A slice of heaven apparently requires ethnic cleansing. Suburbicon, USA was built on a vanilla coated dream that would purge imperfections before they even arose. After an influx of settlers and subsequent infrastructure booms, the town now boasts magazine praises and smug superiority.
Welcoming families from all over the great nation, their open arms coil into right angles and fists. An utterly normal and incredibly fitting nuclear family of three trot into town with proper clothing and mail subscriptions. The boy loves baseball and wrangling garden beasts, and the parents drive a class correct automobile.
Unfortunately, the arrivals' skin does not match the desired aesthetic of the homeowners association. Airy property line posts grow into picket barriers, and bedtime stories are accompanied by a mob score. Andy is told by his parent to never let them see his fear, but the confederate threat draped on the window sill turns an ideological war into something sinister.
Andy's sole refuge lies in the leather glove that ushered in a friendship with his backdoor neighbor, Nicky. No matter how dicey the neighborhood becomes, the boys can fall back on tossing an insignificant ball across the original posts. Nicky has turmoil transpiring internally, while Andy's demons bark outside of police barricades.
Nicky's family has hardships, but they are all self inflicted. His father has grown dull, and his mother apathetic. The domestic lining starts to chip, then flushes altogether into a self-profiteering abyss. External attacks can be swiftly dealt with, and zero public questioning surrounds their shady dealings. They are about to drown in their own privilege.
Repulsion is never justified. Society has been mislabeling deviants since the beginning, but the golden age of America had a particularly putrid way of expressing their prejudice. Nothing is inherently earned when mortality is at the reins. "We shall overcome" is owned by those who were owned.
Welcoming families from all over the great nation, their open arms coil into right angles and fists. An utterly normal and incredibly fitting nuclear family of three trot into town with proper clothing and mail subscriptions. The boy loves baseball and wrangling garden beasts, and the parents drive a class correct automobile.
Unfortunately, the arrivals' skin does not match the desired aesthetic of the homeowners association. Airy property line posts grow into picket barriers, and bedtime stories are accompanied by a mob score. Andy is told by his parent to never let them see his fear, but the confederate threat draped on the window sill turns an ideological war into something sinister.
Andy's sole refuge lies in the leather glove that ushered in a friendship with his backdoor neighbor, Nicky. No matter how dicey the neighborhood becomes, the boys can fall back on tossing an insignificant ball across the original posts. Nicky has turmoil transpiring internally, while Andy's demons bark outside of police barricades.
Nicky's family has hardships, but they are all self inflicted. His father has grown dull, and his mother apathetic. The domestic lining starts to chip, then flushes altogether into a self-profiteering abyss. External attacks can be swiftly dealt with, and zero public questioning surrounds their shady dealings. They are about to drown in their own privilege.
Repulsion is never justified. Society has been mislabeling deviants since the beginning, but the golden age of America had a particularly putrid way of expressing their prejudice. Nothing is inherently earned when mortality is at the reins. "We shall overcome" is owned by those who were owned.