ClipTwo kids are necking, Americanly,in the front seat of a Cadillac .or Buick . some long red soft-top classic. The camera picks up on one ten-gallon beedrumming its feet on the hot tin hoodthen pulls out along the buffed upholsteryand hand-waxed body-work.On the sound-track, a droning thunderheadof scrubbing strings played bass and indistinctis a murmur, a rumour of troublebut back in the front seat,he flexes, she rocks-and knocks her hipon the button of the horn which stays onand stays on. No matter how they giggle,fumble under the dash, sortand redress their rumpled state,the horn keeps calling its one clear note-a noise the by-now killer bees can't bear.It angers and confuses them, primes and blows them like a charge of shot which zooms in on the road, the classic car, the kids-and blacks out the windshield,censors mirrors, blocks up the tail-pipe, vents, their sounding mouthstill a swarm of stock footage, cut and spliced with cheap FX,stings and stings the kids to death.Poor peach-fed kids, to be judgedand sent down by such a buzzing Moses.

If there is to be a sequel, lead the beesto a local multiplex and lock the doors.Screen them feature after feature-nature films of orange groves and orchardswhere smoke in the trees is just blossomwhere work is the raising of pollenand all these things are sealed in honey,the one, the only law.