Watching Chicago is a lot like falling off a large cliff towards a spike: initially terrifying, your entire life flashing before your eyes, a voice shouting “WHY ME?”, and, just as Richard Gere begins singing, the spike can’t hit you fast enough.
Of course, as soon as you want sweet jagged relief, Father Time pulls a fast one and everything goes excruciatingly slowly. Every note hangs in the air for hours, every word spoken in a forced accent cuts, every torturous second eating away at your will to live.
The end never comes too soon.