Jigureul jikyeora! (Save the Green Planet!)

A reclusive individual soaks up the sci-fi with eccentric compulsive obsession, his immersive interactive interpretations inspiring conspiratorial hypotheses. 

Much more than that, indeed, an intricate historico-political narrative emerges, theorizing intergalactic genealogies as applied to entrepreneurial life.

The line between fact and fiction slowly fades as interpersonal calamity strikes, his creative in-depth provocative nativity explaining the consistent misfortune.

He concludes it's time to act and then kidnaps a wealthy businessperson, whom he believes is in fact an alien, part of a network controlling the planet.

His partner is rather worried when he returns home with his irate captive, and then proceeds to conduct experiments in order to validate his theory.

His subject refuses to adapt to his newfound interrogative paradigm, and verbally assails his psychotic jailor with cacophonies of sheer defiance.

A famous detective is hot on the trail employing the art of incisive conception, but working alone may prove hazardous as active suspicion buzzes in.

Oddball otherworldly yet realistic mayhem ensues, as a clever yet mad conspiracy theory exacts critical constructs construed.

Is it somewhat irresponsible to create narratives wherein which wild conspiracy theories prove to be true, considering the vast abundance of such unsubstantiated ideas (presented as genuine not speculative) circulating within cyberspatial domains?

In Jigureul jikyeora! (Save the Green Planet!)'s case macromischief irremediably results, the final moments so catastrophic that it becomes clear the film's starkly farcical. 

And where would cinema and literature be if it wasn't for enticing larger-than-life fantasy, that sees mundane routine circumstances transformed into something influential?

The trick is to teach people at a young age to see through conspiracy theories, or at least apply logic to their strange arguments, I don't really follow them myself but I hope such theorists are at least creating partial arguments.

If people see them as comic fantasy creatively generating harmless controversy, then there isn't much difference in either following them or watching The X-Files (great show).

But if people take them seriously, if they become popular and people actually think they're true, it can become rather dangerous for the people targeted who have no knowledge of the jealous conceit. 

The subject's much more vast than what I've written here but a good book could examine these observations more closely (if one hasn't already).

What's the difference between critical and conspiracy theory?

Democratically speaking.

No harm in transforming such ideas into pulp fiction (is that a chicken and the egg scenario?). 

The Christmas Chronicles: Part Two

Kate Pierce's (Darby Camp) Mom (Kimberly Williams-Paisley) has found a new partner (Tyrese Gibson as Bob) and she can't conceal her rage, the fury festively augmented by a Christmas spent far away in the tropics.

She wishes for freshly fallen snow and sees her mom's new love as an act of betrayal, these feelings spoiling the relaxed mood that otherwise creates free-flowing happiness.

She remains a true believer whose confidence in Santa (Kurt Russell) can't be shaken, but her angst is swiftly noticed by one mischievous rogue elf (Julian Dennison as Belsnickel).

He's left the North Pole after taking things way too far, Santa still hoping to come to terms, if he'll stop messing with his workshop.

He needs a true believer if he's to infiltrate Santa's hood, and steal the source of his power, which comes from the Star of Bethlehem.

He uses trickery to suddenly transport Kate to the inhospitable arctic, along with her Mom's new partner's curious yet timid son (Jahzir Bruno as Jack).

Santa comes to the rescue and soon hot cocoa is being served, remembrances of things past producing wondrous mirthful awestruck playful reckonings.

But Belsnickel has found a way in and soon he's stolen the cherished source.

Santa setting off in hot pursuit.

Back to his humble origins.

Another endearing portrayal of Santa can be found in The Christmas Chronicles: Part Two, and this time he's aided by Mrs. Claus (Goldie Hawn), not to mention time travel, too .

He responds to Belsnickel's foul play with animate vigour and robust determination, never faltering in his jocose resolve, to ensure the integrity of Christmas.

Even as things seem bleak beyond recuperation, he applies a sprightly chuckle clearly clasping resuscitation. 

There's nothing grim about him no misgivings or balks or anger, and no matter what Belsnickel does, he'll still dismiss the dismal danger.

He even appreciates Belsnickel's ingenuity as they engage in epic conflict, he isn't jealous or even upset, it's pure goodwill immaculate charm.

It's cool to see a Christmas film that still upholds spirited goodwill.

There's plenty of Mrs. Claus too.

And a focus on challenging gender bias.

Legend

A maiden heads out, in search of her trusted love interest, who lives alone in the forest, anxiously awaiting her return.

They nimbly frolic and amorously explore the nature of his verdant domain, so caught up with love's magnanimity, that he decides to share a secret.

For he knows the location of unicorns whom she is eager to graciously meet, yet such knowledge is strictly forbidden to those who have not grown up in the woods.

Little do they know they've been followed by dastardly goblins seeking malice, who've been tasked to take out the unicorns for an envious Lord of Darkness.

Unicorns maintain metaphysical splendour within their lighthearted realm, their habitual laughter and innate innocence required to nurture time itself.

A forbidden act having been facilitated, a glorious unicorn falls, the other captured and brought back to answer for cherished wondrous humanistic enlightenment.

Along with the crestfallen maiden.

But her suitor is suddenly entrusted with mythical elven aid, after time stops and winter descends, and they realize they need a champion. 

So it's off to the fiery depths to save the universe from eternal darkness.

Guided by valour and instinct.

And perhaps, the power of Christmas.

Not technically a Christmas film, although unicorns no doubt emit the wisdom of Christmas, and have for munificent millennia, through the enchanting art of mysticism.

