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Art Film Pedagogy

Ten films

I left the previous posts for a few days without adding new ones because it is of some importance that at least some visitors to The West’s Darkest Hour find out that in the racialist forums a troll is impersonating me supported by… the moderators! But I made magnificent use of the time to finish the last few pages of the third book of my trilogy. So—

Thanks, Brad!

Thanks Jewish troll!


______ 卐 ______


“L’art pour l’art values must be transvalued to Art practiced in conformity with the cultural task” —Francis Parker Yockey (rephrased).

In 2013 I posted a list of what were, at the time, my ten favourite films and last year I confessed that, having taken my vows as a priest of the sacred words, I could no longer watch many of the 50 films I once loved. So I would like to compile a new list of ten films that, if I were to adopt an Aryan son,[1] I would allow him to watch. Sorted by the year they were released, this new list would be:

1. Beauty and the Beast (1946)

2. Hamlet (1948)

3. Lust for Life (1956)

4. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

5. Death in Venice (1971)

6. Sense & Sensibility (1995)

7. Indictment: The McMartin Trial (1995)

8. Pride & Prejudice (1995 TV series)

9. Pride & Prejudice (2005 movie)

10. Spotlight (2015)

In the case of the first on the list, it is only because of our interpretation of it that I recommend it. Why I put the second one on my new list, which also appears on my 2013 list, is explained by clicking the link above on Hamlet.

But the third one doesn’t appear on my old list. As I own several Vincent van Gogh books, including a huge illustrated one with his complete works, I recommend Lust for Life because, like Hitler, it seems to me essential that the Aryan who wants to save his race from extinction should make deep contact with the art of painting; and the film, based on an entertaining novel that I read, transports us to the places where brother Vincent lived.

Of articles by intellectuals, John Gardner was the first white nationalist I ever read, in 2009, when I returned to this continent from Spain. In one of his TOQ Online articles Gardner said that 2001: A Space Odyssey managed to put the white man’s aesthetics in its place, which I agree with.

Why I include Death in Venice is guessed at in ‘Transvaluation Explained’ and ‘Puritanical Gomorrah’ in my book Daybreak, but most of my list (#6, #8 and #9) concerns films about Jane Austen’s novels. As for the remaining ones, Indictment and Spotlight, just click on the links in the above list to see why I include them.

Note that, unlike my 2013 list, my criteria is no longer to include films based on their artistic quality but on what Yockey says above. The film about the medieval monk Andrei Rublev for example is highly artistic to the true connoisseur of cinematic art. But I wouldn’t show it to my son, at least not until he had developed a sufficiently anti-Christian criterion to realise that the pagan Russians should never have embraced a religion of Semitic origin.

I can say something similar about Sleeping Beauty, which appears on my previous top ten list, although this is a fairly tale. It makes me a little nervous that at the climax Maleficent invokes all the powers of Lucifer, and that Prince Philip’s coat of arms bears a Christian cross. A child, of course, wouldn’t notice that. But what Walt Disney had done, collaborating with the American government in times of anti-Nazi propaganda through another of his cartoons caricaturing the Third Reich, I cannot forgive.

Likewise, in my new list I didn’t include 1968’s Planet of the Apes which was on the old list because a child shouldn’t see a black astronaut next to a good-looking Aryan actor like Charlton Heston. The same I must say about another of my favourites that I removed from the old list: Artificial Intelligence, where in the first scene the Jew Spielberg puts a compassionate Negress in front of a huge team of scientists who want to design a robot child with real feelings.

The 1977 film Iphigenia was also taken off my list. Although Iphigenia is a masterful adaptation of Euripides’ tragedy many of the actors, unlike the hyper-Nordic Homeric Greeks, are already mudbloods (of course: the film’s actors were contemporary Greeks!). A boy brought up in National Socialism ought not to be fooled by such images.

If someone asks me now, after taking my vows, which of the above list of ten are now my favourite films, they will be surprised to learn that they are all three based on Austen’s novels. That’s exactly the right message of sexual courtship that Aryans, young and old, should see on the big and small screens if we have the fourteen words in mind.


[1] Although the lad I was doesn’t look too bad in the Metapedia picture, as a priest I can’t sire because my bloodline is as compromised as the Greek actors mentioned above.

