A post-Soviet person, raised in a standard-issue flat behind an iron door with three locks, itself set over a wooden door upholstered in leatherette, with a bolt, a latch and a little hook, cannot grasp the true horror of American films, in which the most

A post-Soviet person, raised in a standard-issue flat behind an iron door with three locks, itself set over a wooden door upholstered in leatherette, with a bolt, a latch and a little hook, cannot grasp the true horror of American films, in which the most terrifying things (a ruthless maniac killer, a deranged intelligence agent, a cold-blooded hitman and a ferocious witch of a granny) bring their absolute evil straight through walls made of pressed cardboard and front doors made of plywood, which the villain punches through with a fist or saws open with an electric jigsaw. But a mortgage on not the most solid of dwellings, paid off over decades of life spent sitting on a powder keg, looks far more like a universal fear, uniting in friendly, soothing embraces both the Sovietstani and the American