I cried, not sobbing and choking like a baby whose heart has been smashed, but softly and gently because my heart was slowly dissolved in a sizzling beaker of acid over 2 hours and 21 minutes, disintegrating into nothing not unlike Caliban's skin under sunlight.
This is my favorite poster for this film. Because even though the movie is called Logan, it's not about Logan. Or not only about Logan.
I've been thinking about the line We are the dead from Nineteen Eighty-Four lately, this is a story about the dead, about past generations giving their all to new generations, about the end of an era, about heroes past their expiry date, about degeneration and deterioration and age, crumbling age with all its unpleasantness. The screeching sounds of desperation Laura makes every time her claws go through someone's face and the roaring sounds of pain and irritation Logan makes every time his claws through someone's face –– both are so sad, so full of anger and frustration, so tired of all this shit but there's no other way out. It's a Western, with rumbling engines and orange desert expanses and a high noon showdown with your own shadow. It's a story about the hope we invest in children, the hope we have for the future, the sacrifices we have to make to get there. It's a story about Mexican immigrants and the bad guy's name is Donald. It's a story about mutants, who aren't technically human, but it's just. so. human.
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