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His name is John Carpenter, prince of my invincible, stupendous, virulent darkness… John Carpenter who now, proud and haughty, walks as a giant in the bare today’s cinematographic landscape, still sowing the titanic daintiness of his elegant, poetic beauty. In front of the undisputed master of a possibly lost Seventh Art, I prostrate myself, adoring him, genuflected as a sign of boundless, sacred admiration, drawing on every single frame to carve and inlay my monographic work that is not hagiographic or sanctifying his monumental, renowned greatness, eternally thundering, but it is a portrait objectively analyzing each his immortal and infinitely shining film. Film after film, I dwell in front of every work with surgical precision, at first maliciously to challenge so much magniloquence delicately adamantine, and be able to find possible flaws but then, although I dare to want to find in his works incongruities, director inaccuracies and stylistic rudeness, despite I am tempted by the desire to make corrections to his radical, very high vision, I remain enchanted by his lucid, prophetic, graceful and balanced solemnity untouchable, powerful and irresistible. Because he is John Carpenter and I can only rightly venerate him. I can only give my vivid homage to the prince of darkness, living the ecstatic light of his revealing and magnificent Cinema.
