Dear Artists, Don’t Stick Your Head In The Sand

Imagine one day you decide to start a podcast. You're very excited about your new venture and spend countless hours researching topics, writing copy and setting up your recording booth just so. But you know that if you want people to listen, it needs to be entertaining, and 45 minutes of you talking into a microphone won’t be. It's got to be a real multimedia experience; that's the difference between entertainment and lecture. Among other things, you'll need music, maybe some sound effects, and even archival audio material to spice things up. 

So where do you find those things? And when you find them, do you properly attribute them? Do you request permission to use them and pay a fair licensing fee? If there’s something specific you want, do you make a good faith effort to find the owner, or do you just take it? If you don’ have satisfactory answers to these questions, you may want to rethink your strategy before you hit "publish."

One hallmark of being an artist is excitement about your latest work and a strong desire to get it out into the world. You want people to see it, to comment on it, and hopefully, to enjoy it. Any artist who claims otherwise is lying - to you or themselves. It's easy in that situation to get tunnel vision and let caution fall by the wayside. When momentum is on your side, why get bogged down in administrative matters?

I understand that impulse as much as anyone. I've been an artist (I like to think I still am) and I see it with my clients.  But I want to take this space to urge you, dear artists, not to stick your head in the sand and assume no one will care about those administrative matters. Even if you don’t, I promise you someone else does. I’ve long advocated on this blog for sweating the business stuff because being an artist these days means being a business owner - whether or not its formalized and even if it's not a primary means of income. Using the copyrighted work of another without permission puts you and your business in jeopardy. Maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but eventually someone is going to notice, and they're not going to accept "I didn't know" as a reasonable excuse.

It's tempting to pin your hopes on fair use, but the problem with fair use is that to prove you’re covered by it, you need to defend yourself, which almost certainly means thousands of dollars in legal costs. Some courts view fair use as a right, while others view it merely as a defense (which means you can't assert fair use until AFTER you've been sued), but practically speaking, the only way to know for sure whether fair use applies is for the litigation to play out. Just saying the words "fair use" is no more a shield against litigation than yelling "I declare bankruptcy" a way of erasing debt.

We live in a litigious society. And IP holders, especially large corporate ones, have no compunction about hailing little guys into court over minor infractions. Defending yourself will take money you don’t have, and months or years out of your life. Sometimes, companies go bankrupt simply defending themselves in court. I can assure you that even if you win, it’s not worth it.

Which means - let’s say it together - you have to sweat the business stuff. You need to have things like contracts, bills of sale, release forms, licensing agreements, and business bank accounts. It means you probably have to incorporate your business. It means you can’t rely on fair use unless a lawyer tells you it’s okay. It means you have to ask permission to use work you didn’t develop. There’s a lot more to it than that, but you get the gist.

Don’t stick your head in the sand, hoping that ignorance will save you. Pay attention to the administrative matters. Build it into your schedule and workflow. If you hate doing it (welcome to the club), have a friend or spouse or family member help you. I’m not trying to rain on your parade. I’m here to tell you the rain is coming one way or another. I just want to make sure you have an umbrella.

These Movie Clichés Must Die

I was flipping through the channels and came across a movie I wanted to see a year ago, but not enough to pay for a theater ticket. Now that it was on extended cable, I said “what the hell,” and watched the whole thing. It was terrible. But more than that, it was trite and lazy, boiling over with clichés. When it ended, I puttered around the house complaining to myself, as if the filmmakers had set out to offend me personally. Clichés in movies certainly aren’t offensive in the the common sense of the term, but they do communicate a lack of respect for the audience’s time and money, which can fall into the same realm.

It got me thinking: what other clichés and tropes are littered throughout cinema that we’d be better off without? While there are many - possibly hundreds - I came up with these fifteen. This is by no means a comprehensive list; these are simply the ones that raise my hackles to an unreasonable degree.

