Well here we go again. Another round of restrictions imposed by our governing authorities. Another set of closures and limitations for small businesses. The people talk and they complain, of course. Our social media feed is full of references to the insane overreach for a virus that has an incredibly high survival rate. Where is the concern for those who are unemployed, or those who are depressed, or those who are lonely?  They tell the churches when to open and when to close, where to worship and how to conduct themselves. They dictate how we are supposed to celebrate Halloween and Thanksgiving and, without a doubt, Christmas. They believe they have a right and even a responsibility to know what is going on in your home: how many are gathered there and how you are implementing the mandates of the state.

In 1985, one year after the year in which the all-encompassing State of Orwell is set, Terry Gilliam released Brazil (on the Criterion Channel until October 31 or for rent on Amazon Prime). It is all the dread and paranoia of Nineteen Eighty-four superimposed with the absurdity of Monty Python. The world of Brazil is ridiculous and absurd. There are large air ducts running through even the nicest houses, and small ducts and tubes everywhere. Everything depends on the ant-like bustle of transferring paperwork from one bin to another, and from that department to this. The Ministry’s SWAT-like apparatus is always ready to execute some arrest order or another, making the next of kin sign receipts, in duplicate at least.