The Magnificent Seven

Itinerant indicators reverently reconciling disputed claims to hegemonic fluidity, lethal voracity violently extinguishing, incriminating, decimating, on cue a feisty lass sets out in search of providential justice, fortunately then encountering a robust conscience unbound, who's also in search of restorative balsam, a regenerative surge, consultant of impoverished legend, unbeknownst heretofore.

A team is required, and recruits are sought after, testaments to old school social networking, eventually emancipating The Magnificent Seven.

Multiculturally enriching the destitute through discriminant codes of conduct, exacting rectitude, perspicacious pertinence, this gathering does not have much to say, but excels at prescribing succinct ontological defence.

As the raven confides, and the gold mine's owner makes a swift return, a legion in tow, the entire town prepares for battle, trepidatiously defending their laborious life blood.

Fighting for freedom as opposed to the bottom line, these settlers and their protectors ignite heraldic sentiments, ceremonial citizenship, congregated ebb and flow.

Modus vivendi.

Down home diplomacy.

Altruistic adrenaline.

No, other, choice.

Is the skilled professional fighting for what's right capable of so much more than the merciless hired goon?

Do psychotics reinterpret biblical messages to unequivocally promote themselves as capitalistic gods?

Will grassroots social democracy and its reunification with liberal biblical studies as theoretically envisioned by Bernie Sanders be effectively applied by a victorious Hillary Clinton?

Can the heroic fight of one small band of misfits leave a thought provoking lasting impression across a nation wide?

"Yes," I'm answering, "yes," to all these questions.

The Magnificent Seven's no Seven Samurai, but it's fun to watch, fun to take in.

Tons of intertextuality at play.

Irregulators!

And damned fine 21st century momentum.

Tally Ho.

Florence Foster Jenkins

Florence Foster Jenkins melodiously orchestrates the dedicated caring and understanding required to sustain true friendship.

It's a film that looks at the generosity and civility that kindly lifts up the arts to playfully generate elegance and authenticity.

The rowdier side also represents, but the same sense of communal sensitivity still pervades, raucously acknowledging a devoted patroness intently through saturated conciliations.

Cultivations.

The film's more concerned with the behind the scenes efforts required to sanctify a beautiful spirit than the performance that spirit delivers, savvy husband St. Clair Bayfield (Hugh Grant[Grant giving his best performance to date{I haven't seen all his films}, like a humble sprightly humanistic aristocratic gazelle gracefully commanding each effortless stride]) smoothly working critical crowds to achieve angelic objectives.

Thus, it inevitably examines criticism's human factor, feelings as opposed to frequencies, comprehending multiple levels of artistic endeavour advocating for myriad aesthetic principles, eccentricities, something beyond obsessions with novelty that rationally yet wantonly balances sociopolitical ethics to assert un/specific cultural insights and focus on the dynamic perennial exchange between the educational and the entertaining.

Easy to scathe at will.

Although people sometimes find constructive criticism just as scathing as vitriol because they flippantly equate the different styles.

It's an artistic Magellan, a simmering solubility, not a mathematical exercise.

Exponential.

A complicated controversial multilayered investment in the unanimously uplifting, Florence Foster Jenkins, for a bit of harmless play, that's how I viewed it anyways, presented with the outmost tact.

More to it than crushing egos.

Daring in its amicable enterprise.

Hell or High Water

Economic perfidy harvests Grapes of Wrath in David Mackenzie's Hell or High Water, a strikingly cold yet tender look at Texan socioeconomics.

Enchiladas.

Like films that portray Mexico as something other than a violent haven for international drug trafficking, Hell or High Water presents an alternative Texan portrait that cuts through stereotypes and humanistically offers a compelling down-to-earth confrontation.

It could have been a typical cops and robbers stomp but as brothers Toby (Chris Pine) and Tanner Howard (Ben Foster) hold-up banks for small untraceable sums to pay off a scandalous debt, and lawpersons Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges) and Alberto Parker (Gil Birmingham) track them, the situations both pairs face add vital brazen relatable characteristics, multilaterally bustin' through the line, with non-negotiable cranked ethical consequences.

The awestrike.

Comanche.

What don't you want?

Inflamed ranching.

Don't rob a goddamn bank in our town.

The brothers forge a classic younger introverted older extroverted tandem, the introvert planning their activities, the extro ensuring they're executed.

Law and order is applied by a traditional pairing as well, the more experienced wiser officer consistently outwitting his go-getting partner, but Alberto is Aboriginal and has several thoughtful points to eventually shoot back regarding the ironic Indigenous state of impoverished regular Joe Americans.

