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Author`s name Costantino Ceoldo

Independence Day Resurgence

In the early 50's one of the greatest Italian writers of the last century - Dino Buzzati, by much of the criticism rightly placed alongside Franz Kafka - published for Mondadori, the collection "At that precise moment". In one of the short stories in the book, titled "Closed water", the author speaks of a man who finds himself, lost and confused, in a party of the big bourgeoisie of an unnamed city.

Namely: in the age of Global Lie only the American science fiction can help us. And we gladly make to you a reasoned mega SPOILER.

 

By Luigi Rovito

In the early 50's one of the greatest Italian writers of the last century - Dino Buzzati, by much of the criticism rightly placed alongside Franz Kafka - published for Mondadori, the collection "At that precise moment". In one of the short stories in the book, titled "Closed water", the author speaks of a man who finds himself, lost and confused, in a party of the big bourgeoisie of an unnamed city.

It's a very short story that begins as a kind of secular ode to the toilet, to the place that can offer refuge confining behind a confidential cut glass the alcohol drunk without measure, the superficiality and the boredom, viewed over and over again, of the alluring looks, of the not said phrases, of the techniques of seduction consumed almost out of obligation or duty, without heartbeat, without joy, without apparent need...

But it turns out, by the surprising writing of a Buzzati precursor of the Dutch playing [a particular technique in soccer/football game], a story of illumination: "Be wary of vitrages, frosted with arms in transparency, which gives access to latrines" writes Dino Buzzati at the end of the story "God, most patient, day and night stays behind us. Where you least you expect Him, He awaits for the ambush. He does not need cross or altars. Even in the sterilized marble hallways that you cannot name He is to tempt us, offering us the salvation of the soul".

What has this to do, thinks the perplexed reader, with the Global Lie and the American science fiction?

Got to do, it got to do all right: even in a crowded multiplex, seeing a less than second-rate science fiction movie, sequel to a less than second-rate science fiction movie, that the bit of clarity that is still around us is to tempt us, offering to us the salvation of our residual capacity of analysis.

Let me explain: do you remember "Independence Day"? It will not be easy to reconstruct in a nutshell the plot, convoluted and complex to the point to make Agatha Christie looks like an author of nursery rhymes, but an attempt must be made: a fleet of huge circular spaceships full of disgusting aliens - but skilled in aerial fights more than the Spitfire pilots who defended Britain from the Luftwaffe - arrives on Earth and begins to burn everything.  Especially the United States (the aliens, all the aliens, like always destroy Manhattan).

Worthless are the prophetic warnings of a scientist experienced in communications that, however, when the slobbery aliens reduce to ashes the White House, is able to embark on the Air Force One with his father, elder pacifist Jew veteran of Viet Nam, together with the President and his staff. Once in a secret military base and gathered the meager air force escaped the destruction, the President of the United States himself commands a squadron of fighters, bombers and fighter-bombers piloted by presidents, military, aeromodellers  and a pilot of a biplane bomber a bit touched who claims he was kidnapped years before by the same slobbery aliens, but the attack failed because of the impenetrable green energy shield that protects the spacecraft. At this point the pacifist, the father of the scientist, charges the President of conspiracy, being sure that the US government already knew of the aliens from the Roswell incident.

To the indignant refusal of the President replied an embarrassed staff member that illuminates all the people, including the President: the veteran's right. In Area 51 has even secured an alien fighter identical to those flanking the mother ship and who has suddenly turned on by the arrival of its slobbery fellow mates. Then the communications scientist programs a computer virus that can destroy the main alien spacecraft, and also all other, via contagion of the Martian Internet. But who will pilot the alien fighter to the mother ship to infect the slobbering ADSL saw that the whole of the Earth's satellite communications network has been destroyed?

Elementary: an African American top gun, meanwhile, shot down an alien fighter, he kicked open it and extracted the sibilant beetle-pilot having stunned him to blows in the face and transported him, a little battered but alive, at the secret base.

The African American hero learns, in twelve or thirteen seconds, to pilot the astro-jet better than the best slobbering Red Baron and, together with the scientist, enters the mother ship, send to fuck a little bit the aliens ushers, perplexed but not too bright, infects the network, short-circuits all the mega ships and runs away just in time to enjoy, from the ground, the sight of the aliens fireworks. It was July 4, 1996.

