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This movie is mana, straight outta heaven, blessing us all. Where do I begin? The industrial hideout of Mr. Funktastic, full of braggy henchmen, well-placed crowbars, bicycle-riding thugs and Mr. Funktastic's goatee-British accent combo? The Eurotrashy raves and steel-cage elevators? Challenging gravity, wheelchair Nazis fronting as a non-profit, Darude-Sandstorm turned movie chase? Helicopters with machine guns?
I simply can't choose. If I had to, I'd take the scene where a sweaty Kar practices martial arts at the movie theater, mimicking the moves of an old Chinese Kung-Fu flick, thus turning this movie into an exercise of self-reflection on the media itself, on the duplicitous, rhyzomatic, folded nature of mediated culture: we experience a movie where a man experiences himself through movies, and where this knowledge of self makes him the Chosen One. This scene is, therefore, the purest portrayal of what Enlightenment might look like in the post-modern era.
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