France. Oh it seems like a nice place: cheese, wine, châteaux and le beuf a la cart.
Oh it all seems very nice.
But have you been there?
Has anybody?
Has anybody ever actually been there?
Frank’s your average kind of guy: an ex-marine, looking for a holiday, a chance to blow off some steam and forget the war.
But little does Frank know that as the sole passenger of that international flight, as he leaves that plane, as he steps foot on that cold, damp, refuse spattered soil…
The war has only just begun.
‘Hoppers in the field’ depicted a nation of Lovecraftian creatures, silently toiling away against a backdrop of grey skies and brown fields, their every move dictated by a gigantic hive mind trapped within a hideously swollen body resembling a transparent plastic bag filled with lard - planted miles deep beneath the French capital of Paris.
Frank’s gruelling fight for survival is still, to this day, one of my favourite films, but as with all true art, it has its detractors.
Slammed as racist by the French, lauded as the first true ‘Survival Horror’ by today’s critics, I leave you with this: If it was okay to depict the English as backwards, slavering rapists in the seminal ‘Straw dogs’ by Sam Peckinpah, why not depict the French as a race of semi amphibious creatures toiling away to unearth their ungodly master?
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