Peter Weir's The Cars That Ate Paris (1974), for example, begins with two brothers driving through the small town of Paris, Australia, only to suddenly encounter — via flash cut — a blinding white light in the road.

“I wanna know whoze been tellin bout me!” “Telling what?” asked Bunny. “Thaz what I wanna know. What they been tellin?”

It is the prison that supports the image of the criminal […] he's lost when he's outside.

I earnestly recommend to those who are sensible of their own culpable deficiencies in these branches of information, or rather indeed I should say, of common education, to remain no longer in their present Cimmerianism.