Their narwhal kin perhaps act as go-betweens with Santa as he makes toys far off at the North Pole, their scintillating seafaring network rich with endemic interactive fluencies.

Perhaps every creature found on Earth is part of this biodiverse switchboard, Santa and unicorns coordinating initiatives throughout the embowered globe.

For some reason I never saw Legend while still a wee ginger lad, plus I also missed Labyrinth and Dragonslayer until reaching the age of adulthood.

Nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoy watching old school fantasy that isn't reliant on technical know how, when they still built sets from the ground up, and creative costumes generated adventure.

It'd be cool to see a contemporary filmmaker make a new fantasy film with muppets and physical sets.

Sort of like filming in black & white.

I bet they'd make something awesome.

That would never rival Jim Henson.

20 Million Miles to Earth

Sometimes the art of decision making puzzles keen observers, as they wonder why a specific course was taken, when so many others could have been adopted.

At others the decisions seem apt, well-attuned to the unexpected circumstances, perhaps lacking in thrilling variety, but still well-suited to the agenda at hand.

Politically speaking, I suppose every decision undergoes polarization, livelihoods earned through creative dissonance, the maintenance of strict partisan argument, stirring the pot, as the saying goes.

But regardless of the critical impact, decisions must be made every day, decision makers confident in their reliability, critics happy to point out their errors.

Blindly following decisions is rather undemocratic, insofar as an inclusive politic innately encourages lively debate, but partisan instincts complicate this principle with redeemable awe, culture flourishing somewhere in between, as artistic analysis entails balance.

In the film under examination, a Terran spaceship returns from Venus, carrying wild extraterrestrial cargo, crash landing in the Mediterranean. 

Local fisherpeeps witness the crash and venture forth to lend a hand, managing to rescue two crew members, before the ship plummets to the bottom of the sea.

International relations swiftly invigorate a quizzical yet receptive dialogue, as the United States explains to the Italian government that one of their crafts has returned from Space.

The coveted alien specimen miraculously washes ashore, and is found shortly thereafter by a village boy, who quickly sells it to a visiting zoologist.

Earth's environment proves hearty for the specimen who expands at a remarkable rate, soon rivalling the size of an elephant, once no bigger than a sprightly squirrel.

After it escapes decisions must be made regarding its potential capture, and what to do with it if it can be held, prevented from inquisitively exploring.

The surviving colonel knows that it's generally harmless within its diminutive form, but it's grown to such a large size, that the local police have become quite worried.

Fortunately, the colonel knows it can be restrained by electrified nets, and is able to nimbly catch it, before the realization of bland destruction.

But where should they take the shackled beastie?, that question remains unanswered.

Until it's decided to bring him or her to Rome.

Locked down for close observation.

Rampaging potential pending.

Why it wasn't left to roam the countryside while feasting on sulphur deposits isn't explained.

The alien's changing proportions reflect conflicting accounts of its natural physiology. 

It's in fact a peaceful beast.

Unaccustomed to grand incarceration. 

Klaus

A new recruit to the national postal service lounges in august pamper, unconcerned with military discipline since he's related to the big kahuna.

Yet his antics have inspired contempt within the stilted command structure, which decides to test his mettle through expeditious transfer.

His assignment's the worst available far off and inhospitable, the townsfolk feuding in bleak decay and none too fond of light or merriment.

His initial attempts to establish a post office are theatrically rebuffed, the inhabitants more concerned with enraging representatives of opposing clans.

The teacher's given up and transformed her school into a fish market, and what used to pass for casual conversation is now infused with bland mistrust.

The children are quite downcast with grim ill-will stunting their growth, animosity they fail to comprehend since its plain and simply much too childish.

But the new mailperson discovers an address remotely situated within the forest, and decides to venture forth to nurture friendly relations.

At first the man seems grumpy disinclined to welcome guests, but as time passes a soft heart emerges once attuned to jokes and jests.

It turns out he's a skilled toymaker who's never found a clientele, to thoroughly enjoy his effervescent nifty swell.

A team is forged through bright goodwill endemic conflict notwithstanding, to joyously illuminate mirth laughter playful planning.

Something much less supernatural yet adventurously fated, to bring about consoling clout luminosity backdated.

Well put together patient strands unified with daring poise, to storytell through quench and quell enduring corduroy.

A turn around fulfillment found the sprightly communal favour, year after year enriching cheer this Klaus emits sun savour.

More for kids yet still unbid still cordially composed, its depths dispersed its clefts expertly animating growth.

Who knows perhaps through spits and spats this film could bring together, antipodes wildly opposed destructive feudal feathers.

At least at Christmas there's no need for postures left or right, non-denominational goodwill persisting light.

Could be that way no need to bray the future's neverending.

Old school lame polemics tamed diplomacy a' trending.  

Holiday in the Wild

A daring mom (Kristin Davis as Kate) is happy to see her only son (John Owen Lowe as Luke) head off to college, no doubt somewhat sad to see him go, but still abounding with hope, goodwill.

She's planned a second honeymoon in the wilds of feisty Zambia, and hopes her husband will be surprised by the sudden festive calling.

There's just one problem, he's decided to leave her, no debate, no negotiation, he just ends their marriage lickety-split, and leaves her confused and rather frustrated.

So it's off for a jaunt on her own to give herself time to think, why not still take the vacation?, better than moping about it back home.

Shortly thereafter, while sitting back to dine, she meets a stranger who seems like he's up to no good, drinking alone and preparing for a night of gambling, she still answers all his questions truthfully.

And the next morning she swiftly discovers that he's her aeronautic guide, as she sets out in search of wildlife focused ready for wild adventure.