Film Metaphysics of race / sex

Enchanted night

Many years ago I saw Andrei Rublev and, as I talked about the film yesterday, I was subsequently rewatching some scenes. I hadn’t realised that Durochka betrays Andrei and her Russian ethnicity by eloping with the Tatar when Andrei had taken her back to the monastery; not immediately after the Tatar massacre in Vladimir. But I wanted to talk about something else, my favourite scene of the film: the religious festival called Kupala Night, in 1408, when some Slavs hadn’t yet been forced to convert to the Semitic religion.

In the film, camping for the night on the riverbank, Andrei and his apprentice Foma are gathering firewood when Andrei hears the distant sounds of a celebration upstream in the forest. Going to investigate Andrei alone, he comes across a large group of naked non-Christians, who are performing a torch-lit ritual for the summer solstice. Andrei, dressed austerely as an Orthodox monk, is intrigued, but is caught spying on a couple making love and is tied to the crossbeam of a hut in a mockery of Jesus’ crucifixion.

A blonde woman named Marfa, scantily clad in a fur coat, approaches Andrei. After explaining that her people are persecuted for their beliefs, she drops her coat, kisses Andrei and unties him.

The monk runs away and gets lost in the dense forest, scratching his face. The next morning, he returns to his people when a group of soldiers appear on the riverbank chasing the non-Christians who had celebrated Kupala Night, including Marfa. They capture her companion but she escapes naked by swimming in the river. A beautiful scene! But Andrei and his fellow monk look the other way in shame because, according to the Semitic religion, it is sinful to watch a beautiful female body naked.

In the next episode, on a road during summer, Andrei confesses to another monk that he cannot do the task assigned to him by the bishop of Moscow. Although Andrei didn’t relapse into paganism after the enchanted night, as a principled artist he doesn’t want either to terrorise the Russian people, and refused to paint the Last Judgement. (As I was saying recently, Hitler realised that Christianity brought spiritual terror to the Aryan man.)

Later comes the Tatar invasion which, in 1983, I saw on the big screen of the cinema inside the Russian embassy in Mexico City. Although I don’t want to re-watch that scene on YouTube now, I remember it as a masterpiece that evokes my fantasy of the greenseer north of the Wall that can see the historical past as it happened.

2nd World War Correspondence Film Women

‘Cool German ladies’

Yesterday I made a find among the documents my father left behind: a letter written during the Second World War, in Germany, from the combat zone between the Americans and the Germans.

The missive, typed in Spanish, is addressed to my father and lacks a year, although we see the words ‘Abril 9’ (April 9) at the top. A brief note from my father that I didn’t scan for this post attached to the letter reads (my translation): ‘Letter from Nelson Valderrama. Friend of mine in high school’.

I will translate the two sentences marked in pink (the orange is a sticky tape which, I assume, my father put on). On the first page, we read ‘…and I wounded the first German I ever wounded—between neck and shoulder, as I searched him I got his blood on me’. On the back is the second page we read: ‘…a young German girl, I stayed with her most of the night. I don’t understand these people, they’re supposed to hate Americans, and here they are super cool young ladies whose boyfriends we’ve killed, inviting us to spend the night with them…’

Many times I have mentioned my favourite Russian film, Andrei Rublev, where Durochka, a blonde girl, spits in her partner Andrei’s face to leave with a Tartar after these savages massacred, with infinite cruelty, almost all the inhabitants of her village. What I love not only about that scene but about the film in general, is that it makes no value judgements: it just portrays with extraordinary crudeness the reality as it happened centuries ago in director Tarkovsky’s mother Russia.

In one of his videos, the late Gonzalo Lira said that women’s behaviour shouldn’t infuriate us. It is simply their nature. I would add that this is as true for Dúrochka as it is for the German women, as we see in this letter which shocked me yesterday when I read it for the first time in my life. (While I had long heard the name ‘Nelson Valderrama’, I had no idea that this idiot had fought on the wrong side during WW2!)

Not only did the casualties Valderrama describes disgust me as I read it, but his letter sheds light on why Andrew Anglin is right that women’s brains are constituted in such a way that they think radically differently from us. And as a vlogger said, whose text I edited in my anthology On Beth’s Cute Tits (pages 99-116), if power were to pass once more to us, we must never again empower the fair sex.

But I insist: the late Lira was right that we shouldn’t hate women in the least for their behaviour. If anything, we should hate the men who have been tolerating, and still tolerate, all feminist waves. That’s why I so highly recommend the best Russian movie ever made: a film so different from Hollywood that only those who appreciate art cinema will love it.