Their relationship investigates the controversial nature of racist remarks exchanged between friendly co-workers.

Marcus consistently makes light of Alberto's Aboriginal heritage, and you can see that Alberto's pissed, but as time passes you also see that Marcus genuinely cares for him, especially when he starts to fight back, that Marcus isn't a heartless crude bigot, rather, he's an intelligent man who just expresses himself callously from time to time to controversially yet shortsightedly lighten the mood.

It's off-the-record professional reality.

Marcus insults Alberto because he doesn't fight back to get him to fight back because they live in a culture where many exchange insults rather than pleasantries without frequently chaotically bloodbathing (fighting back with superiors can still often lead to penalties if they can dish it but can't take it).

There's working to change cultural codes, and having to deal with them in order to eventually change them.

If you can't get into a position of authority where you have the power to instigate such changes by example, and if the people currently occupying such positions ain't changin' jackfuck, nothing's going to change, you have to frustratingly deal at points, or wait for them to die, even if it's conscientiously revolting.

Remember the distinction in the film though, Marcus is highly intelligent, does care, and is friends with Alberto.

He's not establishing death camps or refusing to hire specific ethnicities or races.

When racist or ethnocentric remarks are uttered they do often come from a spiteful place, and telling the difference between a Marcus and a Hitler isn't always so easy to do.

Hell or High Water isn't as cheesy as all this, it's wild and bold and bitchin' and swift, blustering as it caresses, surgically diagnosing endemic cultural ailments.

It's like an affluent way of life disappeared and was replaced with sweet fuck all.

Toby still lays low in the end after giving his kids the miraculous golden ticket.

Self-sacrificing.

May have been hasty in writing that Hell or High Water cuts through Texan stereotypes.

Perhaps stating that it takes those stereotypes and situates them within concrete contexts to narratively theorize why they exist and where they come from makes more sense.

Envisioned facts, fictional justification.

Honesty.

Excellent film.

Cinematographer Giles Nuttgens has an eye for natural beauty.

Deep.

Wiener-Dog

Questions asked.

Questions answered.

Romance blooming.

Pupils of film.

Granddaughter and Grandmother.

United, by wiener-dog.

Excessive sensitivity juxtaposed with sadists sincere, extreme disinterest expositionally generating love, scholastic rigour ridiculed reconstituted rescinded, the torments of a dying elderly woman in exacerbated psychotropical guilt.

Todd Solondz still excels at bluntly employing scatological strategies to sleuth sociological severance with miserable dis/ingenuous poignancy.

Although it's been so long since he released a film I briefly mistook him for Quentin Dupieux.

He hasn't lost his knack for satirizing master narratives which tend to explore similar themes with less oblique testimony, emerging to once again disseminate elite sadomasochistic observations which confess noteworthy cultural concessions that cripple as they catalyze to awkwardly lampoon obliviousness.

Even if Wiener-Dog elevates to disconcert by blending the tender loving with brutal flippancy, I still prefer John Waters.

Simultaneously admit uncontrollable bursts of laughter.

It's consistent the whole way through, although waiting 5 years for something this light as far as Solondz goes puzzles, as if he's disgusted with the possibility that someone may label this a comeback film.

Stronger than Café Society however.

You could say he loses sight of the story at times (little wiener-dog) but Wiener-Dog's more about extracting meaning from pointlessness than focusing on fluff, like engaged entropy that crushes the lives of wholesome loners.

Political correctness has changed so much recently this could be the new PC.

Archimedes.

Mr. Turner

Summits submerged then skewered sequestered, holland holistic immersed treasured method, polished in grizzled and gruff pirouettes, subsiding colliding opining subtexts, vertigo, vertiginous, response grounded encompassing consumed, independent refuge, disabled domestic docility, specialization, a willingness to extemporaneously compose candour spawn candlelight, candelabras, regenerative concessions superseding convalescent impecunity, harnessed tempestuous incidental asseveration, gravitational in flux, fluttering foundational finessed fossilized fulcrum, heavyweight prehensile sturgeon, immaculately dispersing, paramount proof of life.

Mr. Turner examines one J.M.W. Turner (Timothy Spall), a brilliant British painter from the 19th century.

Shackled to nothing besides his intuition's visceral duty, he devotedly worked to theorize imagination.

People like this can't live within bourgeois constraints, or can perhaps, with loose reigns.

I suppose such partners, due to the extraordinary success of their coveted loved ones, have difficulty sharing them with horns of plenty, jealousy maddeningly provoking feuds to compensate for feelings of worthlessness.