But let us: surely inspired by the great Dumas the sequel are set twenty years later, in 2016.

The victory of the space war has given the people of Earth, guided by the paternal and badass American hegemony, the ability to use alien technology to create helicopters without propeller, airplanes without wings, trains without wheels and a thousand other phocomelic wonders. Towards the end of June, however, the Earth's moon base, headquarters of joint Sino-American aeronautical maneuvers (!), identifies another mega-ship arriving and, without thinking too much about, take it to astro-gunfire destroying it, with the approval of the charming lady President of the United States (!) that, by video conference, she had quickly compared with other world presidents.

The American leadership of the world's countries is a recurring theme in American science fiction of the so-called "right-wing" kind; it should be noted, however, that, in the Independence Day sequel, disappeared the usual President Russian-Soviet-type-Chief-of-Spectre. Disappeared, gone: in 2016 Russia already no longer exists...

But back to us: Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas, the mega spaceship reveals nothing more than a fugitive pursued by the true mega alien spaceship, this time as big as the entire Atlantic ocean! That's why the aliens POWs, captured twenty years earlier and held in Roswell in a galactic maximum security prison (like Guantanamo, but with a lot of green and red lights more), were moved out of their suspended animation starting a mess worthy of the Plaza de Mayo mothers.

Anyway: the mega-mega alien spaceship destroys the lunar base with only its own gravity but cannot avoid that three brave pilots (two Americans and a handsome soldier with Chinese appearance, self-confident and sexy with somatic appropriately Westernized) fly within the mega runaway spaceship, shot down by mistake, recovering a ball of about two to three meters in diameter that will prove critical to the future of the human race.

On Earth, in the meantime, between tsunamis and earthquakes generated by the mega-mega astronautical gravitational anomalies, someone does a thermography to the giga-spaceship discovering that its megacentre houses a mega slobbery she-alien; probably mother and bitch of all the extraterrestrials.

The experienced scientist of communications (in Africa, just before the attack, on the trail of a warlike tribe who twenty years before killed aliens with machetes) discovers strange symbols that resemble the ball recovered on the moon. But in twenty minutes the aliens attack the Earth killing the American president and practically every possible vice-presidents.

Not being able to promote the unobtainable, last White House chief usher is expected to hand over the scepter to an Air Force General (!).

He, strong of the typical fantasy of an Air Force general (see our Ustica in 1980), decides for a replica of the mega air assault of twenty years before always controlled by the former President (now twenty years old and a bit stoned by twenty years of aliens persistent nightmares, but always able to pilot a war super-jet). The cheerful Air Brigade fails as twenty years ago, although armed, this time, with cold fusion bombs!

Fortunately the fugitive ball, stimulated by an experimental mega-laser, suddenly starts talking to terrestrial scientists providing useful tips to knock down the Queen Mother. The slobbery bastards are a swarm, it reveals, take her out and all her children stop living instantly. Then it confesses that, actually, is not an alien ball a couple of meters in diameter but a whole race, enemy of the slobbery, who renounced their body size to merge into a single artificial intelligence. It continues, revealing that on a secret planet is training survivors of races destroyed by the slobbery (which in the meantime are also drilling the Earth's crust to the take the magmatic core) to create an inter-galactic Liberation Army.

The earthly Americans make treasure of the spherical smart tips killing the Queen Mother with skilled aeronautical maneuvers and gusts of blue plasma. The second galactic war is won.
Pleasantly impressed and finally reassured the Martian Ball confesses to the jubilant  American scientists that until a few hours before it considered them as assholes a little bit primitive and underdeveloped but now, having seen their courage in battle, decides to give them no other than the command of the newly-formed Interplanetary Army!

Shortly after all the spaceships crash (it is unclear where, as one was as big as the Atlantic) in a new flurry of fireworks. Just 4 July 2016...

Well: maybe the movie will not win Oscars for the plot, but provides us with valuable social-anthropological informations: which kind of 2016 describes the film?

