Vice, rather than chew itself, manages to hand-feed its handsome portion of Austrian camouflage to the domestic koi pond. It is pokey and irritating, irruptive like a barn rash, misleading its own circularity just to capture dangers and awards—and, of course, this consequentialist tic is just a gnomish Siamese miscreant in its natural fairyland, as it were perfectly at home. Vice argues, nay fundamentalizes, the American political packet of joy for which the country’s skeleton is notorious, full of its freeloading life just like unabashed heavy metals, while it is plugged with appalling decency, whereas, the average typecast of its sort is brash, flatulent, impossible to ignore. It casts its signifiers for the thrill of the haunt, showing a lurid peepshow by the tail rather than the crank. The meeting between Junior and Cheney is one of the most pervasive dialectic swings ever captured on camera, and the poetic fugue proceeding it is like its flamboyant assault. Meanwhile, its milquetoast didacticism characteristic of American cinematic temper has the same kilter of having been pushed, of having fallen into the spotlight with time spent backing and keeling, placing it in a familiar, if not familial, network; and amidst the neurotic placation of civil injuries, Bale egests Cheney like a spinal tap draws pain—with absolute must.