A man of perfect and consummate virtue.
There was wind behind them and wind coming at them, fire everywhere and wind whipping up willy-willies of swirling red embers, glowing magic cones that turned everything they touched into flame.
When the public no longer rushed to the box-office to buy such synthetic exaltations of the spirit, pitchmen like Jerome K. Jerome and the aforesaid Kennedy got out their theopathic apparatus and had at the trade with elixirs in which actors, their faces chalked into a pallor exceeding Nicky Arnstein's, were programmed as A Stranger, A Wayfarer, or Manson and, by conducting themselves for the major portion of two hours like overly verbose and objectionable pallbearers, peculiarly persuaded the come-ons that they were replicas of Christ and that the rest of the cast, a bunch of low-lifes, were converted to the faith by them.
Back in 2010 those comparisons seemed absurd: how could the writer-director of classy-but-overthought superhero movies, as well as middling oddities such as The Prestige, be seriously thought of in the same bracket as the lambent mind behind Dr Strangelove, 2001: A Space Odyssey, A Clockwork Orange and Barry Lyndon?
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