large for the past hundred years: a sound builder of body, mind and character.”

I am positive that a more rigorous historiographical investigation into this issue would reveal a spike in the fervor and formality of this ennoblement probably at just around the same time the concept of the “teen-ager” came into the mass American consciousness and lexicon, sometime in the 1950s. The cultural work that this opinion performs is easing the thorny transferral of values between succeeding generations. Sports coaches and “our folks” want their children to behave, so they incentivize their characterization of good behavior by attaching lofty and serious-sounding signifiers to the activities kids would likely do on their own anyway, just for fun. Over time then, a recreational activity like baseball becomes not just a game between children on an open field somewhere, it becomes a trial ground of one’s ethics, of fairplay and trying hard, of running out every grounder, being physically fit, and so on, and before long, the accumulation of these signifiers around the simple activity itself turns it from play into no less than The National Pastime.

“Pastime” is actually an unintentionally illuminating choice of words, because one of the primary cultural works of sports traditionalist ethics is to preserve the perceived ideals of the past. It is at root a conservative attempt to keep things like they were in the “good old days.” Kids are always teetering on the precipice of physical and moral and intellectual crisis here in the United States, after all, and the ritualization and ennoblement of sports—consciously or not—aims at keeping them safely on the side of tradition and convention. The world around us may be a whirring buzz of change and modification, but three strikes always equals one out, and that means a lot to these folks.

It also occurs to me how appropriate it is that the primary ideological task this traditionalization seeks to perform is the preservation of youth, and by extension, then, health. Again, an in-depth historical study would very likely unearth a link between traditional sporting ethics and the emergence of health and exercise fads, and between those fads and greater socio-political unease in post-World War I America. With the steady gradual accrual of all these overtones and undertones of national significance, it is a lot easier to understand, and maybe even empathize, with the legions of adult male baseball fans in America who aggrandize the game, the ones who are absolutely disgusted with what they see as the desecration of their passion and its “inherent” values, and the soiling of their sacred statistical numbers.

I wrote above that cultural work usually eases the tension caused by competing potential truths; it also very often elides tension between competing moral systems. Recent religious plurality aside, our country is very much founded on ethics of hard work. Originally supplied by our Puritan founders, and reinforced throughout the ages with the hard working ethic espoused by immigrants in the 19th and 20th centuries, America is supposed to be a place where we get work done. (Do you see where this is going?) If you want to take time off from building a nation to play baseball with your friends, then you better have a very good ideological support system (i.e. excuse) for your actions. The sports traditionalist ideology performs this cultural work beautifully. It transforms sport activity from diversion into exercise; it makes recreation a desirable practice of self-improvement and ethical betterment.

With that good, tentative analysis of sports traditionalism set forth, we must now examine the cultural work being performed by the traditionalists’ opposition: the sports modernists.

Sports modernists are apparently pragmatic and unsentimental about sports. To them, it is a fun diversion from everyday life, or as Mr. MacGregor puts it, “three hours of happy distraction from the killing grind of the everyday.” He also suggests that sports are “a vacation from the real,” but that phrase seems highly loaded to me, and I think he employed it more for its grave poetical tone than for a serious philosophical assertion.

My initial impression of the sports modernist’s view is that it absolutely performs an underlying piece of cultural work—just like the traditionalists—but that it is much more transparent and openly cognizant of this cultural performance being enacted. The opinion itself apparently calls out the work being done. It readily describes its central tenet: sports are a fun hobby. That’s how they feel, and that’s what they say.

In general, this trait fits in well with other iterations of cultural modernism, in both the arts and formal philosophy. Modernism in architecture, for example, eschewed external ornamentation and structural artifice to create a more purely functional, utterly straightforward operative space. Function completely dictated design. Modernist literature incorporated multitudinous allusions and unconventional formatting in punctuation and pagination and diction because modernist authors sought to make the reader constantly aware of the text as a text, to strip away the 19th century realist author’s assumption of accurate mimesis. Modernist literature posited that the supposedly true-to-life portrayal of reality in the 19th century novel, with its plot and setting and characterization and dialogue, was actually more artificial than the contemporary modernist style’s, because of the previous form’s unwillingness or inability to acknowledge itself as a text: a constructed object, a physical object. The modernist author used experimental formal methods to defamiliarize the traditional reader/text relationship, and in doing so, stripped away a central, hidden artifice, to arrive at a more “honest,” or truthful, textual production.

Similarly, sports modernism appears to be stripped of underlying or distracting ideological adornments. The most obvious perception of the cultural work performed on the sports modernist is that they derive diversionary entertainment from the sports world. The view is at once both more sober than the traditionalist’s, and also actually rather bleaker. At the heart of its purpose is an acknowledgment that actual, “real life,” is really pretty terrible. The varying diction used to describe the reality sports thankfully distracts the modernist from vividly illuminates the dreary world: the “everyday,” the “killing grind.” The cultural work performed is the temporary ameliorative removal of oneself from that world. The cultural work is thus at the very fore of the modernist’s opinion, not buried below layers of intimations and shades of meaning like the traditionalist’s. But does that make it better?

