Rod Rosenstein and His Dirty Tricks Squad [2021)

https://t.me/linwoodspeakstruth/165

This is not James Clapper.

https://rumble.com/vdf4nn-james-clapper-interrogation-2.html

And this film review covers not only the first link (which Lin Wood first posted to Telegram on January 24, 2021), but all other snippets of the same sessions which Lin Wood has posted to date on Telegram.

I admit.

It sounds a hell of a lot like James Clapper.

At first, when I heard of this clip circulating, I thought, “There’s no way in hell that James Clapper is being ‘interrogated.'”

And that is likely true.

Because this isn’t James Clapper.

But as I listened to the Rumble clip (which purports that the voice speaking is that of James Clapper) I started to believe it was (or could be) him.

I will say this:  both Clapper and the voice speaking have very similar audible mannerisms…particularly the vocal cadence they share.

This is what led me on a hunt to find the truth.

My verdict is this:  for one reason or another (whether nefarious or otherwise), someone has misled people to think that these interviews are of James Clapper.

How did they mislead?

Well, first of all, they slyly edited out all clips which have details that would contradict Clapper’s biography.

For good measure, they also sped up the audio (for some inexplicable reason).

If for nefarious purposes, a person or persons may be trying to set the groundwork to undercut the information in the future (by planting the false notion that the messenger was Clapper).

If for productive purposes (in a vein similar to QAnon), shock value may have been used to capture the imagination of the populace and FORCE THEM TO DIG.

Whatever the purpose (and whoever the authors of this deception), it has caused me to dig.

And the information is important.

So I am going to parse it for you in executive summary.

What we almost certainly have here is a federal agent (whistleblower).

Is that Lin Wood interviewing him?

I think not.

Lin’s Georgia accent sounds nothing like the interviewer.

So let’s get down to the facts (and assertions of this whistleblower).

First of all, let’s get our sourcing and timeline straight.

Lin Wood began dropping these video clips on January 19, 2021:  the day before the inauguration.

The first video covers:

Epstein.

Supreme Court Justice Roberts.

Epstein “helped” Roberts with his adopted children.

Children from Wales.

Channeled through Ireland.

Epstein then facilitated adoption.

Children as a commodity.

Compromising people.

“Children are the payment and the dirt and the control.”

The FBI has copies of the videos.

Rod Rosenstein.

Shawn Henry (FBI).

Shaun Bridges (Secret Service).

The second video covers:

Pence and his two lovers (and his younger ones).

Surveillance of Roberts’ children.

The abuse of Roberts’ children.

The children were “loaned out” for these different groups.

And it was surveilled.

Plots to murder judges.

Set up by FBI.

False-flag.

They were going to use a “sovereign citizen” group.

“Obama didn’t want any terrorism unless it was white terrorism.”

FBI had infiltrated and armed and instigated.

Divorced fathers with a grudge against the court system.

Plot.

Attacks on the Supreme Court.

Roberts was aware.

Explosives.

Automatic weapons.

Rocket launchers.

Lisa Monaco was a target.

Video three covers:

Supreme Court was target.

Homeland Security were overwhelmed.

Called in FBI.

DoJ picked up whistleblower.

Martha Coakley.

Groups to assassinate federal judges:  1/3 of group made up of “sovereign citizen” patsies and 2/3 made up of FBI.

Whistleblower and his wife were going to be killed.

Plan foiled.

Plans written out.

Maps.

Would have been in the first year of Hillary’s Presidency.

She was not supposed to lose.

Roberts was helping.

He wanted to pick new judges (for those assassinated).

Purpose was to ban firearms and pack Supreme Court.

Antonin Scalia

Video four covers:

Scalia was biggest threat.

Scalia found out about plans and went to White House.

Scalia was taken out.

Cibolo Ranch.

Temp worker.

Servants.

Group there hunting.

DMSO.

Poison.

Dimethyl sulfoxide.

Fairly inert chemical.

Mix with poison.

Why found with pillow over face.

Struggling to breathe.

Can be mixed with fentanyl, etc.

Goes directly into skin.

