Any sensible gun owners who caught ABC’s The View the other day were probably infuriated by the words of Sunny Hostin and Joy Behar about the Indiana man who shot down the mall assassin. Hostin dissed the gent, Eli Dicken, because he took a gun into a mall that prohibited them; and both she and Behar opined that Dicken was simply “lucky” that he killed the assassin. Are they not glad that Dicken tried his luck?

The usual smugness was there. The View is a nauseating, plebeian piece of shit. I use the profane word because the show deserves it.

How many Westerns present a woman doctor having sex with her nice-guy husband? Bone Tomahawk (2015) does; it’s different—as well as one of the best Westerns I’ve seen.

The kind of R-rated adult Western that The Wild Bunch is, S. Craig Zahler‘s movie is as shocking as the Peckinpah classic was in 1969. As I indicated in an earlier review, it is “grungy” and “gory” as it relates the tale of the abduction of three people by brutal, cannibalistic primitives. It conveys, I think, a message about men and women who work to maintain a society sometimes being forced to encounter the ultra-criminal, the ultra-violent, even the “anti-social” types like David Arquette‘s Purvis who deserve to die. Ah, but do they deserve to die at the hands of the primitives?—a necessary question.

In 1970 William Wyler and scriptwriter Jesse Hill Ford purveyed a sturdy film about poisonous race relations in the 1960s South—The Liberation of L.B. Jones. Herein, a rich black undertaker, L.B. Jones (Roscoe Lee Browne), is determined to divorce his floozy wife (Lola Falana) for regularly sleeping with a white policeman (Anthony Zerbe). L.B.’s powerful lawyer, Oman Hedgepath (Lee J. Cobb), is a not-very-demonstrative racist bothered that a trial will destroy the white cop’s reputation in the community and so he warns the man, a demonstrative racist, about it. Horror ensues.

Based on Ford’s novel, the film is about racial pride and its fruit of injustice. Wyler made it as disturbing as The Collector. Certifiably it is not irrelevant to 2022 but, thank Heaven, it ain’t the Jayland Walker story either. Walker was shot to death after leading cops on a high-speed car chase and allegedly firing a gun from the car’s window. What goes on in L.B. Jones is far graver; it is genuine racism.

The movie has minor flaws—example: Browne and Lee Majors are boring actors here—and many virtues. It should be seen. It was, alas, Wyler’s last film.

Venezuela had a lot of poverty before the ascent of Chavez and Maduro. Now it has more. That it is a wreck of a country is patently understood by a writer and former Venezuelan named Alejandro Puyana, whose story “The Hands of Dirty Children” indicts Maduro’s Venezuela for childhood impoverishment.

Another fiction in The Best American Short Stories’ 2020 edition, “Hands” centers on two boys belonging to a vagrant group called the Crazy 9. The youngest boy is practically rejected because he soils his pants and does not have another pair, thus he stinks. Later he gets sick. . . The story is vivid and tough-minded. It is carefully wrought and pulls no punches. It makes me think that Bruce Springsteen should have written “Born in Venezuela,” not “Born in the U.S.A.”—to him, a negative thing. That’s a laugh!