1. “I’m too old for this shit.” Are you? Are you really, Murtaugh? Are you going to spend the whole movie complaining about your age only to learn in the end that you’re not, in fact, too old for this shit? That age is really all about mindset and you actually don’t hate the job you’ve spent the last 115 minutes whining about?
2. The hero refusing the call. What, I ask you, is the point in watching our supposed hero spend 90 minutes trying to convince himself that he doesn’t want to get involved? what would Star Wars be if Obi-Wan had to spend half the film trying to convince Luke to go with him to Alderaan? How interesting would Raiders of the Lost Ark have been if Indiana Jones needed Marcus Brody to spend hours convincing him to go to Cairo?
3. The CGI long take shot where a character runs, bobs, and weaves as destruction rains down around him. It’s never convincingly done and I think it’s because we, the audience, understand instinctually that film cameras don’t move like that. We need cuts, edits, different angles to pull off the trick.
4. “We're not in Kansas anymore.” Good because Kansas sucks. And if you just stayed at home there wouldn’t be a movie. We know you’re in a new situation. That’s why we’re watching. And if your character HAS to acknowledge it on-screen, surely there are more interesting ways to communicate it. For my money, Harry Potter and Prisoner of Azkaban does a great job of this.
5. A machine not working until the hero hits it and then it starts working again. Fonzie did it and got the jukebox to play some hot tunes. Marty McFly did it and he was able to go Back to the Future. I tried it and sprained my wrist. 
6. When a character bleeds out of his mouth after getting shot or stabbed. That’s not how human bodies work. Unless the injury actually occurs inside the mouth, which might be more realistic, but would make for a lousy on-screen injury.
7. When a character dies with his eyes wide open. Look, I’m no expert but this doesn’t seem like something that ever really happens. L.A. Confidential is the only movie I’ve seen do this effectively.
8. A character dangles precariously from a ledge and right as he loses his grip, another character grabs him. I’ve seen this a million times and each time two thoughts pass through my head: 1) Falling at the momentum he probably would have slipped through the rescuer’s fingers, and 2) but not before dislocating the rescuer’s shoulder. Surely there are less hokey ways to generate tension.
9. The 10-second computer hack. Jurassic Park is one of the worst offenders. This is not how computers OR hacking work. 
10. “It has begun.” Thank God you told me because I wasn’t sure if it had begun or not.
11. “War is coming.” True fact: 99% of the dialogue in the X-Men and Lord of the Rings movies was some variation of this line. 
12. When characters show up to have a conversation in person instead of over the phone. Or by text or email. I’ve been married for eight years and I’ve STILL never seen my wife in person (don’t ask how we had a kid. It was a convoluted process). People, in this country at least, don’t show up to talk unless they live together and even then sometimes not. Especially if the conversation is going to be an unpleasant one. And when they do actually speak in person, they usually call or text ahead. I’ve never once in my entire life opened the front door to see someone I wasn’t expecting standing there.
13. The chosen one. Star Wars did this well. The Matrix did it okay. No one else has pulled it off so cut it out with this nonsense. A prophecy about “the one” isn’t the only way to create compelling drama with stakes. And when paired with No. 2 above, this creates an infuriating level of unoriginality.
14. “Here we go again.” 
15. “The prodigal son returns.” I think this might be the worst offender on the list. It shows up in every T.V. show and every movie and it’s so overused that I’m pretty sure screenwriters don’t actually know what it means. 

Which ones do you hate? What have I left out? Feel free to argue for or against any of these, or add your own. If we assemble an intimidating enough list, I’ll compile these and send them to Hollywood. They’re certain to listen to us, right?

When The Movies Get It Right: Probable Cause and David Fincher's Zodiac

[Originally published June 1,  2013. Since today is the 10th Anniversary of the release of this classic crime film, I'm re-upping it. Enjoy!]

When Dirty Harry opened in 1971, it became a box office success and critical darling. It solidified Clint Eastwood's rising star and proved that gritty cop dramas like Bullitt, and The French Connection were legitimate sources of entertainment to a world that grew tired of psychedelic, experimental, 60s era musicals and comedies. The film was very loosely based on the real life (and in 1971, still ongoing) Zodiac murders; likewise, Eastwood's character was based on the police officer assigned to track down the Zodiac, San Francisco Police Inspector David Toschi. Dirty Harry ends with Harry Callahan getting the drop on the film's villain, Scorpio, in a San Francisco junkyard where Eastwood delivers his famous "do you feel lucky" speech. Then he blows Scorpio away with his .357 magnum revolver... a gun so powerful it can carve a hole in solid concrete. Of course the real Zodiac never got to be on the receiving end of such rough justice and Dave Toschi retired in 1983 having never arrested the most famous unknown serial killer in American history.

