Purple Rain in the park, or exactly which year my bike got stolen. I can’t imagine that I’ll mistake 2020 for any other summer.
From a screenwriting point of view, the year has been a conspicuously flawed draft. The global pandemic and racial revolution are objectively good plot lines, but would have worked better as separate seasons rather than playing them both out at once. The reality TV President character has descended into such a caricature that his thread plays more like a daft cartoon than clever satire.
Ideally our story will resolve with the comforting predictability of a Hollywood feature with racial justice attained, the virus defeated, and that bloated fake tyrant taken straight from the White House into federal prison, but my concern is that God doesn’t seem to be that kind of writer, and is by all accounts more likely to complicate the plot with a new war in the middle east or an alien invasion.
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