War torn. Crusty curmudgeon. I’ve seen shit you couldn’t imagine. And things ain’t what they used to be and it’s you bleeps goddamn fault! A retired, widowed Archie Bunker. On a creaky porch in a neighborhood of crab grass, peeling paint, and rust. Next door Hmong hill farmers homestead dying Detroit. Where homeboy outlaws act so hard the act is life or death. Beatdowns or be beat down. Cruisin’ the edge of Woodward Avenue. Where soft human feelings scurry, head down, from shadow to shadow. Or gather around warm sunlight backyard havens of spicy food and music to plan a new community center. Listen to the murmur, buzz and heat of their voices. Where old workers douse smouldering regrets with cheap beer and wry disgust. It’s a Western. Forged bonds fending off the wolves of lawlessness. The justice of Magnum Force on Mount Rushmore. Sam Fuller with a Big Heart. A teardrop for a sacrifice given for love and its violent means.
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