Unfortunately, a tragic sight is soon to dampen her lively spirits, as a baby elephant is found, his mother having been shot by poachers.

But she trained to be a vet before marriage and family lead her down a different path, and she's soon moved into an elephant sanctuary, to keep track of baby elie.

Rugged Derek (Rob Lowe) lives there too, in fact he pops up everywhere she goes, the two playfully hitting it off, as she joins the dedicated team.

It's a cheerful lighthearted romance that proceeds at an athletic pace, hectic motion moving things along from bewildered state to state.

It isn't overflowing with detail or reflection or questions or alternatives, but its surface level concentration still lightly generates frisky fervour.

I loved Holiday in the Wild's sincere concern for the plight of elephants, whose numbers have plummeted in recent decades, a consequence of thoughtless poaching.

Elephants are wonderful creatures who add so much distinction to our biodiverse planet, loved by children around the world, and most adults too I'd reckon.

Isn't the world a more wondrous and thrilling place with an abundance of carefree elephants, don't they add so much distinction to a vibrant planet on which they too have freely evolved?

Every animal adds global distinction, it's not a matter of rank and file, but some animal populations bounce back much more quickly if they're hunted from time to time (deer for instance).

Bears, whales, lions, rhinos, tigers, leopards, and elephants (and others), take a long time to reestablish their numbers if they're hunted without concern.

I recommend they be left alone, they offer us so much more if they live, they enrich countless imaginations as they curiously exist.

We've evolved along side them and shouldn't leave them behind simply because we're more advanced.

What does it mean to be more advanced anyways?

If you're so often reckless and cruel?

Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

*Not really a Christmas film.

World War II, in Java, British soldiers languish in a POW camp, their captors unaccustomed to European sensibilities, alternative discipline drilling irate tact.

Secluded from the war, or at least not engaging in direct combat, acquaintances develop through mutual boredom, the cultural clash as fascinating as it is disruptive, provocative argument begetting grand decorum.

The British Colonel's (Jack Thompson as Hicksley) generally stubborn and resentful of his inert command, ill-attuned to sycophantic flexibility, and the disrespect it entails.

But Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence (Tom Conti) appeals to humanistic reason and attempts to ease their deprivations, engaging the curiosity of the opposing side, who even consults him at times.

A new prisoner is sent to camp who's much more contentious than the Colonel or his Lieutenant, perhaps they fought like him when they arrived, yet eventually lost their bold ambition (David Bowie as Major Celliers). 

He introduces flowers and jaunty disarray.

Having barely escaped a firing squad.

Lt. Colonel Lawrence loves him. 

The result's somewhat discontinuous as the narrative ebbs and flows, grim dastardly acculturation diplomatically strung through patchwork. 

Such content aptly asserts earnest independence struggling and stifled, neither side able to generate consistency, hence disgruntled cropped themes.

It's like peace trying to break through during cataclysmic epochs, at times making genuine progress, at others lost and lounging.

As Lawrence converses with jailers and guards thoughtful cultural exchanges take place, conflicting political viewpoints accentuating alternatives, while generating oddball friendship.

The film's grim, lighthearted, revolting, evocative, collegial, heroic, and pressing, poetic I suppose in a nutshell, wave upon wave of distressful import. 

More people like Lawrence would be a good thing with a move away from the coercive absolute.

The spirit of giving and sympathy.

Mutually constructive pause. 

Jingle Jangle

A brilliant inventor modestly celebrates his most recent creation's genesis, a free-thinking figure that consciously reckons with independent advancing foresight. 

But as he sets off to rest, his apprentice walks in to tidy his animate workshop, and he encounters the enlivened toy who turns out to champion corrupt self-interest.

The toy passionately convinces him to dishonourably steal their benefactor's book of ideas, and create a toy shop of his own to slyly compete and wickedly conjure.

The inventor is thoroughly devastated upon discovering his sudden misfortune, and loses the ability to create, his mind stricken with disbelief.

His business slowly fades and his wife and daughter grow more estranged with each and every glum passing day, 30 years pass in fact in total depression borderline madness crippled ambition.

His former apprentice has gaudily emerged as their realm's dazzling preeminent toymaker, furtively driven by the conniving contraption who never relents lets go subsides.

But so much time has woefully passed that another generation has nimbly ballooned, and Jeronicus's (Forest Whitaker) granddaughter soon comes curiously and cleverly and ebullient and pensively calling (Madalen Mills as Journey). 

Has she arrived in time to help grandfather realize his last vital dream?, before the bank reluctantly forecloses, on Christmas day, the timeline's obscene.

Fortunately, she's incredibly gifted, and at a young age rivals gramp's brilliance, and is therefore able to adroitly assist even if her ideas are initially unwelcome.

The most important thing he's lost is the belief he once had in himself, which is why his latest idea won't jive, won't exceedingly generate awestruck wondrous je ne sais pas uncontrived.

It's more like a film that takes place at Christmas than a supple salute to the season, although traditional spiritual surges assuredly sanctify seasonal synergies.

I suppose it's a sign of the times, that an ingenious toy would be full of deception, as opposed to lighthearted wonder, it's certainly not Cabbage Patch or My Buddy. 

Too much of an emphasis on immoral resolve in recent years to be shocked by a malicious toy, it's like themes oft reserved for horror have been whitewashed to critique widespread greed.

The new toy in question resembles E.T so perhaps it represents a manifest willingness to move past blunt impulses, and return to the less self-obsessed guidance of the 1980s, Foucauldian investigation pending.

Does Jingle Jangle's playful synthesis of machine and spirit foreshadow upcoming advances in artificial intelligence?

The rise of robotic humanism?