Eric Holder as replacement.

Hillary and Obama knew about it.

Rod has an intense hatred of Hillary.

He’s only fond of himself.

Running The Hammer system through Baltimore.

Which brings us to our title film.

It covers:

how the whistleblower started working directly with Rod Rosenstein in Baltimore.

FBI would come for corroboration.

Undercover nature.

Terrorist.

Domestic terrorism.

Whistleblower was fairly well concealed.

Dirty Tricks Squad.

Baltimore.

“This is where they were using Hammer, Sunrise, Sunset, things like that.”

To illegally spy on people.

Attempt to corrupt judges.

They concentrated on corrupting people.

Under the guise of a CCIPS (DoJ) operation.

Run out of Fort Washington, Maryland.

[McInerney marker]

Illegally compromise people.

Illegally wiretap.

Break into computers.

Plant, reverse, change information.

Change emails.

Things of that nature.

Judges, Roberts, Pence.

Whistleblower squashed.

Went to DHS.

With pile of evidence.

Made its way back to FBI/DoJ.

Contacted Devin Nunes.

Whistleblower tried to warn Trump about Rod Rosenstein.

Rod, Pence, Paul Ryan.

Core of group.

Rod was “brilliant legal mind”.

Operational name at beginning was Run Silent Run Deep.

[1958 film with Lancaster and Gable about being passed up for promotion]

Pence hated Trump.

Had taken his slot.

Mitt Romney was also involved.

Trump was outsider.

Had not paid dues.

Pence was their mole inside.

Leverage.

Surveillance from way back.

2013 range.

FISA warrants.

Rod wanted VP slot.

Paul Ryan also wanted it.

So did Romney.

Vice Presidential slot under Pence.

With Trump removed under 25th Amendment.

Leverage.

Pence homosexual.

Many adults.

Throughout his time in Congress.

As Governor, felt more free.

One 20 years his junior.

One half his age.

Would introduce others.

Younger and younger people.

15 year olds.

13 year olds.

Rod and Roberts were able to get FISA warrants because.

Younger people supplied by Epstein.

Because Epstein was an intelligence asset.

When he was in USA, FISA warrant used.

FBI would not save the child.

Was more important for them to have the leverage.

Operation directed by Rosenstein.

Dirty Tricks Squad.

Nickname.

Rod.

Shawn Henry (FBI).

Shaun Wesley Bridges (Secret Service).

Joseph Rosati (DEA).

Al Borshack ? (ATF).

Greg Utz (DEA).

Another group in Fort Washington.

[McInerney marker]

For the real illegal stuff.

Illegal communications, hacking, phone tapping.

Main focus: Federal judges.

Compromising people.

Planting information.

Planting child porn.

Leverage.

100s of cases.

Plead to lesser charge.

Forfeit money.

Percentage skimmed.

Shaun Bridges.

His speciality.

#1 expert on computer forensics.

Secret Service.

Hacked Obama’s BlackBerry for fun.

Hacked Obama daughters’ phones.

A violent person.

Drinker.

Arrogant.

All about the money.

Hack people.

Steal info.

Sell intel.

Bridges and Bitcoin.

In prison.

Holds several passports.

Will disappear to Argentina or Colombia.

Al Borshack?

ATF.

Retired.

A nasty piece of work.

Illegal gun running for Fast and Furious.

Made sure paperwork stayed clean.

Serial numbers.

Gun dealer.

Lots of disposable money.

Lots of cash.

Lives very well.

Borshack and Rosati both divorce their wives.

As Rosenstein started falling out of favor as DAG.

Paid off house.

Borshack.

Gave wife 600k.

Custom van with road race bikes.

Has watercraft and cars.

Never has a problem finding cash.

Helped supply the firearm for Seth Rich.

Joseph Rosati.

DEA.

Steroid freak.

Violent, nasty, lying person.

Cases where he added drugs.

Always the cowboy.

Had to swoop in with the big bust.

Sued many times.

Over and over again.

From defendants and agents.

Borshack involved in Seth Rich.

Rosati brought in MS-13.

Rosati also brought in Kevin Doherty?

