Mandy Patankin

Homeland Uh Oh Ah

Terrorism is a blunt, imprecise force by design. Anti-terrorism is a blunt, imprecise force by necessity. That’s essentially Homeland‘s big statement about the War on Terror. The initial impetus for the series was an unmanned drone strike that killed an innocent little boy, Abu Nazir’s son, whose death a Stockholm Syndromed Brody was convinced to avenge. The carefully choreographed assassinations of six terrorists last week also ended in another child’s death — collateral damage is as unavoidable on CIA missions as a black turtleneck. Now we see that hammer come down on one of the agency’s own, with a newly Machiavellian Saul gripping the handle. After exposing Carrie’s mental illness and affair with a terrorist suspect to the world, Saul spends “Uh… Oh… Ah…” (I hope the episode isn’t named after Dana’s scene in the laundry room) playing hide-and-seek with his former protege. Fully aware that her mentor has set her up to be the agency’s scapegoat for the Langley bombing, Carrie attempts to confront him at the start of the hour. But he won’t be found until he wants to talk to her. Even then, it’s only after he’s exercised his power to have her discredited in the eyes of the press, then detained, subdued and medicated — all against her will.

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Junkfood Cinema

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema; all your candy are belong to us. How many words do I really need expend on this introduction? If you’re a frequent reader of the column, who hasn’t managed to blow himself up building a working replica of Bill & Ted’s phone booth, you are already aware of my affinity for terrible movies and you have wasted more time than you dare admit reading this insufferable column. For those of you who haplessly wandered in hoping to find the nutritional content of the KFC Double-Down or creative Junior Mint recipes, my condolences. But now that you’re here, you should know that the JFC system is threefold. First, I point out the film’s numerous faults; heckling it from the cyberspace balcony like Statler and Waldorf. But then, on a dime, I switch it up and sing the film’s inexplicable praises like a banjo-wielding frog expounding on the merits of rainbows. Finally I will pair the film with an appropriate snack food item upon which you can feverishly chow down like a furry blue monster well on his way to crippling obesity. This week’s delicacy (which is likely to be brought to you by the words cease & desist): Dick Tracy

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