Dirty Harry has many charms: an iconic antihero, one of the great movie quotes of all time, topical relevancy, and a well-staged, taughtly paced finale. But it was a hit precisely because it allowed the American public to get closure on a national terror that would never resolve. For that same reason, the film left me cold. As you already know, I'm a big supporter of verisimilitude in film. I don't believe that filmmakers need to sacrifice reality on the alter of drama. And while I understand why the filmmakers of Dirty Harry killed off Scorpio, I don't have to tell you that gunning down the bad guy - even if he deserves it - is pretty shoddy police work.

That's why David Fincher's epic crime film Zodiac - a richly detailed chronicle of the Zodiac case - is one of my all-time favorite films. It understands to its very core what good police work is and how good policemen investigate crimes. About halfway through the film, Toschi (played in a career-making turn by Mark Ruffalo), exits a policeman's only screening of Dirty Harry, after years of being stymied in his investigation. Toschi is so torn up about his inability to catch the Zodiac and the movie's unabashed twisting of the truth that he can't watch the whole thing... he just paces and smokes in the lobby. When the movie lets out, the police commissioner approaches him and says, "Dave, that Harry Callahan did a hell of a job closing your case!"

Toschi's response: "Yeah, no need for due process, right?" Zing!

You see, everyone gets due process in this country. Everyone. Regardless of age, race, gender, sexual orientation, national origin, ethnicity, class, or any other category you can devise. Killers, rapists, thieves, and bad men all still get due process because it's written in the Constitution, the highest law of the land. Due process can mean a lot of things, but in the context of a criminal case, it means that you can't be punished without a fair trial and a proper investigation. And to conduct a proper investigation, police need to investigate clues, gather evidence, and then make arrests based on that evidence. That evidence, if properly gathered, catalogued, and analyzed, results in Probable Cause, a foundational element of criminal investigations that allows an officer to make an arrest based on that evidence. You can't make an arrest without Probable Cause and if you do, the suspect will be freed before you can say "kicked off the force."

To drive that point home, Zodiac shows Toschi and his partner Bill Armstrong investigating Arthur Leigh Allen, a very promising candidate for the Zodiac. Allen had been implicated by a former coworker for saying things that later showed up in the Zodiac letters. Allen had the same glove size, boot size, and general appearance as the Zodiac. He owned the same types of guns, had the same military training, lived nearby one of the Zodiac victims, and even owned a Zodiac brand watch with the infamous crosshairs insignia that the Zodiac killer signed his letters with. But despite eliciting high interest from the police, Allen was never arrested. How can that be, you might ask? Because even though there was an abundance of evidence, it was all circumstantial - in other words, the evidence was  highly inconclusive, no matter how suggestive it was of Allen's guilt. In order to justify a probable cause arrest that would stand up to judicial scrutiny (i.e. not get thrown out of court), they needed something much more concrete to tie Allen to the Zodiac killings. That's why the film kept harping on DNA and handwriting samples (the Zodiac hand wrote nearly all of his letters). And when they got both from Allen, they didn't match the Zodiac.  The film takes great pains to show us Toschi and Armstrong gathering evidence, going through the motions of getting a search warrant to Allen's house. They fail because, according to proper 4th Amendment procedures, the evidence to get a search warrant issued had to be based on probable cause, which the issuing judge didn't believe existed. They do finally get the warrant when Allen moves to a different jurisdiction with a judge who is willing to issue the warrant. The scene where they toss Allen's trailer is one of the creepiest scenes in the film.

Toschi and Armstrong believed in Allen's guilt to such a degree that when they're told that Allen's handwriting isn't a match for the Zodiac, they're visibly destroyed. Toschi's career takes a nosedive (at one point, he's suspended from the force after being implicated in the news as the writer of some of the Zodiac letters. He was later exonerated) and Armstrong transfers out of the department. Without the handwriting match, they don't have probable cause, and without probable cause, there's no arrest, and without the arrest, they can't investigate Allen further. The case hits a dead-end. And rightfully so. Allen may have been the killer, but there just wasn't enough evidence to get him in front of a judge.

Do you know what Toschi and Armstrong didn't do? They didn't follow Allen against their Captain's orders. They didn't bug his phone without a warrant. They didn't catch him in the act and gun him down after a dramatic chase.