Wannabe.

USMC.

Gopher.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/public-safety/disgruntled-ex-employee-of-conspiracy-theorist-admits-shooting-him/2018/12/03/e5df4478-f719-11e8-8c9a-860ce2a8148f_story.html

Jack Burkman.

Borshack and Rosati.

“Fishing”.

Local version of Fast and Furious.

Like a game to them.

Thought it was funny.

Rosati poisons.

Hot shots.

Pure drugs.

Done to informants.

Bragged.

Pills.

Pharmaceutical.

Pharmacy fraud.

As DEA agent.

Pharmacy inspections once a month.

Short prescriptions.

Massive amounts of opioids.

Laundering pills.

He’s a piece of crap.

Big bodybuilder.

Cousin with same face.

Bank fraud.

Scams.

Anything for money.

Calling as a phony DEA agent.

Package intercepted.

Drugs.

Drug precursors.

But it you pay a fee, it will never get here.

He was point man for complaints.

If anything came back, it would go to him anyway.

Payphone near work.

Payphone near house.

Burner phone.

People recorded with app.

Real agents shot as a result.

He got his own agents shot.

Maryland mafia.

Conowingo Pizza.

Conowingo.

Route 1.

Maryland.

Little Tony.

Big Tony.

New Jersey.

New York.

Drugs.

Untouchable.

Rosati’s steady supplier.

Heroin for Baltimore and D.C.

Rosati can give them intelligence.

Rosati is always skimming.

They will sell what he skims.

Opioids.

Softball.

Nonprofit.

Shawn Henry (FBI).

He’s just nasty.

Dirty Tricks Squad.

Strzok.

At CrowdStrike now.

Criminal.

John Roberts.

Shawn Henry.

FBI.

False flag people.

Roberts knew.

Provided FISA warrants.

Roberts provided intelligence.

Sharyl Attkisson.

Next video:

The death of Seth Rich.

Rod Rosenstein.

WikiLeaks.

Seth Rich downloaded a lot of info.

Downloaded everything he could.

DNC, Hillary, Bowser, Brazile…

They were worried.

Rod was worried.

Intended to be a robbery.

Ended up being a murder.

DEA.

Gang specialist.

MS-13.

Thumb drive switched.

Convincing, but didn’t expose Rod.

Brazile at hospital before Seth Rich was brought in.

They wanted to recover the thumb drive.

Next video:

Rosenstein.

FBI op.

Ghost Stories.

Heavy surveillance on known Russian assets within the U.S.

Russian Reset.

Hillary.

Obama/Biden.

Cancelled Ghost Stories.

Rod.

Shaun Bridges was taking money.

Bitcoin.

Rod put Sean Wesley Bridges in jail.

[Extortion 17 marker…Tik Tok…]

Terre Haute.


That concludes a brief overview of the videos on Lin Wood’s Telegram account which feature the blurry-faced whistleblower.

Judging by his level of detail and familiarity with certain aspects of his testimony (as well as his passion level rising while recounting certain aspects of the Dirty Tricks Squad), I would guess that the whistleblower was a DEA agent.

God bless him.

It’s not Clapper.

Any connection to Coomer?

Tik Tok mystery man.

“Find out who I am.”

Real name?

Not an Extortion 17 casualty.

Court documents re: Shaun Wesley Bridges and Rod Rosenstein?

Any Coomer connection to Fort Washington facility?

Why did McInerney say that Hammer and Scorecard was at Fort Washington?

Corroboration.

UPDATE. ENTIRE SET OF INTERVIEWS TRANSCRIBED:

FULL-Transcript-of-Whistleblower-Interview

-PD

Medianeras [2011)

Here is as close to perfect as I can imagine.

When I clicked on this film on Hulu (translated as Sidewalls), I just expected it to be another film that I would stop watching after 30 seconds.

It vaguely looked like it had Eva Green in it.

Or Natalie Portman.

Thank God it doesn’t.

Instead, it stars Pilar López de Ayala as Mariana and Javier Drolas as Martin.

Indeed, this is the second Argentine film I’ve found which borders on sheer perfection.

