Thrillers for small Erna and Hein Stupid

Now and then I look for relaxation times of a crime.

Meanwhile - tonight it was perfectly clear to me - I lose interest in it.

The recent thrillers build almost all of perverts, empathic emotion-driven, idiotic actions of the investigators on such that even with the best actors and individual dialogues, the voltage soon perdu. (The chief investigator is talking to right behind the house of Erzbösewichts with the undercover investigator, and if that is not enough to bring her story leader in mortal danger, he sets himself, universally known, in the car waiting for pre property after it in the garden with a waving yakking who already come to the attention of the observed, has been beaten by his gorillas, and the like.)

The police - otherwise alter extended any crack, hehe - are so negligent and stupid that they catch in the end only or to transfer assets to the criminals, because the first unshakable cunning and devious, holding them in his boundless arrogance for even more stupid than they to be the hold out.

So make the whole thing - except it is slapstick - not fun anymore.

The writers seem to write only for idiots.

Exceptions may exist.

But you can almost say that the more expensive the actor and the elaborate locations and action, the plot's logic to the more secure is plowed under, at the latest after half an hour (at the long-thrillers, in the short ten minutes) moves into the Orcus .

And that precisely in those thrillers that want to be taken seriously.

And even if everything smells like a veritable conspiracy by so many circumstances come together so strange that even a lowbrow Bauer Seppel so slowly but surely scratched his beet, two Involved to that old hands must fall puzzling under buses and trains to sufficiently surprised and finally investigates the most obvious.

This "retarding moment" (here sometimes in the sense that it requires all commissioners must be mentally somewhat retarded) is then called "Suspense", borrowed from classical drama, it's totally ill-advised, but actually the theater of the absurd (which, after all, is what God Thanks, I do not know, is barely played).

I also like to mix satirical elements with very serious statements. But that happens - I hope, at least not usually - not accidentally, no, does not happen, but is clearly and deliberately designed so involuntarily. (The really hard staire does ultimately always.)

As I watch myself but rather for the tenth time "Goldfinger" with the grandiose Gert Frobe on, and that the whole Berlin today in connection with a just a few hours lasting power failure, seriously, one with the mobilization of an ensemble of German today's so-called Great actors, to Riesenklo of deranged, marauding, nonfreezing in the street (rather than times to stay at home so quickly freezes to death's are there not, if you have a jacket), the escape, as though they would have in 1945 to run the Russians on the Curonian Spit, in a Chaos device, that only the two heroes with funktionierndem rest of mind and a German Renaissance, real screwdriver still able endweis to turn the thing. (I saw it was probably "380,000 volts", or so, before two Elizabeth George Lynley- "Thriller", until I saw that prompted me to write the above as These kinds just is no exception.)

Oh sancta simplicitas!

Oh irrealis Galacticus!

Oh stupiditas maxima!

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