It seems to me that Hollywood–and entertainment in general–can’t come up with anything new.
Sequels. Prequels. Spin-offs. Reboots.
The so-called “summer blockbusters” are nothing more than tasteless CGI pastries injected with a gooey filling made of bantering superheroes, giant robots, zombie fighters, and sparkly vampires, all which we viewers scarf down while speeding past fiery explosions on our way to a happy ending. Every actor and action, from the abdominal beauty of the Spartan 300 to the hypnotically-slo-mo destruction of iconic American landmarks, is retouched and enhanced into a stylized pabulum for our plebeian appetites. There is no grit. There is no ambiguity. All is good and bad, beautiful and evil, plucky survivors and defeated foes.
Then, along comes Max.
Unraveling Time
Desert Wind
Ploughman's Son
Ploughman King
The Year the Cloud Fell
The Spirit of Thunder
Shadow of the Storm
The Cry of the Wind
Beneath a Wounded Sky
Cryptogenesis: A Memoir
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 