Tragedies are best played out in secret. The participants must be self-conscious to a fault, and the curse facilitator needs to have an insatiable score to settle. A Cincinnati suburb is fashioned into a Greek amphitheater, and the gods of wine and harvest are the only ones watching.
This deadly production has a singular moral, but it is not being taught to the audience. Steven, the star surgeon is the unfortunate recipient of this mythical lesson. With a wife retrofitted to his peculiar kinks, a son quick to adjust career paths, and a daughter who is an A+ expert on the horrors he faces, Steven has yet to make a sacrifice worthy of his current comfort.
Martin sticks like gum on Steven's sole. The boy's leverage is secret and potent, easily masked by tidy alibis and half truths. Steven passes professional blame onto anesthesiologists for malpractice fatalities. Step one is to properly administer sleep. The knife wielders rarely are the killers. Martin wishes to change that.
Steven has outstretched his wings, cradling Martin in nondescript diners and parking garages. When he gives the young man a watch that dwarfs his own, Martin's attachment reaches the final phase. One last peace offering remains before a game of addition spirals into subtraction.
Survival will be reduced to haircuts and epic recitals. The suburban theater bloats with situational irony, the plot engulfs sexuality and innocence in the same gulp. The modern mansion shrinks to a living room, and the villain disappears into coffee mugs at an incomplete booth.
The city with medical advances ten or more years beyond their sun- burst automobiles would suggest, has no answer for the scientific Steven. His careful domestic construction falls apart with about as much explanation as Bill Murray's temporal tornado. The killing cannot be left up to chance no matter how much he spins around the goddess' command.
This deadly production has a singular moral, but it is not being taught to the audience. Steven, the star surgeon is the unfortunate recipient of this mythical lesson. With a wife retrofitted to his peculiar kinks, a son quick to adjust career paths, and a daughter who is an A+ expert on the horrors he faces, Steven has yet to make a sacrifice worthy of his current comfort.
Martin sticks like gum on Steven's sole. The boy's leverage is secret and potent, easily masked by tidy alibis and half truths. Steven passes professional blame onto anesthesiologists for malpractice fatalities. Step one is to properly administer sleep. The knife wielders rarely are the killers. Martin wishes to change that.
Steven has outstretched his wings, cradling Martin in nondescript diners and parking garages. When he gives the young man a watch that dwarfs his own, Martin's attachment reaches the final phase. One last peace offering remains before a game of addition spirals into subtraction.
Survival will be reduced to haircuts and epic recitals. The suburban theater bloats with situational irony, the plot engulfs sexuality and innocence in the same gulp. The modern mansion shrinks to a living room, and the villain disappears into coffee mugs at an incomplete booth.
The city with medical advances ten or more years beyond their sun- burst automobiles would suggest, has no answer for the scientific Steven. His careful domestic construction falls apart with about as much explanation as Bill Murray's temporal tornado. The killing cannot be left up to chance no matter how much he spins around the goddess' command.