Computationally coaxing.

Hopefully not, hopefully hearts and hearths continue to flourish organic. 

There's nothing quite like biodiversity.

Born of ancient mutation.

Sedmikrásky (Daisies)

Unconcerned with the traditional role patriarchically assigned their gender, two non-conformists set out to cause trouble, creatively disposed and mischievously compelled, they chaotically deconstruct with poetic candour.

Inclined to enjoy gastronomical exuberance, yet lacking jobs or a stable income, one sister convinces older business peeps to take her out, the other crashing the dinner midway.

They then eclectically gorge while irritating the debauched magnate, who is eventually tricked into boarding a train, with the sis who initially seduced him, who then swiftly leaves undetected.

Thus, an age old paradigm is youthfully usurped, feminist union daringly asserting vowed honourable ironic rectitude. 

They eat quite well throughout the film as the ruse is employed again and again, also bathing in milk, heading out to the country, trashing their apartment, finding something to do.

They eventually discover a banquet hall elaborately adorned for a wedding feast, the staff nowhere in sight, they then engage in freeform indiscretion, their shenanigans crisp, airtight.

But they've gone too far alternatively speaking and the chandelier comes crashing down.

If they had had a specific reason, they could have perhaps scandalized unbound.

Whereas deceiving the older pervs upheld the dignity of loyal wives, some women do find themselves marrying devout men, the institution of marriage therefore not to be generally dismissed, that's one interpretation anyways.

A more severe interpretation may resignedly acknowledge the lack of opportunity for unmarried women at the time (1966), and that by recklessly subverting the institution, the two sisters ruined their fortunes.

More of a realistic application of an unfortunate custom than an elevation of conjugal orthodoxy, a tragic desire for sociocultural diversity, limited by strict definition.

Nevertheless, Sedmikrásky (Daisies) is an incomparable film that rambunctiously revels in wild emancipation, its celebratory improvisations as empowering as they are brave.

Nice that there's more opportunities these days for those who aren't conjugally endowed, depending on where you live, Foucauldian investigation pending.

Sedmikrásky is also stylistically brilliant and a must see for people interested in artistic mayhem (innovative but not esoteric), its collages and animations surpassing anything I've seen from Truffaut or Godard. 

Marriage can be a wonderful thing but it's not necessarily a snug fit for everyone.

Although it's a box successful people often check.

Making the most of it thereafter. 

The Heiress

An innocent artist, unconcerned with the world at large, is encouraged to take an active role, in environs she's ill-equipped to comprehend, but still willing to cautiously explore (Olivia de Havilland as Ms. Sloper).

Her mother was a dazzling sight, in possession of coveted social perspicuity, akin to Oriane de Guermantes, in terms of wit and incisive observation.

Her husband genuinely admired her, and was crushed by her untimely passing, resigned in the following years to focus intently on the practice of medicine.

Unfortunately, he's quite the snob, and even applies his pretensions to his family, so weighed down by the maintenance of ideals, that he dismisses everything that doesn't add up (Ralph Richardson as Dr. Austin Sloper).

His daughter's fascinated by embroidery and has developed enviable skill, and wants to make her father happy, but lacks multilateral bearing.

Nevertheless, she sets out one evening to attend a social gathering, wherein she's courted by a brazen upstart, who's familiar with what she stands to inherit, his candour as fluent as his resolve (Montgomery Clift as Morris Townsend).

Shortly thereafter he's asked her to marry and she's gleefully and passionately accepted, in the belief that she'll make her father happy, and perhaps find some joy of her own. 

But her father is rather suspicious of her fiancé's amorous feeling, and poses unsettling questions to ascertain its authenticity. 

The result is the tragic transformation of well-preserved sequestered peculiarity, which attempts to suddenly adjust to age old rapacious cunning.

She comprehends with the resplendent grace casually borne by the unsuspecting, and perhaps would have been content if she had met an honest person.

Neither heartfelt nor harlequin, The Heiress proceeds to interrogate innocence, its manifestation of purest true love, tragically destined to swoon unrequited.

The results much more traditional than the romantic setting suggests.

Traditional in the withdrawn sense. 

Calculated hesitant gravity.

La Pointe-Courte

The opening image suggests mystery as the camera cryptically focuses on a piece of wood, whose grains resemble an ancient desert or plump and nimble whale baleen.

Setting the stage for stark alternatives non-traditional narrative endeavour, unique insights into a livelihood rarely examined with cinematic depth.

A rural village roughly perseveres along France's Atlantic coast, inhabitants making their living from age old oceanic abundance.

But pollution endangers their catch as prohibitions prove prescriptive, and regulations delineate boundaries less expansive than haughty seas.

A nostalgic husband fervently awaits the return of his cherished wife, who's never visited his wild hometown, far away from the streets of Paris.

An older generation contemplates youth with resigned historical parallels, assertive in its grand paternalism yet sympathetic to romantic sage.

Everyone knows each other and even the police cut friends some slack, the maintenance of local economies upheld with mischievous tradition.

It's rare to come across a film that regards impoverished struggles with such poetic enriched decency. 

There's love, romance, imagination, a feisty collective willing resolve, with strength and dignity obstructing forlorn incapacitating distraught helplessness.

When you see the impacts pollution can have on the health of vital resources, it's surprising climate change isn't severely critiqued by effected local populations. 

Things can change so slowly that it seems like everything's always been the same, but the scientific forecast is most distressing as it applies to besieged nature.

Some areas are hit worse than others but there's no doubt everything's connected, and careful prudent planning nurtures paramount resiliency.

