The Book Of Judas
Pete and Frank head downstairs. Chadwick is begging them to stay in. "What's Steve doing?" Freaking out. Simon grabs Frank and escorts him away, into an abandoned hallway. "They're not the danger," Simon says. "It's him upstairs." True enough, I guess. He hands Frank a forty and some pills: "Better take the lot." He does, and washes them down with beer. Frank is the world and oblivion, and Jude is the arrogance of mind and the hope for something better, and Fiona is begging for God, and it's all spread across this collection of mates and lovers, every possible reaction. Even Dave -- Dave more than anybody, frankly. Even Johnny. Every fault and crack in the foundation that already exists, to which people already fall every day. Steve Baxter is radioactive; the bomb thrown into the room, where the metaphors come alive like Buffy and you can lay the whole of the Apostles down alongside each other and see where we all would break, and love them all. And admit which one you are.
Riot gear. Jude watches from one window, Steve's at the other. Slow motion action shots, rioters being clubbed. Early adopters. That's my sin; if you told me the world was ending I'd start early. Fuck it. Disturbing slo-mo action shots of Johnny writhing, cackling in his underwear in bed, clapping and laughing like an idiot, a sexual riot set to the symphony of worldwide violence, mouth open wide, eyes all silver. Oh, it's bad. And Jude and Steve continue to stare out.
Martial law; Downing Street wants you to stay calm. Fiona looks like hell, talking nonsense. Dave: "I'll be off then." Heh. Seriously. Fiona continues to babble; she'll be judged for everything she ever did, the nothing of her pointless life, the shoplifting, the Mean Girl follower bullshit. Dave finally fights through the forcefield of her desperation long enough to put some money in her hand. "Don't be silly," Fiona scoffs. "Tomorrow's Judgment Day." Which is exactly what he needed to hear: "I'm walking out on you, and all you can do is talk BULLSHIT. Nothing's going to happen, Fiona. But just in case it does, I wanna be in the right place." I'd like to meet her. I'm sure she's horrible, Myrtle in Gatsby, but still.
Fiona follows her husband out into the street, screaming like an asshole. "You can't, because we've gotta be together! Because that's what it's all about! Family, and loved ones, and...things." That's all she's got to offer, this vague pile of self-serving crap about this; the complete lack of clarity in thought that will Go-Bot into whatever you need. That's not religion, that's a wishing well. It's a serious testament to both actor and writer that even now, when she's telling you everything you need to know, I still just want to punch her in the box. I cannot root for her in any way. I know I keep talking about this, but I mean. She's a slicing satire, the kind that leaves blood: God as the ultimate kindergarten teacher. "Jesus! My husband won't play into my needy bullshit! Give him a timeout!" I wish she were unique; I hate that she's not. She's the reason people go atheist: if God is Santa Claus for grownups, religion is stupid.