Balneus

Australian Lefty on Politics, Governance, Science and Info Management

Election boring: so a film review

Posted by Dave Bath on 2007-11-13


Bored, disappointed with how correct Latham was about the choice between two pro-greed no-vision parties, I’ll review a quaint black comedy about progressives who become serial killers to make the world a better place – and in some ways, from some perspectives, they do.

The Last Supper (1995, directed by Stacy Title, through Sony) is an ensemble piece, set mainly in a house shared by a range of politically-correct post-grads bemoaning a right-wing shock-jock.  Oh-so-nice, they have someone over each Sunday for dinner and discussion, and one night, invite a stranger, who happens to be a right-wing red-neck patriotic god-botherer, and challenges the progressives as do-nothings with the observation "it’s not what you’d die for, it’s what you’d kill for".

The redneck pulls a knife, the progressives kill him in self defence, but for some strange reason, bury him in the back yard, congratulate themselves that they’ve made the world a better place, and plan to invite a regressive each week, try and persuade them about the error of their ways, and pass the poisoned wine if they remain offensive, pass the poisoned wine.

It’s an interesting exploration of morality, activism, and the impotence of progressives, with lots of strange humor:  "We’ll have to scream like we don’t know what’s happening", says one, "we don’t want their last thought to be ‘Oh no, I’ve been poisoned by liberals’".

Half the fun is joining in the game: when would you pass the blue carafe to each guest?

There are lots of familiar faces in the cameos of regressives, even if you don’t know the names, including the guy from Seinfeld with the glasses, and, unexpectedly in a low-budget art-housy film, Cameron Diaz as one of the post-grads.

It will probably be a hard DVD to find, but if you do, make sure to pay close attention to the paintings behind the end titles that tell you what happened.

Bon appetit.

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