Evil Film Psychology


Il y a une autre canaille à laquelle on sacrifie tout, et cette canaille est le peuple. —Voltaire

In my recent articles, and on this site in general, I have expressed myself in a very derogatory way about the masses (and the System that empowers them: democracy), whom I have called as Voltaire called them, canaille, and I have also called them in a much worse way.

After years of not seeing it, I have just watched one more time the 1995 film Indictment: The McMartin Trial, starring James Woods: one of the very few films I can recommend in this dark hour for our civilisation.

The daycare sex abuse hysteria was a moral panic that occurred mainly during the 1980s and early 1990s and brought charges against completely innocent daycare providers accused of committing various forms of child abuse, including satanic ritual abuse. The McMartin preschool trial was a typical case. Members of the McMartin family, who ran a preschool in Manhattan Beach, California, were accused of acts of sexual abuse of children in their care.

Since the mid-1990s, the phenomenon has been discredited to such a degree that criminalists and law enforcement authorities have recognised it for what it was: a witch hunt that led to imprisonment and ruined the lives of many innocent adults. The film Indictment: The McMartin trial masterfully shows how a moral panic psychotised the masses in the decade I lived in California.

In its heyday in the 1980s and early 1990s, similar in some ways to the Salem trial of 1692, such allegations reached grotesque extremes. Using invasive adult techniques in the interrogation of kindergartners, therapists elicited confessions riddled with fantasies: that the children had been kidnapped and taken through a network of hidden tunnels to a cavern beneath the school; that they flew in the air; and that they saw giraffes, lions and the sacrifice of a rabbit to be returned to their unsuspecting parents at the kindergarten. Needless to say, no forensic evidence was found to support such claims, so the final verdict was: not guilty.

After the legal catastrophe that was McMartin and other similar cases (years in prison for this type of accusations before and during the trial with the accused being completely innocent!), children have never again been interrogated with the aggressive techniques that induce them to fantasise so wildly.

Indictment is the best example of how the masses—yes: the canaille—react when they are in a moral panic: they simply trust the Jew-controlled media. The film vindicates why I speak so disparagingly of the masses or rabble and why I can only love the dissident individual.

Film Jane Austen Pride & Prejudice

What a relief!

I would like to add something to what I said two months ago in ‘The Remaining 42’ about the films that, after my awakening, lost meaning for my new point of view.

Since the most important thing for the 14 words is the reproduction of the Aryan, currently the films I like the most, which could even have been filmed if Hitler had won the war, are three films based on Jane Austen’s novels. One of them is a TV series about P&P, which I’ve been re-watching these days (clips: here) and I find super-therapeutic compared to the Gomorrahite cinema now flooding the West.

Those who want to feel completely relieved, if only momentarily, by imagining what the Western world would be like if the good guys had won the war, must watch this series. If the picture is worth a thousand words, the image in the form of cinema—the art of creating and projecting footage—is worth a million!

Art Film

The remaining 42

I have just modified the hatnote of the 50 films I recommended not to be bored at home when the COVID-19 epidemic started because I will no longer review those films individually.

While it is true that those films made a big impression on me as a child and young man, once I woke up to the real world, in the sense of stepping out of the System’s matrix that controls us, most of those films lost their original meaning. I prefer to continue reviewing Brendan Simms’ book about Uncle Adolf insofar as, now free from the matrix that controls the white man, I feel a moral responsibility to convey who he was under a completely different narrative from that of the ubiquitous System (a narrative that includes Simms’ POV). Nevertheless, I would like, in a single entry, to say what I think roughly about the remaining 42 films that I won’t review individually, as I did with the first eight on the list.

First of all, I have already said something about Shane, #9 on the list. (Incidentally, when the month before my dad died, I showed him the DVDs of the films we had at home to see which one my ailing father wanted to see, he chose Shane.)

About other films on my list from the 1950s, ten years ago I already said something about Ben-Hur and I don’t have much to add. The two movies that the Swede Ingmar Bergman filmed in his country the year before I was born are watchable, especially The Seventh Seal. Although Wild Strawberries is the only one, along with A.I., that made me cry, I would have to explain why I projected myself into it, and that would be getting deep into my biography, which I won’t do in this entry. (By the way, when I saw Wild Strawberries on the big screen I met, on the way out, my first cousin Octavio Augusto whom I said a few years ago he had just killed his daughter and then hanged himself.)

I already said something about Forbidden Planet in 2012 in the context of some paragraphs by the Canadian Sebastian Ronin that are worth re-reading. Of Journey to the Center of the Earth, I had already said something in 2011 (incidentally, it’s worth watching the clip of the film that I uploaded on YouTube, embedded in that post).