Nice to see such an honest couple freely sharing thoughts and feelings, through the art of amorous persuasion delicately timed revealed conceding.

It's like Agnès Varda understood her community from a humanistic stance, and sought to share its visceral daring through undulating vicissitudes.

She clearly loves the environment as La Pointe-Courte's cinematography illustrates (Louis Soulanes, Paul Soulignac, Louis Stein), the patient caring reticent transitions evocative timeless echoes. 

When things seem somewhat downcast the town erupts in celebration.

Much more gentle than Truffaut or Godard.

Still abounding with novel wonder.  

O necem jiném (Something Different)

A housewife struggles with a dull routine fully equipped with ceaseless labour, her husband lacking natural empathy as he plays a traditional role.

Her son's a handful and makes things worse as he tries to assist throughout the day, his habitual playful headstrong mischief encouraging disillusion.

Another woman constantly trains to remain the world's preeminent gymnast, her resilient daring in/flexibility haughtily admired by her earnest trainer.

Her life is sheltered and strictly focused driven by determined excellence, lacking holistic variety yet irrefutably established. 

Director Vera Chytilová juxtaposes their lives to examine distraught vigour, each path overflowing with poise but only one rich in reward.

The husband's a piece of work who stubbornly applies unimaginative blueprints, which structure everything to his advantage as he consistently ignores her.

He's having an affair but so is she, she breaks free from the callous bondage.

Her lover rather frustrated.

As she thoroughly disregards him.

Different extremes converge and complement as feminine strength consults, contends, no rest and relaxation, no sympathetic trends.

It seems to me that if you're lucky enough to have someone who supplies you with meals and a tidy pad, you should at least listen and pay attention to them at the end of the working day.

They rigorously do the work for you out of love and devout commitment, is it that hard to engage in conversation or acknowledge the heartfelt effort?

Isn't it important to get to know someone you're spending that much time with, to develop multiple open-ended narratives that creatively transform throughout your life?

They probably love you too which makes conversation so much easier, something that doesn't require earnest effort or careful planning or years of study.

Love isn't something to be dismissed or ignored or taken for granted, shouldn't it be evocatively cultivated through wondrous warmth and passion?

It isn't in O necem jiném (Something Different) and the results are generally bland (not the film itself), a life devoid of pith or colour controversial blasé strands.

Make life a beach just by caring and perhaps something epic will emerge.

Throw on the gear for a feisty dip.

BBQ.

Frolic.

Project Power

The Marvel instinct is pejoratively packaged and illicitly cast for chaotic distribution, those taking the metamorphic drug unleashing wanton blind destruction.

It enables superpowers derived from beastly DNA, an individual's latent spirit animal emerging in death defying rampage. 

A policeperson (Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Frank) keeps close contact with a dealer with the hopes of busting the network, but bribes and high level corruption make his duties grim untenable.

An ex-soldier (Jamie Foxx as Art) seeks the dealers who have kidnapped his only daughter, her unique multivariable metabolism having been used to create the drug.

They find themselves forging a team dedicated to preventing its sale.

Without that much to go on. 

Trepidatious flounce and flail.

Project Power takes übermanche obsessions and distills them within a pill, the resulting crazed despotic X-Men committing brazen crimes at will.

It's not the deepest film but it makes the most of its barebones script, not many characters or deceptive scenarios but what persists isn't strained or dull.

A byproduct of preponderant superheroics is the desire to court invincibility, and people taking illegal drugs may express themselves accordingly

The difficulties the police have engaging the users are pronounced but the side-effects are largely ignored, there's no trip to the hospital like that in The Third Man, or a descent into madness like that found in Trainspotting. 

Scholastic endeavour is directly criticized, the film seems to be saying there's no point. The film indeed criticizes the teacher more severely for seeking student engagement than the specific student for selling drugs.

School's a remarkable tool that can help you genuinely engage your mind.

Sometimes you have to make it more interesting (I believe Eminem's expression is, own it) rather than just critiquing education in general.

I've found the scholastic world's much more open, less rigid than worldly practice.

If it doesn't help you make millions, it can still help you develop your mind.

Unlock scholastic superpowers, give it a shot, directly apply yourself.

There's no shame in cultivating imagination.

Brilliant raps in Project Power. 

Les Créatures

Secluded cerebral calisthenic splotched stratagem, a married writer intuitively interacts, unfamiliar with the customs of his new home, curious yet shy emboldened substantiated combustion.

He can speak with animals and on occasion visits the forest, his accent often positively received, through rampant scamper and modest scuttle, the conversation like plush evergreen.

Intrigue abounds within the village as a doctor seeks extramarital counsel, his advisor's sister stopping by for a rest, falling for a spry electrician. 

Yet something sinister abides shut in having created a grotesque machine, which can manipulate latent emotion and compromise intransigent will.

Citizens bustle converse galavant unaware of diabolical schemes, the transformation of hesitant trusts into quizzical plights unforeseen. 

The writer confronts him and finds himself challenged to a binding preponderant duel, the outcome of which could disrupt his smooth flowing consummate conjugal cool.

Thus impulses cynical and communal dreamily contract bewitched altercation, lighthearted delegates blind unsuspecting of desire lacking canned sublimation.

One of the strangest films I've seen or at least one whose climax I didn't see coming, its origins rather traditional apart from introductory jocose accelerations. 

Burgeoning sci-fi ambiently acquired through greenhouse craft embowering predicaments, as if the emergence of tactile technologies would wildly disturb inveterate calm.

Unless alternative goals could be applied to their grand distribution, less shocking age old applications of wholesome bittersweet drowsy hitched life.

