It appears that people like blood and gore. The popularity of such shows as CSI, Silent Witness, Cold Case, etc., demonstrates that folk relish shows where human bodies appear like relish.
And so it is with The Killing Season, The ABC documentary depicting open season on a Prime Minister, and then another Prime Minister, and then the other Prime Minister again. It is a relish laden, hacked meat pie with sauce kind of representation of human destruction, metaphorically speaking.
It seems that it was not enough for the good citizens of Australia to have witnessed the rampant splicing and dicing, back stabbing, front stabbing and forking out eyeballs of political colleagues once. Their appetite for carnage is such that they hunger to see it all over again, much like the Romans and their penchant for patronising the odd Christians versus the Lions blood-spattered, spectaculars again and again, even though they knew outcome.
I can’t say I am a fan of such violence. I watched part of the first episode where all the protagonists were jolly and wore Luna Park smiles and there was a lot of back slapping. But as with all predictable soap opera narratives, complications started to arise and a pain in my guts started to emerge, Jack needed to be let out to relieve himself and I had to put the kettle on. Before the kettle whistled, chariot wheels were starting to wobble off at the turn into the straight at the Circus Maximum and Julius Caesar and his co-horts had risen from the dead.
Big Julius knew all about getting a whack from his so-called mates, deservedly or not. When he crossed the Rubicon he may not have been listening to colleagues, he may have been an overachiever with a big ego, going too far. We all know those types. Who knows what the people of Rome thought when Cassius and Brutus heaved the Wiltshire into the spine of the unsuspecting big chief? But whatever it was, they probably didn’t have it rammed down their Latin speaking throats ad nauseum and then have it replayed so soon after.
I’m not good with shows that display gaping wounds, viscera or copious amounts of blood, which my daughter finds amusing and quaint. Nor am I good with reckless violence. I would have been a rubbish Roman. I am certainly squeamish about this morbidly, bruised carcass being revived. I’m ready to stab my own eyes out rather than watch any more.
When I moaned to Jack about it he put his paw on my knee. He was trying to understand my anguish. But for all his sensitivity, he has no idea.
It’s been said that politics is ‘dog eat dog.’ Well on our daily walks Jack meets many of his dog friends and I’ve never seen any behaviour to suggest that a dog will eat a dog. But after having lived through the Rudd Gillard and Abbott years, I’m pretty sure humans can devour humans.
Maybe Jack and his friends should run the country.