The other is El Crítico (which followed two years later in 2013).

It’s true.

Both these films are introspective and self-reflective.

In Medianeras, this is more subtle.

Martin carries around three Tati films in his backpack (the topmost [visible] one being Playtime).

But all of this is academic.

What is important to say is that Medianeras is a cosmic, transcendent romance for the 21st century.

The composition is taut.

The cinematography is deft.

The montage is formidable.

But equally, the writing by director Gustavo Taretto is pristine.

You can look him up.

He’s a big, bushy-bearded 53-year-old.

But I highly admire the mind which came up with this film.

And the eye which brought it to life.

Pilar López de Ayala is magical here.

So many beautiful touches of storytelling.

Sure.

Taretto owes a small debt to Jeunet’s Amélie, but it is ever so small.

Indeed, it is mostly the music (the precious, tick-tock minimalism of the harp) and a pair of sequences involving humorous litanies.

The latter is achieved through copious edits of visual images to match the speaker’s rather cumbersome list(s).

It makes sense.

Amélie was a huge hit on the international stage just ten years prior to Medianeras.

And it too was an excellent film.

So Taretto has borrowed from a source which also indicates his good taste.

But our director has gone much further than merely borrowing.

He has created his own coherent language.

There are amazing sequences with Pilar López de Ayala in her apartment as her next-door neighbor wades through Beethoven and Chopin on a hoisted piano.

It is such that Mariana’s isolated life becomes a sort of postmodern ballet.

Sans dancing.

More brooding than anything.

Playing.

But, above all, being lonely.

And that is what drives this home.

We have a lonely man.

And a lonely woman (Ornette).

And paths which cross.

It’s not just sexual tension, but philosophical tension.

We really don’t know if these two perfect lovers will ever meet.

They are so dangerously close to colliding.

Like electrons.

We want these characters to live forever.

And they do.

In that they are composed of real life foibles.

As both watch Woody Allen in the dark.

And cry.

[as I cry watching them]

And both turn up Daniel Johnston singing “True Love Will Find You in the End”.

As I live with my parents.

[as the late-Daniel Johnston lived with his]

I think.

But I do know this.

That the sidewall in Austin has said, “Hi, how are you?” for so long.

And I am stuck in San Antonio.

Probably a much shittier city than Buenos Aires.

No doubt.

But so achingly-close to my old haunts in Austin.

And I don’t know if I will ever see them again.

Because life is hard.

And my life is generally shit.

“Working” at Starbucks.

Soon enough.

Again.

Not sure.

If my fiancée is dying.

And I am weeping.

Because I can relate to Martin and Mariana.

I can’t sleep.

It is 5 a.m. and I am writing a movie review which probably no one will read.

But I am happy in a strange way.

Because I found a film that reflects my life and makes me feel like all of my romantic longings and eccentricities are not for nothing.

So thank you, Gustavo.

Amazing film!!!

 

-PD

El Crítico [2013)

Fucking masterpiece.

A fucking masterpiece.

God damn…

It’s not often that a movie strikes me this way.

I had every reason not to even WATCH this film.

The premise was too perfect.

Too good to be true.

In English (and on Netflix in the U.S.), it is listed as The Film Critic.

But we pay our respects to international films even if the template of our website goes haywire in so doing.

El Crítico is an Argentine-Chilean coproduction.

Sounds like a wine, right?

Well, this beats any Malbec I’ve ever tasted.

I cannot say enough good things about this picture!

First things first-Hernán Guerschuny is a goddamned genius.

From the very start of this film we get the Godard whisper…that voiceover which started (si je me souviens bien) circa 1967 with 2 ou 3 Choses que je sais d’elle.

The majority (80%?) of El Crítico is in Spanish, but the remaining 20% (in French) makes all the difference.

We have an Argentine film critic, played masterfully by Rafael Spregelburd, who thinks in French.

We are thus privy to his internal monologue throughout the film.

For anyone who writes about motion pictures, El Crítico is indispensable.

Priceless.

Just right.