Agnès Varda seems to have been wary of advancing technologies, as suggested by motorboats introduced at La Pointe-Courte's end, and the imposing machine haunting Les Créatures. 

She clearly loves the environment as demonstrated by multiple shots in both films, crabs freely represented, interspecies communication romanticized in the latter.

From a contemporary perspective, the machine could represent The Social Dilemma's criticisms of social media, something emphatically required to reinvest it with progress, to reimagine a less hostile life.

A wonderful film literary imagination enriched through uncanny romance.

Essential pioneering sci-fi.

One heck-of-a clever bucolic.  

Adventures of a Dentist

A mild-mannered unassuming young professional finds he has a gift on his nervous first day, he can pull teeth without causing pain to the delight of his anxious patients, his popularity soaring with each extracted tooth, his modesty unaware of his colleague's envy, exuberant dispatch cajoled disseminated, he does one heck of a job.

He proceeds unabashed, unerring, everyone seeking out his aid alone, but since no one wants to see the other doctors, they target his effortless skill.

When he simply works without psychological constraints he cheerfully nurtures perfection, but he's too timid to dismiss potent jealousy, and it soon effects his miraculous work.

He makes a mistake which is soon discovered and unfortunately it's rather serious, his nerve collapsing in the critical aftermath, he can no longer assist those in pain.

His family attempts to soothe him but his depression overwhelms his pride, leaving him inert, distracted, unable to advance his career.

Perhaps he should have been cloistered far away from angst and bitterness, for he can't accept that his prospects were ruined precisely because he was doing so well.

Adventures of a Dentist satirically chides the status quo while immersing competence in tragedy, to critique conformist pretensions, and age old incumbent rivalry. 

Chesnokov (Andrey Myagkov) isn't subversive, he's likely not even familiar with the concept, he just simply can't underachieve, and this threatens his professional prospects.

I'm not saying I'm particularly gifted although I think I craft a cool sentence at times, and I like some of the rhymes I come up with, but I'm not that concerned with superlatives.

I never understood wanting to be the best or manipulating circumstances to appear as if you're the best, I just understood trying to do your best as I learned from Captain Picard.

Adventures of a Dentist isn't all gloom and doom it's just absurd uncanny bizarro, as Chesnokov follows a distressed coworker attempting to appease her, for instance, and they wind up on a carousel, or his singer songwriter love interest bursts forth in song, while her father cautiously narrates.

She can impersonate any animal.

And writes with soulful prescription.

It's a shame how professional jealousies disrupt the provision of resolute service, or desires to control or be recognized disillusion blossoming talent.

You would hope that in dentistry and medicine the best possible service would be readily provided, that patients would receive the best possible care, since it's their well being that's literally paramount.

Not rank or position or influence, nor internal esoteric power struggles, but the health of manifold patients, peeps hoping to swiftly recover. 

Q Planes

The writing in Q Planes is exceptional (Brock Williams, Jack Whittingham, Arthur Wimperis, Ian Dalrymple) and it's so much fun to watch, the cast revelling in the opportunity to deliver fast-paced vigorous dialogue.

Brought to life by Laurence Olivier (Tony McVane) and Ralph Richardson (Charles Hammond), it freely showcases animate brilliance, without fretting about miscommunication, or pretentious elevations of the monosyllabic.

I think there was a time when films had to compete with books more strenuously, in Britain anyways, in order to justify the aesthetic integrity of the medium, and screenwriters were therefore more willing to prove their genius as it applied to sundry films.

It's just a theory, crafted from watching multiple Criterions during the pandemic, and perhaps books are still as popular today, even if film seems to no longer be competing with them, but if there was a time when British screenwriters freely shared their ingenious commentaries, to generate literary merit for an art form oft dismissed, and film eventually became more popular than books and left literary ambitions behind, I'm worried that as Twitter becomes more popular along with Facebook and Instagram etc., that the quality of language as it applies to future films will be even less cerebrally compelling.

If film stopped competing with books after establishing itself as a respected art form, will the resultant dull conformity be devalued further by the rise of social media?

It's not that contemporary film writing is particularly bad, it's just so rare when you see a film whose writing is exceptionally good (Wes Anderson), they still have to give out awards every year, but I certainly haven't seen a Q Planes in recent memory.

I do remember emerging from University to be critiqued in the working world, for possessing an advanced vocabulary and writing with alternative flair.

I also remember being critiqued as a child for possessing an advanced vocabulary, which didn't seem that impressive at the time, but words just came naturally to me in my own little way and I found it offputting to have to search for generalized vocabularies, rather than speaking freely, it's so much less work to simply state what you're thinking.

I adapted, but it still made much more sense to move away from the English world, and try to learn a new language, even if I was starting much too late, and had moved past chilling out and about.

The constant thrill of unfamiliar communication is a wondrous motivating factor, that enlivens so many situations that would otherwise seem dull.

General comprehension is certainly laudable but there's so much rudimentary expression these days.

A democracy should also cater to literary flair.

As it once did.

In sundry films.

Primal

Unable to abide by the rules and structures of traditional zookeeping, an independent spirit strikes out on his own, in the ironic pursuit of free ranging wildlife, whom he captures to earn his living.

Meanwhile a resourceful assassin has been caught by the American government, which plans to transport him back to the States, for having committed brutal crimes.

Frustratingly, he can't travel by plane, due to a physiological peculiarity, and must therefore be securely shipped, on the very same boat upon which Frank Walsh (Nicolas Cage) is voyaging, to facilitate the sale of his animals.

Elite military personnel vigilantly guard their prisoner, expecting everything to go as planned, but a not-so-subtle animate seizure brings about harrowing unforeseen circumstances.