One of the things that makes Zodiac a great film is that it eschews a lot of the easy choices that screenwriters make when adapting from real events. Often, screenwriters will eliminate, compress, or invent characters and events to suit the narrative structure rather than be truthful to reality. But that didn't happen with Zodiac. The film takes time to explain what probable cause is, why it's important, and why Toschi's and Armstrong's case against Allen dies on the vine without it. Later in the film, when cartoonist Robert Graysmith picks up the investigation on his own, he's instructed by various law enforcement officials, including Toschi, to stay away from the circumstantial evidence and stick with the DNA and handwriting samples because they're concrete and will hold up in court. The rest is just window dressing.

The film treats police procedure with respect, it treats cops and their investigative methods with respect. It doesn't take the easy way out, and it knows that you can still build drama and tension without twisting reality. More than that, it understands why due process is important and why, sometimes, you have to let the bad guy go if you want to honor the Constitution.

Why Wayne Is The Bad Guy In His Own Movie: Wayne's World And Morality Clauses

Wayne’s World premiered 25 years ago this month and remains a high water mark in modern comedy filmmaking, which is why I guess everyone’s been talking about it lately. I love the movie for a lot of reasons: it’s a fully realized concept, unlike a lot of SNL spinoff films, the comedy holds up on repeat viewings, and it clocks in at a lean hour and a half (I don’t know about you but I HATE the modern trend of bloated two and a half hour comedies… if you can’t say it in 90 minutes or less, you can’t say it).

To celebrate its silver anniversary, HBO has been playing it a bunch, so I’ve had the chance to rewatch it. And while the movie is good as ever, something stuck in my craw this time. Wayne (Mike Myers) is kind of the bad guy in his own film. And the skeezy TV producer Benjamin (Rob Lowe) who the film tells us is the villain is actually on the right side of things. And it’s all because of a contract dispute.

Great. Another movie ruined by being a lawyer.

So anyway, a big plot point in the film is Wayne’s reluctance to giving his show’s sponsor, Noah Vanderhoff (Brian Doyle Murray), a weekly guest spot/interview, a concession Wayne agreed to in his contract. Late in the second act, Benjamin and Wayne butt heads over this issue in what is probably one of the best modern comedy bits in recent history:

Eventually, Wayne agrees to conduct the interview with Vanderhoff, but not before writing offensive remarks on his interview cards, humiliating the sponsor on live TV.  Needless to say, Benjamin isn't happy.

Benjamin: You've publicly humiliated the sponsor.

Wayne: Yeah!

Benjamin: You're fired.

Wayne: Fired? For that? Sh'yeah! Right! I'm out of here, and I'm taking my show with me.

Benjamin: We own the show.

Wayne: Aw, bite me.

Dammit Wayne! This is why you always read your contracts! And not just play-read like you did in that scene where Garth talks about sentient baby tongues.

So there’s two things going on here. First, despite Wayne’s incredulity at losing the show, it’s fairly common for a television network to buy the rights to a show they’re producing. If the creator has a lot of clout, the network will sometimes agree to license the rights instead, allowing the creator to retain ownership. But that’s exceedingly rare these days. They’d rather own it outright so they can control the property and all its ancillary revenue streams like VOD, streaming, distribution, merchandising, and spinoffs. The way the film plays it, it feels unfair (and maybe it is - how would Wayne know that giving up the rights to Wayne’s World is typical? It certainly seems that Benjamin took advantage of his inexperience), but it’s the way the business works. Wayne and Garth would’ve been smart to get a lawyer to look over the contract before signing it.

The second is whether Wayne actually breached his contract, warranting his dismissal. This is a hard call since we haven’t read his contract, but we can make some educated guesses based on the average talent agreement. While Wayne fought Benjamin on the Vanderhoff thing, he did eventually relent and conduct the interview. No one can deny that. So what gave Benjamin cause to fire him? My guess is a morality clause.

A morality clause is a provision found in certain types of employment contracts that forbids the employee from engaging in activities that may reflect badly on the employer. A violation of the clause could result in the contract being terminated. In essence, if you act like a dick and embarrass your employer, you could get fired. Word on the street was that Brian Williams was nearly let go from NBC for lying about past news reports (before being shuffled over to MSNBC) due to a morality clause in his agreement. Allegedly, that clause stated:

“If artist commits any act or becomes involved in any situation, or occurrence, which brings artist into public disrepute, contempt, scandal or ridicule, or which justifiably shocks, insults or offends a significant portion of the community, or if publicity is given to any such conduct . . . company shall have the right to terminate.”

