Het juist antwoord was, uiteraard, om dan maar op zoek te gaan naar de comic Watchmen, waar deze film (zie gisteren) op gebaseerd is.
[Edit: Hier vindt u nog wat meer achtergrondinformatie en een kort overzicht van de personages. IGN is, alleszins qua design, een absolute kutsite, maar met wat gezucht en geduld komt u er wel.]
Enkele citaten:
Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and god was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever, and we are alone... Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hellbound as ourselves; go into oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not god who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It is us. Only us. Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world. Was Rorschach. Does that answer you questions, doctor?
***
As they dragged him away, Rorschach spoke to the other inmates. He said "none of you understand. I'm not locked up in here with you. You're locked up in here with me." My earlier optimism was obviously unfounded. He's getting worse. So am I. Just read back what I've written above. The sixth line down should read "Kovacs spoke to the other inmates." Kovacs. Not Rorschach.
***
The first anyone in the workshop knew about this was when the door of Moe's office slammed open and the startlingly loud and crackling rendition of "Ride of the Valkyries" blasted out from within. Framed in the doorway with tears in his eyes and the crumpled letter in his hand, Moe stood dramatically with all eyes turned towards him. He was still wearing the set of artificial breasts. Almost inaudible above the rising strains of Wagner swelling behind him, he spoke, with so much hurt and outrage and offended dignity fighting for possession of his voice that the end result was almost toneless.
"Fred Motz has had carnal knowledge of my wife Beatrice for the past two years."
He stood there in the wake of his announcement, the tears rolling down over his multiple chins to soak into the pink foam rubber of his bosom, making tiny sounds in his chest and throat that were trampled under the hooves of the Valkyries and lost forever.
And everybody started laughing.
***
-Pay attention. You will all return to your homes.
-Oh, yeah? And what if we don't, ya big blue fruit?
-You misunderstand me. It was not a request.
The next day, I am reading in the paper of two people who suffered heart attacks upon suddenly finding themselves indoors. More would have suffered during a riot, I'm certain.
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