In one sense, yes, because it is more upfront and honest, and thus arguably more malleable to the thinker’s ends, and less likely to drive someone blindly to adhere to miscalculated values. On the other hand, what the modernist gains in ideological honesty on the traditionalist, also seems to force away a considerable amount of consideration for others. The modernist is unabashedly motivated by selfish wants. The self-stated goal is to unplug from the world for a few hours, and indulge in what you want and what nobody else chooses for you. Honest though that may be, how strongly ought we adhere to a moral philosophy which is at best completely self-centered, and at worst, shamelessly unconcerned with its effects on other people? (And sports traditionalism and modernism are both absolutely moral philosophies, make no mistake. They both either evaluate human action or prescribe changes upon it for the sake of virtue.)

Foucault would want to say that ideologies out in the open tend to be the most hidden, so I wonder if, despite its apparent total transparency and candor, sports modernism isn’t in fact concealing some greater, more powerful cultural production. Some deeper-seated, and more illicitly desirable work produced by the ideology for its adherent. Is there something else these people get out of their “truth?” The likeliest answer is that the openness frees them from guilt about their own selfishness.


This is the extent of what I’d propose at this stage, without doing any further research on the supplemental topics I mentioned above. Maybe one day I’ll be able to really sit down and plow through primary sources on the evolution of sports up to and including the current professional era, the birth of the concept of the “teen-ager,” and dig further into the master, Foucault, of course.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Coming Soon. . .

Winning Is Everything: Sports Traditionalism, Sports Modernism, and the Cultural Work of Spectatorship

- and -

Life Is But A Dream: Risky Business vs. Eyes Wide Shut (Tom and I, 1983 to 1999)

Thursday, August 6, 2009


Woody Allen's European films constitute rank dilettantism. His obvious affection for the continent clouds his artistic judgment. Instead of writing insightful, creative scripts like he used to, he is now lazily content to drop the names of artists and things particular to his European settings, and assume the audience will intuit the milieu he is trying to convey. "Gaudi and Miró." Shut the fuck up, Art History 1 at NYU. This movie appeals to the middling intellect of the liberal arts undergrad who romanticizes European backpacking tours after graduation for “discovering themselves,” dabbles in weak psychotropic usage like marijuana, hangs fake vintage posters of wine in their Ikea- and Pier One-appointed kitchens, went to one or two Amnesty International meetings on campus, and so on, and so forth… In “Vicky Cristina Barcelona,” we have unexceptional romantic comedy marketed as cosmopolitan art film. No thank you.

The difference now, of course, is that Woody Allen movies used to be about his greatest subject: Woody Allen. When he turns his gaze outward, his stilted, amateurish characterizations and plotting show forth in all of their pathetic, ignominious glory. The voiceover narration, for one, is just cheap and utterly insufferable. Really, just atrocious. It’s cloying and cliché, and just a complete miscalculation.

The story is also far too predictable. The characters are cardboard cutouts that belong in a daytime soap opera, not an intelligent feature-length film. I guarantee not one person who ever saw this movie ever thought, even for one moment, that the supposedly obstinate Vicky was not going to fall madly in love with Bardem, and start questioning the safe decisions from her life in the States. There are no characters in this movie, only caricatures: Vicky has a materialistic but stable, practical fiancé back home in New York, and a passionate, artistic fling in Spain. Torn between the two. You have got to be kidding me. OK, we get it, golf and upstate New York are lame, poetry and carpe diem are cool. The problem is, though, that if you’ve ever met an artist of the middle-caliber type Bardem’s character is supposed to be, you know how stuffed to the absolute brim they are with horseshit. True artists are too fucked up and mentally insane to indulge in the bourgeoisie fantasies depicted in this movie. Do you think that when Nietzsche’s life was winding down as syphilis ravaged his brain stem, he would’ve taken a break from his life's work to “visit a delectable little vineyard I know about in the south of this country, you simply must come visit!” Fuck no! And therein lies the root of the problem. “Artists” like Bardem’s character “rebel” from normal society in the most socially acceptable, least radical way possible. They couch their conservatism in a revolutionary’s clothing, and in doing so, delude themselves more than even the supposedly sheltered normal society they are rebelling against in the first place.

Besides these ideological problems, Woody has also seriously lost his edge on storytelling mechanics and basic filmic technique. A more daring director, for example, would have indulged in a longer Spanish guitar scene to let the viewer better relate to Vicky, who’s hypnotized by Spanish culture, and secretly slowly warming to Bardem. But no, just as I started to feel some fragment of the rapture that Vicky is feeling as she watches that man play, Woody cut away, bowing to the time constraints of traditional narrative filmmaking. After all, we’d never want to bore all the moms watching the movie at Plaza Frontenac! And if he had even a shred of courage anymore, Maria Elena would have blown her gorgeous pink brains out all over those canvases in the studio during the confrontation scene. The camera would cut to a silently screaming Vicky with blood and flecks of viscera splattered over her upper chest and face, and we in the audience would be sitting with mouths totally agape in the theatre. Credits roll.

But I guess who needs to feel anything when you're on vacation in Barcelona?