The other film from the 1950s, Lust for Life, I haven’t written anything about: the life of Vincent Van Gogh. Given that I have several books—huge books, by the way: those deluxe ones that seem to take up an entire table—on Vincent’s paintings, and that as a small child I tried, modestly, to copy his paintings with my watercolours, his life has a special significance.

This film was shot when the Aryans weren’t yet betraying themselves as nefariously as they do today. For those who still appreciate 19th-century Europe, it is worth seeing this novel-based interpretation of Vincent’s life. And the same can be said of Sleeping Beauty and The Time Machine: once upon a time there was an optimistic ethos about the Aryan race, with very blonde and extremely beautiful women indeed: films that one could even play to children being educated in NS.

So much for the films of the 1950s. As far as the films on my list from the 1960s are concerned, I have to say that 2001: A Space Odyssey is my favourite film, and I can conceivably write a review in the future about the film that has influenced my life the most. As for the others from that decade, I’ve already commented here and there but unlike the previous ones, I won’t link to my posts. And I can say the same about the films on my list from the seventies, except Death in Venice of which I’ll say something.

As for the only film on my list from the 1980s, Fanny & Alexander, I already said what I had to say in my entry on the 50 films; and as for my recommendations of films from the 1990s, Sense and Sensibility, and Pride & Prejudice—an English TV series, although here we could also include the 2005 film—, I already said what I had to say in Daybreak (page 42) and On Beth’s Cute Tits (pages 134-135). It’s precisely in this context that Death in Venice could be understood, albeit in the sense of purely platonic admiration that is in line with what I wrote in Daybreak (pages 163-164).

As far as the films of our century from my list of 50, why A.I. caught my attention so much can be guessed from what I say in Day of Wrath (pages 32ff) in the context of the bonding or imprint we all have with our abusive parents; and about LOTR I already said something here.

If a visitor is curious about the details of how any film on my list affected me (or another film that doesn’t appear on my list, as long as I have seen it) I’m willing to answer any questions.

Child abuse Film Mexico City

Los Olvidados

Known in the US as The Young and the Damned (1950)

This is the only Mexican film on my list of 50. The director wasn’t Mexican but Spanish, Luis Buñuel (1900-1983), whom I met in the living room of Arturo Souto Alabarce’s family a few years before he died. Part of Los Olvidados was filmed very close to where I now live, although the area has changed a lot in the last seventy-three years.

As a young man Buñuel studied in Madrid and emigrated to Paris, where he and Salvador Dalí made two films of the surrealist movement, one of which was banned in Spain. After an unsuccessful stay in the United States, and being unable to return to Franco’s Spain, Buñuel moved to Mexico and became a Mexican citizen. He was even awarded the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival in 1961 and a Hollywood Oscar for his 1972 film The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, but he didn’t go to collect it.

If Los Olvidados has any value, it is because, even now, there is not a single degree of how the mistreatment of parents destroys their children’s lives. 1973 and 1980 mark bibliographical milestones with the publication of Lloyd deMause’s History of Childhood and Alice Miller’s Am Anfang war Erziehung. For the first time, the magnitude of the psychological toll of childhood abuse—i.e., mental disorders—was discussed with due solidarity. But their work has become taboo in the so-called mental health professions.

Another facet of the toll of parental abuse is destitution: the number of street children who roam the Third World’s cities. Kids flee the violence at home and society plays dumb. A blocking appears at the beginning of Los Olvidados:

The great modern cities, New York, Paris and London hide behind their magnificent buildings, homes of misery that house abused children, without hygiene, without schooling: breeding grounds for future delinquents. Society is trying to correct this evil, but the success of its efforts is very limited. Only in the near future can the rights of children and adolescents be vindicated so that they can be useful to society. Mexico, the great modern city, is no exception to this universal rule.

Near future, really? In so-called developing countries, never in history have there been so many destitute children as there are today—much more than in the times when Luis Buñuel made his film. And most cases of child destitution are due to physical or emotional violence in the home.