Soon they're back on the hunt in an enclosed cryptic junk yard jungle, Frank's animals having been set free, to add wild beastly fierce complication, to a rather sensational schematic.

Venomous snakes, birds, tapirs, monkeys, and a ghost-jaguar enjoy unexpected freedom, locked down encaged no longer, curious to learn more about their new environment.

Will they accidentally assist in the improvised plans to recapture a crazed escape artist, or further annoy the troops as they search, while sincerity tracks them down?

Primal proceeds with raw carnal instinct intending to generally avoid incarceration, those who persist intuitively enacting intense entrepreneurial codes.

Its narrative logistics aren't far off course considering its limited budget, although I can't help but wonder how shocking it may have been had it possessed more bountiful resources.

It steers clear of Snakes on a Plane which I initially thought may have provided inspiration, preferring to stick to infused human conflict instead of concentrating on the ghost-cat.

Actors are given the chance to emit passionate refinements of character, and with less material to go on than enigmatic drama they still establish volatile identities.

Can't say I'm the biggest fan of capturing animals to sell them to the highest bidder. Especially the rarest inhabitants of the jungle. It's much more fun to think they roam free.

Life of Pi does make a strong argument in favour of zoos, but I think the larger animals still definitively abhor them (unless they're lazy).

I was mistaken in my initial hypothesis regarding Primal's concluding moments, but I can't say much more than that without giving too much away.

It's a cool film if you like this kind of story.

Would have been cooler with African American survivors.

And reforms leading to the release of the animals in the end. 

Has Nicolas Cage ever been in a film with Gary Oldman?

They're both best actor winners who never lost their cool.

As far as I know.  

Directed by Robert Rodriguez? 

. . . 

Ace in the Hole

A versatile reporter, who's worked for the biggest papers in the U.S., finds himself writing in Albuquerque, New Mexico, after having burned too many bridges.

He's still accustomed to glitz and glamour and has trouble settling into small town life, unimpressed with natural phenomena, he works hard but can't get used to it.

Sent out one day to cover a far off rattlesnake hunt, he picks up a scoop while attempting to gas up, which leads to a man immobilized deep within a mountain, and the human interest story he's been longing for.

Realizing what he's got and ready to milk it for all it's worth, he convinces the local sheriff that he can get him re-elected if he helps push the story just a little bit further.

So rather than rescuing the chap in 12 to 16 hours, an elaborate drill is employed with a 6 day timeline, and as the story blows up across America, concerned citizens flock to their locale.

But as Chuck Tatum (Kirk Douglas) continues to write copy he finds himself starting to care for Leo Minosa (Richard Benedict), as he suffers locked down below, and has harsh interactions with his wife (Jan Sterling as Lorraine) who wants to move back East as well.

New York comes calling and soon he's back up to a $1000 a week, but it becomes apparent that Leo's dying and he's the man directly responsible.

Conflicting attitudes polarizing soul and sensation dig contentious woebegone roots, as grim mortal reckonings shock aggrandizements, and Tatum suddenly considers morality.

The ensuing spectacle gaudily encourages accusations of the exaggerated, but seeing how ubiquitously Trump used to dominate headlines makes me question assumed hyperbole. 

Contemporary news certainly is rather drastic and seems catastrophically disposed, not that there isn't quite a lot to worry about or take note of or dismiss or applaud.

Years ago I had a thoughtful boss who told me he didn't watch or read the news, and I wondered if they were missing out by deciding to not stay in touch.

But as I age and the world becomes more volatile, sometimes it seems like their approach has merit, inasmuch as peace of mind is something to be desired, and more easily attained by ignoring revelation (there are so many disasters right now, including environmental, economic, and social/racial varieties, not to mention the plague [it's insane how depressing the news is]).

Ace in the Hole is a fascinating film whose message is enduring, reliable.

Where should the ethical line be drawn?

What happens to a world where there no longer is one?

Wrote this long before Biden won the election, around when the first wave hit in fact (edited today).

Hopefully a willingness to at least try and forge a consensus emerges. 

It's gotten so far out of hand.

*Point of clarification: I mean that a significant percentage of Americans seem to love sensation, and sensation was Trump's bread and butter. Therefore, it's not surprising that Chuck Tatum's able to generate sensation regarding his scoop in Ace in the Hole, even though at first it seems unrealistic.

David and Lisa

Sequestered far off in sympathetic regalia a gifted adolescent gradually makes friends, his highly strung opinionated disposition leading to conflict after first moving in.

If anyone harmlessly touches him or even suggests shaking hands, he erupts in crise de colère believing illness or malady will soon emerge.

None too amused with the psychiatric practice he defies his doctors as they present questions, quick to diagnose what's latently presumed in whatever is lightheartedly discussed.

Extremely defensive and generally combative an otherworldly fellow student puts him at ease, as she innocently communicates with rhymes and freely expresses herself through drawing.

Her carefree influence institutes calm and he starts agreeably listening to others, and taking part in various activities without introducing bitter criticisms.

But his parents aren't so sure he requires consistent supervision, and decide to bring him home long before he's contentedly transformed.

They try to help him comprehend what they consider to be sound.

But he misses his newfound friends.

And their free-flowing unorthodox collective.

David and Lisa is a touching must-see for anyone who's ever felt like somewhat of a misfit, for within irreverent rascality finds cohesive charmed community.

The affected or grouchy or compulsive or blunt find a safe place unobstructed by conformity, and eclectically assert multivariable dissonance in sweetly flowing uncanny favour.

Fortunately the doctors aren't motivated by strict pretensions, and by listening while freely conversing they remodel overbearing instruction.

