Marriage has always been a very secret, and private thing. You see, on screen, something negative about a marriage, that is actually the public incident that seems like something going wrong at greatest passion, the positive.
Goodfellas, shows us the fight between Henry Hill and his wife, banging the prostitute out of her apartment to confront her, actually the payment to a woman in poverty that’s cavorted with her man.
The stereotype of the African inner city marriage, shows us the incredulous jamima, as if divorce or tears, actually the triumph of a man being recognized by his wife.
In my parents’ story, you have the film, Mister and Missus Smith, starring Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. At the point where each discovers the other is a spy (in my case, a CIA clandestine Russian Federalist anti-KGB, since before the end of the Cold War, my father, and my mother, a Group Thirteen feminist hunter, someone hunting castratrixes and pot dealers), they murder each other, the public alliance just being the setting of the duel, to seem whom survives, and whom dies, the survivor winning the honor of the child’s assignment, the departed winning the son or daughter’s loyalty in training style, thus the mark of the unit.
Poetry Munitions 