In a personal letter to Buñuel, Benjamin Viel said that he hadn’t seen a clearer indictment of the supposed maternal instinct than in a dialogue of Los Olvidados. In contrast to the stereotype of the good and loving mother, Buñuel showed the detachment of parents from their children: a transgression that caused great fury in Mexico when the film was released in December 1950. Viewers’ discomfort with unmotherly mothers was so evident that even one of the film’s production staff resigned. Not even Gus van Sant’s Elephant, a Cannes award-winning film of the new century about teenagers with family problems, gets to the core of children’s pain as in Los Olvidados:

Pedro: Why do you hit me, because I’m hungry?
Mother: And I’m going to kill you, you scoundrel.
Pedro: You don’t love me.
Mother: Why should I love you?

The plot of the film can be read in the English Wikipedia article, and anyone who wants to watch the movie can do so on YouTube. In a nutshell, Los Olvidados is a fictionalised documentary featuring disparate characters such as El Jaibo and Pedro: a teenager and a smaller kid of different ilk: the former tends to be a troublemaker and the latter to be well-behaved. Both, however, wander hopelessly through the slums of Mexico City. The film ends in tragedy: the body of the boy Pedro, murdered by Jaibo, ends up in a rubbish dump.

Film William Shakespeare


Of my list of fifty, this was the first film that, as I recount in my autobiography, really made an impression on me when I saw it on television in 1975, with my dad by my side. Precisely in trying to understand how a defect or fault in my father’s character corrupted the whole family dynamics, years later I would ponder much in the words that, in Laurence Olivier’s voice, we listen at the beginning of Hamlet (1948 film):

So oft it chances in particular men
That for some vicious mole of nature in them,
By the o’ergrowth of some complexion,
Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,
Or by some habit grown too much; that these men–
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
Their virtues else — be they as pure as grace,
Shall in the general censure take corruption
From that particular fault.

As a teenager watching it at home, I was most impressed by Hamlet’s inward-spiralling soliloquies in one of the early scenes, when he is left alone in the hall and the court guests leave. If instead of the forty-year-old actor Olivier, the director had cast a teenage actor of my age—as he appears in Shakespeare’s tragedy!—I would have connected much more with the character. But even so, his soliloquies near the beginning of the film made a big impression on me because that is what I used to do as a teenager, and precisely because of a family tragedy that no one but me seemed to have any introspection about.

However, it is impossible to critique the film without critiquing not only Shakespeare, but the Christian era of which both Shakespeare and I are a part.

As Alice Miller observed in one of her books, the Judeo-Christian commandment to honour the parent has been fatal to the mental health of Christians (and I would add, of atheistic neo-Christians alike). Although Christians destroyed the vast majority of the classical world’s plays, tragedies and comedies, in the little that remains it can be seen that in both Iphigenia and Electra it’s clear that there is maddening mistreatment of their children by their parents. But not in Hamlet where an uncle is the bad guy. Nevertheless, for the Elizabethan period Hamlet was a breakthrough in the right direction, although millennia earlier the Greeks had already reached the marrow of the human soul. In sum, for the time Hamlet definitely represented a leap forward to a more self-conscious self.

Another thing that, now grown up, struck me when I rewatched the film was the character of Ophelia when Hamlet wants to grab her: the personification of the eternal feminine that I’ve been talking about on this site, which also appears in Shakespeare when we listen: ‘In her excellent white bosom, these…’ Hamlet’s scenes with Ophelia in the castle should be paradigmatic of how women will be in the future ethnostate, and are worth seeing. But back to what I said above.

Whites won’t mature as long as they are trapped by Judeo-Christian commandments. Even in areas as distinct from racial preservation as mental disorders (in Shakespearean tragedy we read that the teenage Hamlet was said to be deranged), we can never understand each other unless we transvalue our values to the values of the times of the Greek tragedies. Back then, before the commandment to honour our parents, it was easy to see that Clytemnestra’s mistreatment had affected the mental health of her daughter Electra; or that Iphigenia’s sacrifice by Agamemnon had affected Clytemnestra terribly, and so on. Even the tough Spartans wept at these open-air tragedies when they visited Athens because they reflected what was happening in the real world.

So much do Christian ethics permeate the secular world that even in his Dictionnaire philosophique Voltaire says that ‘It is natural for children to honour their parents’, and the so-called mental health professionals of our times feel the same way. In our century, the Judeo-Christian injunction to honour the parent, now secularised, moves writers to shift the villain of the story, for example from father to uncle as in Harry Potter (and Hamlet!) and only through such a shift is audio-visual drama permitted.

