After the football last night I started watching a serial killer film. You know the plot already. They have been identical since Silence of the Lambs came out. There is a serial killer out there. He captures young women and puts them in his cellar. They are chained up in various cells. It’s quite a fancy cellar. A cop, an unconventional cop, is obsessed with the serial killer. He has a seventeen year old daughter. She is a difficult girl. One Thanksgiving she has a strop and goes out into the dangerous night. She is captured by the serial killer. Now it’s personal! At this key moment in the story the director or writer chooses to place the emblematic scene where the hero, the cop, smashes up his own office in macho fury or a fit of pique, as we might call it in English English. This is a common scene in American lore. It shows the cop is a proper man. It also shows that he has feelings, which is not a given. We are probably not meant to pity him, rather admire him for ruining the decor in his police station office. You know, the one, with the mood board with snapshots of the girls and little quotes from ancient wisdoms, often the Book of Revelations, because the serial killer is mainly a learned fellow with a great interest in the ancient texts. The serial killer thing is just a side interest.
Well, I watched about 45 minutes of the movie. I kind of got the gist.