When I think of a murderer, I think: Rutledge Wood.
Dinker the murderer probes, attempting to insert himself into the gynocracy and even have the respect of said gynocracy and the second class 18-25 demographic. To penetrate an enigma, he would need skills that naturally elude a man, therefore his efforts are confounded, befuddled, turning violent.
They turn hysterical.
Dinker himself has succeeded the 18-25 demographic, yet in his heart, he could very well still be one of them, or even a 13-17. He represents the potency of the young, but the lack of aim, the lack of resolve, like hiding a loaded weapon in a hat box while the barbarians tear away the house. Dualized potency of the youthful and robust, compounded by impotence through lethargy, with the Playstation and XBox generation given a clear challenge, other than within the confines of a game.
My how the women are so modern in their ways!
This tribe of athletic mesomorph females must evoke Scandinavia, the myths of the Amazonian superwomen. Smart, beautiful, ruthless, but with a soft, warm smile that can melt the hardest heart. Volleyball players as transcendental figures, icons and harbingers of the future, is a powerful mojo Chopchop can play on an unsuspecting public, who sees writ large the bumbling Aniston, the dumb but earnest Heigl, the brilliant siren Portman, the facemask that is JLaw, the innocent eyes of Hathaway and the masturbation fodder we called Scarjo.
It becomes evident that the filming needs producers who are at least as morally ungrounded as Chopchop McJangle.