[not even a pinch of salt too much]

Dolores Fonzi is really good, but Señor Spregelburd is outstanding.

Spregelburd plays a Godard-obsessed film critic (are you seeing why I like this?) whose fumbling attempts at romance stem from his total immersion in cinema.

Guerschuny deftly interpolates scenes which are “meta-” in the same sense that Cinema Paradiso was essentially a film ABOUT film.

And I am a fan of this approach.

It worked perfectly for the greatest artistic creation in the history of mankind (Histoire(s) du cinéma) and it works exceptionally well for Guerschuny’s film [of which James Monaco and la Nouvelle vague I think would be proud].

Guerschuny, like his main character Tellez [Spregelburd], wants to explode the genre of romcom.

Yes, you heard me right:  romcom.

And it thus places El Crítico in the same tradition as Truffaut’s Tirez sur le pianiste and Godard’s Une Femme est une femme.

But something happens to our protagonist Tellez.

And something, I suspect, is in the heart (!) of director Guerschuny.

This is, in fact, a film about appreciating naïveté.

It is a postmodern idea.

And an idea dear to my heart.

It’s quite simple, really…

I can appreciate Arnold Schoenberg as much as AC/DC.

Abel Gance as much as Napoleon Dynamite.

The idea is that pretentious films (and film reviews) can become just as tiresome as trite, Entertainment Weekly boilerplate.

Does that magazine even still exist?

I don’t know.

It’s an honest question.

In fact, I wasn’t even sure I had the title correct.

It’s supermarket-checkout-lane film criticism.

But it’s not worthless.

Sometimes the most esteemed, erudite film critics become blind to the beauty around them.

They don’t give simple movies a chance.

On the other hand, there are a ton of crappy movies out there today.

But El Crítico is not one of them.

But let me tell you about the secret weapon of the film under consideration:

Telma Crisanti.

Without her, this movie fails.

Not miserably, but the façade falls apart.  And then the superstructure…

Ms. Crisanti plays Ágatha, the 16-year-old niece of our film critic Tellez.

It is she who plants the seed within Tellez’ mind that romantic comedies can be sublime.

But the salient point is this:  the masses are not dumb.

I will stand by Thomas Jefferson on this point till the bitter end.

And so The Film Critic speaks to young and old.  And middle-aged.

It is about miracles.

But it is real.

Simply put, this is the Sistine Chapel of romcoms.

Or, what Michelangelo would have done with the genre.

Simply stunning!

-PD

Stromboli, terra di Dio [1950)

Trying to get over that mountain.

A volcano.

Stumble, fall.

Not meant to be.

In this place.

A sadness of place.

But I’m just a simple fisherman now.

Pulling in tunas.

Folkways.

She’s had it.

Ingrid in her plain pattern dress.

The wind never stops messing with her hair.

And it’s painful just to look around.

Out to sea.

Mario Vitale.  Takes a simple job.

But the town surveils.

So that the empty winds blow like in LAvventura.

On an island.

Ingrid from Sweden playing Karin from Lithuania.

Argentina does not accept her.

And so she marries.

The best option of no options.

But she has her spirit broken.

By tradition.

By dumb muscle.

She’s a little flower crushed by the rock.

But it’s true.

She’s a mean melancholic.  A flailing tuna with one last whip of the tail.

Hoping to return to the ocean.

And she is pricked on all sides.

Hoisted.

And piled with the other creatures lengthwise.

My heart breaks for Ingrid.

Because of Roberto Rossellini.

A new style of filmmaking here.

Similar to his other film of 1950:  Francesco, giullare di Dio.

The flowers of introspection.

Existentialism.

Italy.

And now in Ginostra you might find Jacopo Fedi catching octopi or Marco Nicolosi relaxing.

In real life (away from celebrities), it is hard to make friends.

What Žižek might call “the desert of the real”.

Some turnovers you can eat, others you just have to live with.

 

-PD

Návrat ztraceného syna [1966)

Black pearl.

Not black wave.

Tabu story of the south seas.

Of eastern Europe.

Some things will not allow you to name them in miniscule diminution.

Only majuscule.

Europe.

