...would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me.

It comes as no surprise, I'm sure, that I had never seen any of the Fast & Furious oeuvre. I had arrogantly assumed them to be cheap, shallow, muscle-bound vanity projects, on the level of demolition derby writ large. More fool I. Stumbling across one such late at night, the scales fell from my eyes.

I had so deeply underestimated these works. The scope, the sweep, the gravitas. These films are not simply bad. They suck on a Homerian scale. Mere words are not enough. Marlowe's Mighty Line balks... Music must give flight to blunt criticism. A Van Gogh, a Rodin, a Wagner of vituperative song is needed to voice the bile these films draw forth. My gorge rises at it indeed. Art itself may fail. An algorithm of hate may be necessary. The math that does not describe the Universe, but in fact IS the universe. The Music of the Spheres. As the Cherubim limn the Archangel, as Gloucester ennobles Lear, as the hermitage suggests the cathedral, surely The Fast and the Furious were presaged by Smokey and the Bandit. Indeed, by Cannonball Run. Nay, not so much, but Cannonball Two! Burt, with his Jerry Reed cross, foretold the hellish coming of Vin.