Dream Note
Picture this: you're a hard-boiled LA lieutenant with a name so aggressively masculine it sounds like a mortgage broker who also competes in crossfit on weekends. Rick Hunter is that guy. And life has just handed him the world's worst breakup gift — his lady friend has been shuffled off this mortal coil, and the prime suspect is her former husband. Groundbreaking! Who could have possibly predicted that the ex might be involved? Next you'll tell me water is wet and LA traffic is unbearable. But hold onto your aviators, because this televisual rollercoaster isn't done with you yet. Hunter, being the type of fellow who looks at a puddle and suspects a conspiracy, quickly decides that nah, this ain't just a jealous ex doing jealous ex things. No sir. There's a thread connecting this tragedy to another case entirely, and Hunter is going to pull on it like a kitten with a ball of yarn at three in the morning. What follows is a love letter to every noir trope that ever graced a television screen in the nineties. Everyone walks in LA — apparently that's the big revelation here, though anyone who has tried to find parking in Santa Monica could have told you that pedestrians exist. The title alone is a philosophical statement about urban mobility that would make Werner Herzog weep into his documentary microphone. The real joy of this particular cinematic offering isn't the mystery itself, which telegraphs its twists with all the subtlety of a foghorn in a library. No, the joy is watching Hunter strut through the City of Angels like a peacock who just discovered leather jackets and dramatic pauses. Every scene drips with that glorious made-for-TV earnestness that modern streaming shows simply cannot replicate because they're too busy being self-aware. This is a time capsule from an era when detectives solved crimes through sheer testosterone and hunches, forensic science be darned. Grab some popcorn and a cold beverage, because sometimes you just need a gruff man with a badge to remind you that justice walks — yes, WALKS — among us.
Picture this: you're a hard-boiled LA lieutenant with a name so aggressively masculine it sounds like a mortgage broker who also competes in crossfit on weekends. Rick Hunter is that guy. And life has just handed him the world's worst breakup gift — his lady friend has been shuffled off this mortal coil, and the prime suspect is her former husband. Groundbreaking! Who could have possibly predicted that the ex might be involved? Next you'll tell me water is wet and LA traffic is unbearable. But hold onto your aviators, because this televisual rollercoaster isn't done with you yet. Hunter, being the type of fellow who looks at a puddle and suspects a conspiracy, quickly decides that nah, this ain't just a jealous ex doing jealous ex things. No sir. There's a thread connecting this tragedy to another case entirely, and Hunter is going to pull on it like a kitten with a ball of yarn at three in the morning. What follows is a love letter to every noir trope that ever graced a television screen in the nineties. Everyone walks in LA — apparently that's the big revelation here, though anyone who has tried to find parking in Santa Monica could have told you that pedestrians exist. The title alone is a philosophical statement about urban mobility that would make Werner Herzog weep into his documentary microphone. The real joy of this particular cinematic offering isn't the mystery itself, which telegraphs its twists with all the subtlety of a foghorn in a library. No, the joy is watching Hunter strut through the City of Angels like a peacock who just discovered leather jackets and dramatic pauses. Every scene drips with that glorious made-for-TV earnestness that modern streaming shows simply cannot replicate because they're too busy being self-aware. This is a time capsule from an era when detectives solved crimes through sheer testosterone and hunches, forensic science be darned. Grab some popcorn and a cold beverage, because sometimes you just need a gruff man with a badge to remind you that justice walks — yes, WALKS — among us.
— Dreamer's log, recorded 2014 in the cloudsAdjacent Dreams in the Cloud
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