An utterly brutal takedown of racism and white privilege where a sort chaotic-good cop dispatches with pure evil, before a final triumph over a slightly less insidious villain.

The great tragedy of our times is that the vast majority of men seem incapable of grasping satire, and instead latch onto the central characters in cautionary tales as if they were role models.

During the opening credits an old woman wearing a facemask runs out to collect the mail, and it just seemed so surreal to see something that's been so normalized in the last year showing up as something quirky in a film from near 35 years ago.

It's a bit ragged and uneven, but there's a strange sort of disjointed charm to this lovably flawed, post-punk, neo-noir.

Discontent is the luxury of the well-to-do. If you've got to live here, you might as well like it.

A nihilist, drunken misadventure dark enough to make After Hours feel like a light-hearted, comic jaunt and inebriated past the point of making Withnail & I seem like a sobriety contest.