The contemporary investigator is loaded. He drives a Porsche & wears Versace overcoats. He is as big as he is charming, as cultured as he’s ripped & cut. He got his self-defense training from an ex-KGB agent. He has a connection to the CIA; or to a mysterious agency which has only twelve clients worldwide, & which can get him information about anything or anyone, any time he needs it. His family runs every part of the infrastructure of this major American city.
The contemporary investigator is PC, & even when he isn’t, even when he falls from grace a little the way every man can, well, his girlfriend is rich too, and equally well-connected, & she won’t take any male nonsense from him. His assistant’s a Goth, tattoos all over. She won’t have truck with that male manipulative charm either.
Even when he’s arrested in what he calls “Buttfuck, Iowa”, the contemporary investigator’s connections are there for him. Despite that, he can get in trouble! Just in case that happens, he carries with him “four inches of money” (ten thousand dollars) along with unimpeachable false identities for himself and his assistant. Because even when the he’s not in charge, the contemporary investigator is in control. Even when contingency rages, it isn’t entirely contingent, not for him.
Hell-oo Hollywood!
this project, or programme, of imaginary reviews, if it is a project or programme, reminds me of Enrique Vila-Matas’ Bartleby & Co., which, to be completely honest, sits on my shelf as yet unread.
which seems somehow appropriate. or am i being facile?
a British writer of a certain oblique mind frame writes a story about America
he remembers what Wittgenstein said: “An operation can vanish”
he makes sure that his portrayal is accurately costumed and hermetically sealed with that particular American juice of denial
he makes sure we don’t get what we want even while setting us up for it