He lives a life where nothing is beyond him. But you know what? It's all a facade. For all his charm and charisma, his wealth, his expensive toys... he's a driven, unflinching, calculating machine. He takes what he wants, when he wants... and disappears.
Now I'm not some grungy wannabe filmmaker that's searching for existentialism through a haze of bong smoke or something. No, it's easy to pick apart bad acting, short-sighted directing, and a purely moronic stringing together of words that many of the studios term as "prose". No, I'm talking about the lack of realism. Realism; not a pervasive element in today's modern American cinematic vision.
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The Usual Suspects?