Outspoken.

Perhaps not, not really sure, that seems to happen in books and films and songs sometimes though, and from what I gather, you're supposed to unequivocally disavow such yearnings, if in a bohemian relationship.

Burnished in bedlam.

It's a great film, intelligently written, good thing I started reading Dickens again recently.

It covers neither too much nor too little, rather presenting finely crafted intellectual biospec sequences which blend the tragic and the critical, the penetrating and the porous.

Probably would have cut the last half hour.

There's a tendency in biographical films to elevate the principal character while reducing his contemporaries to trite one-dimensional cheerios.

The greeting.

Mr. Turner doesn't do this, but watch for it because it takes generally complex interconnected diverse personal/professional/romantic/. . . relationships and counterpointingly disembowels them, which, if you're trying to film something swift, leaves your viewer soberly cocktailed.

Mr. Turner's quite rough.

In sympathy.

War Dogs

Rowdy comedy director Todd Phillips attempts something more serious with War Dogs, but without his trusty asinine array of inebriated misfortunes, his reliable armada steers dismally off course.

Not to say he shouldn't continue trying to make serious films, War Dogs simply representing a transitional foray creatively lacking in displaced junkets, full of miscues that can be corrected, capsuled, correlated.

Boring.

It's like The Wolf of Wall Street's adolescent fanboy.

The structure's there, rambunctious young adult friends who grew up together illicitly earning a living, capital concerns trumping ethical endeavours, as they serendipitously cash in.

Cocaine is taken, incredible risks abound, women are exploited, consequences cursed, slowly leading to a predictable climax that highlights greed's lack of foresight with typical reckless contagion.

One of the friends does have a conscience that separates the films a bit.

But The Wolf, even if it also wasn't that great, still had a dynamic script with a robust cast showcased in fluid mischievous condemnation, that at least impressed for lengthy intervals.

War Dogs still makes a thoughtful point about supply and demand, capacities and so on, the fact that sometimes massive entities are the only ones who can skillfully martial all the requisite personnel to fill extraordinarily diverse orders, in manageable temporal allotments, but it's not enough.

Monopolies can theoretically drive up the price while crushing innovation if their unchallenged prowess grows stale with pomp and complacency.

But I really don't know much about them.

That isn't to say I don't want to make a lot of money.

Cashing-in big time would be pretty sweet.

Some sort of more durable necktie perhaps.

Wars aren't all about establishing markets for the sale of goods as War Dogs contends either, although many of them do seem as if such characteristics motivate their degenerative sensations.

There can be more than one.

Every year a new season begins, every 4 years a new President's elected.

In a country like Libya, if everyone fighting to be the next Gaddafi put down their arms and moved towards forging a working constitutional consensus general prosperity might indeed flourish.

Easier said, as violence unleashes violence, chaotic infinitum.

Unchecked butchers.

Gaddafi.

Hussein.

ISIS.

The soundtrack's a mess too. Good songs, but, barf.

Sausage Party

Sociological structural semantics b/romantically ameliorate as a raunchy yet go-getting cornucopia of conditionals recalibrate unquestioned universals for slumbering succulent psychosubjects.

And the rooster cock-a-doodle-doos.

Okay, there's no rooster, but wow Bob wow I wasn't expecting to see a sustained critique of unacknowledged cast aside postmodern religiopolitical discourses hilariously unleashed in this sultry Sausage Party.

I knew nothing beforehand, only saw it accidentally, and was shockingly blindsided within.

But don't take my forlorn abstruse clarifications ;) as abstract proof of its spluttering legitimacy, view the film and adjudicate adroitly, celestially, to discover whether or not you detect within its reels invaluable collective conscience with an average of 99%.

Could Middle-Eastern tensions be lightened by enlivening sexual experimentation?

Is conscientious awareness maturely elevated through recourse to the ostensibly juvenile?

Is there a dubious state of affairs awaiting those who can't find work within globalized _______ sectors?

Can spiritual dream quests enlighten in lassitude both the lugubrious and the illustrious through the reflection of a savannah's steamy brays?

Can't answer these questions myself, but the hot dog and the bun do hook-up in Sausage Party, as the malevolent douche attempts to scour their union.

Like a comedic genius political scientist ate acid and went 'a grocery shopping, Sausage Party brilliantly utilizes the seemingly mundane to offer a scathing critique cloaked in ludic scatology.

Relishing.

I'm.