But not all Europe created equally.

Some want in, some want out.

Some have the missiles.  Some have the nukes.

Maybe someone has the launch codes.

A prison of protection.

Your interbank telecommunications are swiftly fleeted from La Hulpe, Belgium.

A founding nation.

Fair of skin.

Like milk.  Like lace.  Like the blue veins of Delft or Roquefort.

Jesus, this is some beautiful writing.

Is it mine?

If I claim it (as it comes out of my head), will I be sent home?

And home where?

To a Turkish circus.

I am at home in words.

Inseparable from thoughts.

And the film under consideration is a masterpiece of insanity:  Return of the Prodigal Son.

Director Evald Schorm was born the day after me.  And died on my birthday.

Which is to say (viz.) that he lived his life in reverse.  Like Midas.

Everything he touched turned to shit.

I know the feeling.

I practically invented it.

Were it not for The Hollies, I’d be a bumper sticker millionaire.

Shit happens.

Psychiatry.

And most importantly, Czechoslovakia.

Nuttier and nuttier.

Each line.  Each post.

We’ve become such experts that we are worthless (Elmyr de Hory).

I couldn’t run a business if my life depended on it.

Which is to say (c’est-à-dire), I’m perfect for the job.

Any job.

Particularly a hard job.

A job of balancing.

I put my own king in check.  With my queen.

From Czech mate to Czech please.

The eroticism of Czech New Wave hit pinnacle with Ostře sledované vlaky.

We closely watched.  Maybe you remember.

Long before Maggie Gyllenhaal got us going in Secretary.

And so here it is Jana Brejchová.

Flirtatious.  And positively nuts.

Maybe she’s the one who drove Jan Kacer bonkers.

Makes sense.

But Jan has deeper issues.

He might love his job.

But there’s nothing inside.

Something has been deranged.  Rearranged.

The furniture in his head is set up for a party.

And no thoughts arrived.

Because he forgot to send invitations.

And now he just wants to watch frotolimbic TV.

But the antimacassar massacre of feng shui violation is permanent.  For the time being.

Fichte and Hegel first made an assumption about time.

We are told.  In good time.

Regarding dialectics.

Problem reaction solution.

Thesis antithesis synthesis.

Forget not sublation.

There is no abolish preserve.  There is only transcend.

Riding to work in the year 2025 is a bitch when Ed Harris (Robert Duvall) decides to get all snooty.

What does Marsellus Wallace look like?

Say what one more time!

A tawdry age.  False flags happening every day.  Sister Rosetta Tharpe.

#1 the week Hitler died.

Or went to the Argentine version of Barvikha.

Divine right of kings…

Psychiatry.

First medicine, then further specialization.

But a different slant. (6)

Hippocratic (rule by horses) oath.

False friends linguistic jump to conclusions.

Like Novo ordo seclorum.

Spend a moment with the French emanation:  siècle.

Cycle.  Age.  Cycles.  Ages.

Still…

It moves.

 

-PD

Quantum of Solace [2008)

Early.  “Dame” Judi Dench.  Threat of extraordinary rendition.  Not cool.

Doesn’t seem to bode well.  Are we about to be served a helping of steaming-shit propaganda?

No.  Not quite.  Thank heavens!

Earlier.  Another fucking car chase.  God damn it, if I wanted to watch Top Gear I’d have stayed home with a cup of PG Tips!

But by the grace of all that’s good and right in the world (hyperbole watch), Marc Forster has done the impossible:  a good (not great) follow-up to the best Bond film of all-time.

As of 2006.

Tagged banknotes.  D. B. Cooper.  An alias.  It was 1973 when this bizarre skyjacking took place in the Pacific Northwest.  The FBI had the forethought to make a microfilm photograph of all of the ransom money turned over to Mr. Cooper.  That’s a lot of photographs in a short amount of time, don’t you think?  10,000 unmarked 20-dollar bills. L.  Federal Reserve.  San Francisco.  Series 1969-C.  In a matter of hours…10,000 individual photographs?