To transvalue all values is to recognise that the tragedies of the classical world were more profound and direct than the indirect tragedies of our Christian era. And even though Shakespeare, like Montaigne, set religion aside in their writings, they still moved on the axiological scale of our age, where the mandate to honour the parent is so profound that there is a whole fraudulent profession, psychiatry, which tries to keep the parental figure out in the cases of traumatised children and adolescents at home (cf. my books in Spanish).

Film French Revolution Videos


This is a postscript to today’s previous post, in which I touched on Ridley Scott’s latest fiasco, Napoleon (2023 film).

After what I said to Vlad Tepes I remembered another scene from Waterloo (1970 film): the French didn’t surrender after losing and preferred to be cannonaded by the English.

Then I also remembered that Kubrick had wanted to make a film about Napoleon. My guess is that unlike Scott’s merde it would have been, visually, something as stunning as Barry Lyndon (the #35 film of my list).

Without the resources of Kubrick or Scott, on the subject of the French Revolution, I also remember Danton: a Franco-Polish film by Andrzej Wajda from 1983, starring Gérard Depardieu as Georges-Jacques Danton. A revolutionary friend of mine loved it, and my filmmaker cousin once told me it was ‘perfect cinema’.

I highly recommend watching it with the French audio and subtitles instead of the English dubbed version. See e.g., this clip of the film spoken in French with English subtitles:


Degenerate art Film Voltaire

It’s a Wonderful Life

Like Beauty and the Beast, this is another film that was shot while the Hellstorm Holocaust was being perpetrated. What if it were possible for the Anglo-Saxons and Anglo-Germans who fought against Germany in the 1940s to see our Woke century thanks, as in the film, to a guardian angel? Just as George Bailey, the central character in It’s a Wonderful Life, after the vision of the nasty alternative world shown to him by the angel decided not to kill himself, would these soldiers of the 1940s decide to fight Hitler?

Clockwise from top: James Stewart, Donna Reed, Carol Coombs, Jimmy Hawkins, Larry Simms and Karolyn Grimes.

My father loved a couple of Frank Capra films, including It’s a Wonderful Life. When I saw this film as a teenager, it was easy to grasp this idealised vision of American culture in those days. George Bailey’s Aryan children couldn’t help but make a good impression on the teenage César who, decades ago, was unaware of what the Allies had done to the Germans. Had I known, I wouldn’t have been left with the inspiring impression I was left with when I saw It’s a Wonderful Life.

With the above I have said all that can be said about this 1946 film, but I would like to use this evening to talk about the last film I saw tonight: the last film I will ever see on the big screen, inasmuch as, after tonight’s experience, I will never enter a cinema theatre again.

At this stage of my life it is extremely rare for me to go to cinemas. Before tonight, the last one I saw was The Northman, a film I debunk here despite the fact that many racialists loved it.

Given that Ridley Scott had made films like Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven, I figured I might be entertained this Sunday with Napoleon (2023 film), that I thought it would be one more of those silly, though highly entertaining, Hollywood movies. What a surprise as soon as the film started!

Il y a une autre canaille à laquelle on sacrifie tout, et cette canaille est le peuple. —Voltaire [1]

The only memorable scene is the first one. A number of times on The West’s Darkest Hour I have repeated what I read in Pierce and Kemp’s histories of the white race: that the French revolutionaries guillotined a large number of blondes. This is clear in the first scene of Napoleon when the rabid mob, a mob in which I saw no blondes by the way, cut off the head of Empress Marie Antoinette. If Hitler had won the war there would already be several films in which we would see Marie Antoinette and other French blondes as the victims and the mob as canaille!

After Prometheus I hadn’t seen another grotesque disaster filmed by Scott. Unlike Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven, Napoleon is filmed in dull colours: a sign of the decadence of recent years when even the vivid technicolour of yesteryear has mutated into the ochre tones of this decadent age. But that’s not the worst of it.

Scott uses Napo’s life to promote typical Woke propaganda, painting Empress Josephine as a character on par with that of her husband Napo. And even worse, Scott throws in a few Negro actors in Republican France here and there—even black children!

As I was saying, I will never enter a cinema again for the rest of my life. The only way for me to do so would be if there was a racial revolution in some Western country, the new government asked me to emigrate there to lend my services to the new state, and a cinematic art emerged that is perfectly antithetical to the merde we see in today’s cinema. As it is highly doubtful that this will happen, I will never see the big screen again.

By the way, although I watched Scott’s Napoleon this evening, and also tonight Sunday 26 November I wrote this review, I will post this entry after midnight.


[1] There is another rabble to whom we sacrifice everything, and this rabble is the people. —Voltaire