In the movie industry, clauses like these go way back to the 1920's and 30's when the studio system wanted to exert control over movie stars’ ability to socialize, marry, and have babies, any of which - in the wrong light - could bring shame to the studio and cause box office losses. How can that be legal, you might ask? Well, it is because most stuff you contract to do is legal (outside of sex and crime), although hard to enforce and very rarely litigated on. I ran a case law search and turned up almost nothing useful for this blog post.

Knowing what kind of person Wayne was, it was likely that Benjamin would’ve inserted a morality clause into his contract. Now I know I said Wayne was wrong up top, but I’m also not saying that Benjamin is secretly the protagonist of the film. He’s definitely a sleaze ball. He manipulated Vanderhoff into sponsoring a show he wasn’t interested in, he took advantage of Wayne’s naiveté about the TV industry and allowed him to sign a contract he didn’t fully understand, and even if he wasn’t explicitly making moves on Cassandra (Tia Carrere), he did know she was dating Wayne and was spending an awful lot of time cozying up to her. 

But when it comes to contracts, the law is pretty clear that Benjamin was in the right. Wayne bore the responsibility to read and understand his contract before he signed it. He then humiliated his bosses openly and brazenly. In other words, he made his choice. And it’s the choice of a new generation.

*Sips Pepsi*

Mmm! Delicious!

Making The Injured Party Whole Again: Punitive Damages in John Wick 2

[Warning: Major spoilers for John Wick: Chapter 2 ahead. Don’t read unless you’ve seen the movie or don’t care about being spoiled.]

At the end of John Wick: Chapter 2, the eponymous hero (Keanu Reeves) strolls into The Continental, the posh assassins-only hotel in downtown Manhattan, points a gun at bad guy Santino D’Antonio (Riccardo Scamarcio) and blows his head off despite the protestations of Winston (Ian McShane), the hotel’s proprietor. This is a violation of the most sacred rule in the underworld: The Continental is safe ground. No assassin may kill another on the premises without paying the ultimate price, a penalty we saw play out at the end of the first film. A severe punishment for the breach of a severe covenant. 

Soon after, Winston summons John to Central Park to mete out the same sentence. John is informed that he is "excommunicado," that he can no longer seek refuge at any Continental hotel, and a $14 million contract has been put on his life. Every professional killer in the world will now be looking for him. Out of respect, John is granted a one hour head start to run. But before leaving, John issues this chilling ultimatum:

"You tell them, whoever comes, I'll kill them. I'll kill them all."

Oh man, it’s so good I just got goosebumps typing that. If this film is any indication, John Wick: Chapter 3 promises to be a highly entertaining bloodbath.

Anyway, while the whole mishegas was playing, I was thinking about contract damages and whether John’s actions, bad as they were, deserved such serious punishment. I know it’s silly to presume traditional contract principles apply in an underworld populated by killers and other bad men, but the Wickverse is steeped in rules and formality and the films go to great lengths to showcase that. Everything is intricately choreographed. The system is built on profound order and relies on respect for that order. It doesn’t matter if you’re a lowly factotum or the famed Baba Yaga, the system comes before the man and everyone must pay what they owe. The contracts may not be written on paper, but they exist, and participation in this world requires that everyone meet their contractual obligation - we can call this one the Implied Covenant of Assassination Forbearance.

So humor me for a bit. John agreed to the rules of The Continental, then blatantly flouted them to exact his revenge on Santino. A kill order is placed on his life in order to appease the system. Is that bounty fair? It’s an important question to ask because fairness is at the heart of calculating damages in contract or tort law. How do we make the injured party whole again? How do we make it so that the injuries they sustain are offset as much as possible?

It can be done monetarily, of course. That’s the way we usually resolve contract disputes in the U.S. Compensatory Damages are financial in nature, the most common of which is what lawyers call Expectation Damages: the damages that are intended to cover what the injured party expected to receive from the contract. 

There are other types of monetary damages too. Consequential Damages, which are paid to the injured party for indirect damages other than contractual loss; Liquidation Damages, which is when the contract states that the breaching party will be liable for a specific amount of money; Nominal Damages, which are awarded when the injured plaintiff doesn't incur a monetary loss but the judge wants to show the winning party was in the right; and Restitution, which is an equitable remedy designed to prevent the breaching party from being unjustly enriched.

