Short comments exceed word count

Randy 2022-03-23 09:01:53

An anti-type piece worth rereading to get the full meaning of the text. Placed in a closed and dark, crazy-inducing natural environment and a sticky and ambiguous psychological atmosphere full of distrust and urgency, the interaction of the two male protagonists is intertwined with power and sexual desire, three scenes of temptation, and the last fight is almost strong play.

During the quarrel, both of them forced each other to submit by feminizing their opponents. When they reached the lighthouse that symbolized the commanding heights of power, they ushered in an orgasm. The film surges into complete fear and nothingness, the shadow of Cthulhu seeps from the background to occupy the screen, and the constant tension of words when death comes is forced to surrender to the desolate natural environment.

The dialogue between the two switches frequently between fierce confrontation and eerie intimacy, filled with the suffocating oppression of the male power structure. Both sides are vying to be the more masculine one, and at the same time do their best to suppress the charm of resisting the other's relatively feminine temperament. Alcohol, raging seafarers' songs, and terrifying toasts act as the lubricant of contradiction, swerving the text as a beacon of hidden focus when the audience is almost caught off guard. After the conflict erupted in an instant, it replayed itself in a pliable and ghostly way, causing the two to slowly murder and commit suicide without completely killing the other. Very lonely and showy.

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Extended Reading

The Lighthouse quotes

  • Thomas Wake: Keepin secrets eh?

    Ephraim Winslow: No sir

  • Thomas Wake: Yer fond of me lobster aint' ye? I seen it - yer fond of me lobster! Say it! Say it. Say it!

    Ephraim Winslow: I don't have to say nothin'.

    Thomas Wake: Damn ye! Let Neptune strike ye dead Winslow! HAAARK!

    Thomas Wake: Hark Triton, hark! Bellow, bid our father the Sea King rise from the depths full foul in his fury! Black waves teeming with salt foam to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs til' ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine and can scream no more - only when he, crowned in cockle shells with slitherin' tentacle tail and steaming beard take up his fell be-finned arm, his coral-tine trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest and plunges right through yer gullet, bursting ye - a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now and nothing for the harpies and the souls of dead sailors to peck and claw and feed upon only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the Dread Emperor himself - forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff for part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea!

    Ephraim Winslow: Alright, have it your way. I like your cookin'.