I should leave out quickly the means of locomotion: dozens of science fiction movies featured to us the 2000 as the year of flying cars and flying motorcycles and instead we are still treading in dog droppings and ask who, in our condo, can ever afford to raise horses or cattle. In the 2016 movie the peoples of the world have ceased to make war, having escaped for a nap extinction by alien attack. All world Countries are in harmony with each other and enjoy health and prosperity. Americans a bit more by having defeated the aliens in the name and on behalf of the entire human race and regained, in the blink of an eye, their unquestioned (and unquestionable) world leadership. Their president is a woman: white but very determined women (played by a tall actress with long and dark hair because enough is enough even in science fiction movies).

China (with which in this "true" 2016 US have a debt of two or three giga spaceships full of dollars) is their loyal military ally while Russia is a faded memory like the Maya Empire.

In 2016, cold fusion is a well-established (extraterrestrial: invented by the slobbering aliens) reality of which the Americans have taken possession making a weapon of destruction... It would be too difficult and time consuming to clarify, here, how great is the responsibility of US institutions on the disinformation campaign waged against the real prospect of obtaining energy from nuclear fusion at room temperature and at low cost. On our own the idea of using cold fusion to make bombs is futuristic as the use of mashed potatoes instead of Napalm. But, come to think, General Colin Powell was able to convince the UN to sponsor a war waving a vial full of aspirin, then why not?

In the science-fictionalized American 2016 also children are victims of the plague of the century: the conspiracy! In the regulatory Yellow School Bus, full of brave little snot-nosed patriots, that the father veteran of the hero scientist drives better than Lewis Hamilton in Munich to escape the mega claws of Martian Queen, a chubby and unpleasant little boy shouts "You're not a hero! It'ss all hype! My father told me that he read in a book!" and get as answer "Your father is an idiot, boy".

 

What is the bitter account? For much of the postwar period (we refer to the years following the Second World War) we were used to consider the Native Americans as a pack of wild killers, ungrateful and inhuman. We had to wait twenty-five years because American cinema (with "Soldier Blue" by Ralph Nelson) finally ripped the curtain of lies about the genocide of the native American peoples and the "deeds" of war criminals like George Armstrong Custer.

That 1970 seems more distant than ever, lost in time "like tears in rain".

Come to think, distort the past to make propaganda is not too different from mystify the future for the same purposes. The canonical equation of "1984" by George Orwell was "Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past".
"But gosh! It's a blockbuster that we are talking about!" might blurt out the impatient reader.

Who writes these rambling lines appeals to the others residual patience inviting, at least, to consider the lawfulness of a reflection: what is more trend? An American epic science fiction movie or a short essay on the rating agency crimes?

What is more useful to create empathy? An essay by Noam Chomsky about the decline of the language or Star Spangled Banner in the background while the alien invaders (endowed with "swarm" intelligence, devoid of individuality, ready to sacrifice themselves for the "good" of their own race, COMMUNIST!) perish at presence of cross-origin heroes: proletarians, military and aristocracy united by patriotism but, maybe, all with Western beauty and prowess?

It is not the Devil to tempt us, if anything His opponent ever.

To fall into the traps of the Devil just enjoy the heroine of your tablet 8-10 hours a day...
Lye is more global than we can imagine, brothers: think about.

Stay Human!

 

Original article by Luigi Rovito: http://megachip.globalist.it/Detail_News_Display?ID=126265&typeb=0&indipendence-day-resurgence

 

translation by Costantino Ceoldo - Pravda.Ru freelance

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Several years ago, a prominent Indonesian businessman who now resides in Canada, insisted on meeting me in a back room of one of Jakarta's posh restaurants. An avid reader of mine, he 'had something urgent to tell me', after finding out that our paths were going to be crossing in this destroyed and hopelessly polluted Indonesian capital.

Capitalism reduced Indonesian cities to infested carcases

Several years ago, a prominent Indonesian businessman who now resides in Canada, insisted on meeting me in a back room of one of Jakarta's posh restaurants. An avid reader of mine, he 'had something urgent to tell me', after finding out that our paths were going to be crossing in this destroyed and hopelessly polluted Indonesian capital.

Capitalism reduced Indonesian cities to infested carcases
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