In this movie though, the damages aren’t monetary. While money - paid in the form of gold coins - is important to many operators in the Wickverse, to those in power, it's less important than honoring the system (the entire plot hinges on the importance of a blood oath John made). Instead, the damages to be paid = John’s death. But John’s death isn’t just about making The Continental whole again. It’s to send a message. John didn’t just kill some random person, after all; Santino was a member of the shadowy High Table, a cabal of crime lords alluded to throughout the film, but never seen. The High Table presides over the entire Wickverse, and everyone works for or with them to some degree. So the price on John’s head is also about removing a level of chaos that John has introduced into the system. To the powers that be, he must be punished severely enough that it deters future assassins from making the same choices. $14 million and every killer in the world gunning for you sounds like a pretty major deterrent. And to me that sounds an awful lot like Punitive Damages.

According to the New York State Court of Appeals, Punitive Damages are:

“available only in those limited circumstances where it is necessary to deter defendant and others like it from engaging in conduct that may be characterized as ‘gross’ and ‘morally reprehensible,’ and of ‘such wanton dishonesty as to imply a criminal indifference to civil obligations.’”

Punitive Damages come into play when Compensatory Damages aren't enough to make the injured party whole. They're also generally unavailable for contract disputes, but can be applied in contract situations where there’s an overlapping tort claim. So are there any tort claims that can piggyback onto the breach of contract claims The Continental and The High Table might have against John that could result in Punitive Damages? It’s a stretch, but I think there might be.

For The Continental, I would say their best tort claim against John would be Intentional Interference with a Prospective Economic Advantage. And while the elements of that claim differ by state, they generally are:

1. An economic relationship existing between the plaintiff and a third party containing the probability of future economic benefit to the plaintiff,
2. Knowledge by the defendant of the existence of the relationship, 
3. An intentional act on the part of the defendant designed to disrupt the relationship,
4. Actual disruption of the relationship, and
5. Damages to the plaintiff caused by the acts of the defendant.

While proving all these elements isn’t a slam-dunk, I think a good lawyer could make them work. John knew that The Continental was a safe haven for professional killers, traveling there throughout both films to derive its benefits and utilize its unique services (the Sommelier and Tailor sequences in the second film are incredible). John also demonstrates previously existing relationships with various hotel staffers, including friendly bonds with the managers of both the New York and Rome branches. John is also plainly aware that many other assassins use the hotel for the same reason he does: for peace of mind that they won’t get whacked while on the job, as he makes several allusions to this throughout the two films. In fact, in the first film, after he’s attacked in his room by Ms. Perkins, John is able to subdue her and instead of killing her, he asks a fellow assassin named Harry to watch her, then report her to the manager. This is all to say that John clearly knows the hotel derives an economic benefit between itself and its specific customer base. This takes care of the first two elements. 

The third element is John’s execution of Santino on Continental grounds, even as Winston tells him in the moment not to do it and what the repercussions would be if he did. The fourth and fifth elements are a bit harder to prove within the text of the film, since we don’t know if The Continental’s business suffers as a result of John’s actions. However, I think a reasonable argument can be made that business may be jeopardized. The whole benefit to staying at The Continental is that you can’t be killed there. It’s a safe place for everyone regardless of your criminal affiliation. If customers don’t feel safe there, they won’t use the hotel. If they don’t use the hotel, the hotel will lose money and cease to operate. You’d need some documentation to prove that assassins are now staying away from the hotel, but I think you could get there.

Because we've never seen The High Table and don't know the extent or type of its business, it's harder to say what economic harms they can pin on John Wick. I do think they could also benefit from an intentional interference claim though. What little we know of the group indicates that membership is incredibly coveted, and that each member controls certain geographic areas. The unexpected death of a member could result in lost profits from the various rackets they operate. 

Look, obviously no one is taking John to court (though it wouldn't surprise me if an underworld judicial system pops up in the sequel), so I appreciate you humoring me on this little journey. I'm always looking for the legal footholds to latch onto, even if it's not really applicable. That said, everyone in the Wickverse operates out of a certain sense of justice that isn’t wholly divorced from our own. The High Table and The Continental owners certainly feel that having John Wick killed for his transgression is the right thing to do. A fair thing to do. That's what will make them whole again. And if the punishment is harsh, well it's deservingly so. John, on the other hand, has very different ideas about what's fair. And when those two concepts of fairness go head to head in the sequel, I imagine it'll be a bloody good time.