Time Raiders

Infinitesimal odds adventurously bewitching, organic intemperate millennial immortality, slumbering throughout the ages in vengeful spurned insurgence, miraculously discovered at the moment of apocalyptic reckoning.

Environmental excavations.

Tomb raiding turbulence.

Historical extravagance.

Heuristically empirical.

Daniel Lee's Time Raiders proceeds Indiana Jonesingly to chromatically synthesize psychological dualities.

A terrestrial imagination is thereby crystallized to inadvertently advocate for biological diversity.

Immortality woebegone.

Botanical ingenuity having been overshadowed by industrial revolutions, a reminder of its potency, its majesty, counterstrikes within.

Even as discourses of the übermensch multilaterally disseminate, the environmental factor still symbiotically materializes.

Ecosystems in peril.

A gross antithetical imbalance.

The film's logic blockbusterly imposes ridiculous action and dialogue.

More rich in metaphor than script and execution, Time Raiders struggles to rationalize while allegorically exceeding.

Lo and Behold, Reveries of the Connected World

Baffling how seriously the internet has changed the world (feel odd using such terms) in a short period of time, revolutionizing global communications and culture and commerce in a relatively unobserved historical 100m dash, considering, like the invention of the plane or the automobile, the telephone or the television, hyperreactively interconnected, immediate inter/national accessibility, enticingly coaxing debate.

You don't even have to leave the house anymore really if you can find a job online and have your groceries delivered, even if nature still remains the internet's greatest competitor, there being no cybersubstitute for hiking around in unknown wilds.

Even if you can surf the net while doing so.

I suppose generations are now maturing in a world where they've never known what it's like to exist without the internet, growing up in a remarkably different social environment (I'll be that guy in 40 years if I quit smoking).

Could humans stop actually playing sports and replace athletic endeavour with virtual surrogates or robots slowly over the course of the next 500 years?

Could real world shops be completely replaced by online überboutiques wherein you can acquire whatever product you thematically desire?

Could shut-in-ism become as natural as strolling through the neighbourhood or visiting a local cinema or heading out for Indian food or browsing new selections provocatively presented at a local bookstore?

Schools function as a challenge to such possibilities because you actually have to leave the house to attend school and schools themselves provide opportunities to play sports and tactically engage with physical objects, thereby inculcating the love of travelling about searching for this or that, meeting new people (not always pleasant as an old friend hilariously mentioned the other day), physically experiencing the world at large.

But you could create online schools where teachers teach hundreds of students from home simultaneously while removing the intricate travelling to and fro from the curious lifestyles of postmodern children.

Is some internet term going to challenge postmodernism? Has that happened already? With a focus on Neuromancer?

Such an idea seems quite strange but the internet itself seemed like first rate science-fiction in the early 90s, and now I'm online almost every day, for extended periods, investigating, relaxing, reading, even when I happen to be on vacation.

My cellphone has even replaced my watch, alarm clock, calculator, dictionary (still have a giant Oxford), flashlight, compass (I don't use a compass), map, dictaphone, camera (still have a physical camera), stopwatch, and timer, to name just a few items available upon as free bonuses.

I can also communicate with people around the world face to face practically anywhere I happen to be even if the costs are sometimes prohibitive.

Nutso but natural for today's youth.

STNG's "The Game."

Perhaps things are moving too quickly, the Snowden factor having introduced legitimate cause for alarm, perhaps social interactions will become harsher if physical gatherings disappear and knowing someone only consists of virtually conversing, like characters in a video game, but people be chillin' partout in Montréal throughout the year, and I can't imagine all its energizing real world activities ever being usurped by electronic knickknacks, convivial though they may be, but I grew up before the internet went mainstream, and enjoy seeing people out and about even if I'm the worst at meeting them (this doesn't bother me).

Werner Herzog's Lo and Behold, Reveries of the Connected World presents a mixed bag of more thoughtful commentaries on the internet's impact on civilization (again, such a term is appropriate), accompanied by his endearing obnoxious cheek, like the kid who was always being disciplined in class picked up a camera to observe the people who graduated.

Definitely worth checking out.

There really is no substitute for nature you know.

You just need some time to sit there for days and listen to the sounds or the silence.

Such suggestions may seem futile on day 1 when you're still immersed in urban psychologies, but as the days pass and you slowly integrate, nature's humble orchestrations symphonically resound, like the motivational cheetah, or a glass of red wine.

So true.

*It helps if you're sitting there one day in the woods and a raccoon comes wandering up but doesn't notice you, and then, upon suddenly realizing you're there, bolts straight up the nearest tree. And you're like, whatevs raccoon, I'm just chillin', relax.