By 2008, we doubt such modes of tracking considerably less.  And so, by hook and crook, we end up in Haiti.  This is where we first meet Olga Kurylenko.  Bolivian Intelligence.

And then the subtle subplots come in waves.  We are shown the duplicity of the CIA.  To wit, a CIA which is deceiving its partners the MI6.

It is all so very applicable to the adventures of one Ms. Victoria Nuland.  But it goes all the way back (at least) to the ouster of one Mr. Mosaddegh in 1953.  Particularly, it extends to the present allegations of U.S. military (and contractors) raping children in Colombia.  It goes to the adventures of one Mr. George Soros.  It leads right up to the ridiculous pronouncement of Venezuela as a threat to American national security.

Nisman.  Nemtsov.  Shady activities to undermine democracy in Argentina and Brazil.  Warnings from Ecuador that American intelligence is attempting to overthrow any government which does not declare fealty to the United Corporations of America.

We will eventually get to Russia…or they will get to us.

São Paulo.  Veolia Environnement.  Suez Environnement.  Water.  Drought.

We tend to view very few world events as accidents anymore (knowing what we know about history).  It was 9/11 which taught us that things aren’t always what they seem.  And as we dug deeper into declassified documents, we realized how long this charade has been going on.  And now, with immensely powerful technology at their fingertips, the most unscrupulous world leaders are in a position to stage just about anything (with a little help from the military component of their industrial complex).

I must hand it to director Forster:  though the earpieces were brilliant, it was the strains of Tosca which made the mute shootout so artful.

Another soft undercurrent:  a Special Branch bodyguard protecting a member of an international crime syndicate.  No wonder the work of intelligence agencies is so difficult!  Politicians make deals with unsavory characters and thereby endanger the safety and futures of their citizens.  Oh, sure…we are made to believe that this is all in the process of pursuing the lesser of evils, but as Mary Parker Follett said, “Authority should go with knowledge…whether it is up the line or down.”  That means that in many cases, politicians should get out of the way of the NSA, CIA, MI6, etc.

It’s a shame Strawberry Fields couldn’t remain with us longer.  At least she gets a good trip in! Her death, however, is a rather unimaginative twist on Goldfinger.  Nice try, gents.

But all is forgiven because of the Mathis death which precedes this.  When seeing the old agent dead in a dumpster from a high, circumspect vantage point, we think of Bill Buckley in Beirut and even the strange death of John P. Wheeler III.  We think of the MITRE Corporation.  We wonder about all those filthy neocon roaches that have managed to keep their clawed positions in government (Nuland). But mostly we realize that death in a dumpster is the true romanticism of being a secret agent.  This is the disconnect between reality and fiction:  James Bond will never end up dead in a dumpster.  He is, actor by actor, immortal.  Or rather, his lifespan depends on the British-American power which persists.

If the Russians were to win, we might be seeing more Stierlitz films.  Though Vyacheslav Tikhonov and Georgiy Zhzhonov are gone, that spirit would procede.

In James Bond we have the remnants of the British Empire (and the American spoils of WWII known as Hollywood).

In Quantum of Solace we again find the trend which started at least as early as the excellent License to Kill (1989):  divine insubordination.  You do not have to obey an unjust order.  An unjust law is no law at all.  St. Thomas Aquinas (from St. Augustine).  Natural law.

Jeffrey Wright displays this admirably in his portrayal of CIA agent Felix Leiter.  And of course Daniel Craig as Bond…the epitome of insubordination.  Bond can get away with it because he is that talented.  Few are these mythical supermen.

Forster manages a touchingly real moment when Craig shields and comforts Kurylenko amid the flashback flames.  It reminds us of Bond’s humanity in the egg-shell poignant scene of Casino Royale when Craig joins Eva Green beneath the interminably therapeutic cascade of a distraught shower…sitting down, fully clothed…that distant, vacant look of fear in her eyes as she shivers.

And with this we congratulate the James Bond producers Michael G. Wilson and Barbara Broccoli for stringing together these two films in such a genius manner.

We end in Kazan.  Not Elia Kazan.  May God spare us the dick-measuring contest of Minuteman III and Topol-M.

-PD