There's no specific time limit and even less of an agenda and by no means a strategic plan, the students are rather given free time to matriculate beyond firmly structured commands.

Since there is something they just don't quite get in relation to generalized sociocultural temporality, it's wonderful to see them given the space to cultivate something random and specialized.

Through mutual acceptance and compassionate tolerance healing ascends with concordant eccentricity, and hang-ups and grudges and chips slowly fade since there's much less demand for routine predictability. 

Grievances persist but they're much less intense and friendship sees that they're readily forgiven.

An outstanding heartfelt film.

That's as sharp as it is mellifluous. 

Shampoo

Freewheelin' exploits extemporaneously philandering seek abundant finances to facilitate commerce.

He's a local success and highly sought after, the rich and famous attuned to his ingenious hairstyling, he hopes to open his own salon, his skill set lacking desired vocabularies (not writing about myself).

Alternative dialects suit him well as he wanders to and fro, and his natural way with words leads to manifold indiscretions. 

His partner has no idea and neither do the love interests of his contacts, who happen to be the jealous type, even if they applaud sportspersonship.

He's reached an age however that culturally suggests he settle down, and a choice must therefore be made in accordance with upheld tradition.

Yet even though he's established he does lack ze boundless wealth, which leads to sophisticated complications, that can't be put back on the shelf.

I thought things would be rather simple in my youth, you find someone then you marry them, and then focus on work afterwards, never having to worry about your relationship's status, both partners committed to conjugal ideals.

But sundry exceptions open up while aging which are by no means crystal clear, and relationships seem inordinately complicated and confusing and rather laborious.

George (Warren Beatty) flies far and wide in a sphere unaccustomed to stock impulse, and does well or at least never lands and generally avoids shocking turbulence.

Many of the peeps he encounters are happy to actively engage, and see no point in pursuing repercussions since they dismally spoil the fun.

As long as everyone doesn't see the harm in carefree amusement, it seems like a joyous state, in which one could passionately succeed, perhaps even levitate.

Perhaps at times it works and there's no need for grim presumption.

Before the embrace of traditional ideals, the characters within seem quite well off. 

Make Way for Tomorrow

A couple who has aged ensemble suddenly finds themselves torn apart, none of their children willing to take them both in, a dispiriting haunting rupture.

Yet since they have grown accustomed to fortitude they accept the news with unflinching resolve, physically separate yet spiritually stoic as they embrace disengaged psychologies.

The children whom they raised aren't as accommodating as one might expect, and abound with petty grievances rashly derived from a lack of sympathy.

Ma (Beulah Bondi) tries to make herself useful but is critiqued for having cared, and Pa's (Victor Moore) friends are strictly scrutinized should they stop by if he falls ill.

They dream of once again living together and send letters to that effect, age old romance blossoming invariably as they exceed from post to post.

But as time passes the lack of compassion ignominiously increases with discourteous candour, and related verbal and formal encumbrances make a tough situation grim.

Fortunately, just before Pa sets out to move to far off California, he meets up once again with his cynosure and they proceed to head out about town.

They're treated to a magnanimous evening at the hotel where they once honeymooned. 

As their children furiously wait across town. 

They call to announce they're not coming.

So important to make people feel useful no matter how young or how old, to make an effort to be somewhat agreeable and cater to difference as it quizzically thrives.

As long as the peeps aren't belligerent or obtusely jettisoning snarky vitriol, it's easy and fun to embrace alternatives as they curiously and thoughtfully arise.

Sometimes you notice efficiencies that have been overlooked or perhaps forgotten, but the headstrong valuation of their time saving reckonings may cause distress if abruptly disseminated. 

Sometimes the logic of a course of events may seem expeditiously unsound, but by proceeding through resonant jazz you find rich novelties unconsidered unwound.

Sometimes the delegation of duty should be enlivened through imagination, a recasting of mundane responsibilities invigorating quotidian echoes.

Just listening is paramount indubitably when negotiating interpersonal interactions, empathy and compassion resilient allies as you strive to nurture camaraderie. 

Self-sacrifice and sincere understanding make way for soulful synergies. 

No one wants to wind up in longterm care.

The related realities exposed are horrifying. 

H😻lidate

Ne'er hath there been a more potent elevation of the single life, or the need to exonerate wisdom as it applies to relationships postmodern.

Sloane (Emma Roberts) can't find a compelling reason to once again seek a significant other, so she's consistently critiqued and patronized by her verbose bewildered family.

"There must be something wrong, you don't look happy, mistakes have been made," there's no end to the traditional censure of her freeform alternative lifestyle.

She grows weary of the pervasive counsel and decides to make a compromise, and searches for someone to date on social festive celebratory holidays.

She finds another who's none too fond of strict definitive attachments, and they begin dating on special days when families expect bilateral union (Luke Bracey as Jackson). 

It seems they have both had their hopes crippled by brash arrogance, while attempting to cohesively bond, the results combative, stern, lugubrious.

They've both been concretely crushed. 

And trust romantic means no longer.

Thus, they get to know each other slowly, one raunchy holiday after another, until they finally agree they've found something worth pursing at other times throughout the year.

A chance to vindicate the single life was lost in desire ensuing, a daring independent serenade left hollow and unrequited.

A series of films could have been made indeed wherein which neither Sloane nor Jackson found love, growing more and more unique as each narrative concluded in flux.

And friendship could have been upheld with sober carry-on longevity, a professional intermittent liaison boldly crafting mature respite.

As it stands, I think people will like it, it's full of sentiment I just don't get, not that the characters aren't amusing, nor the idea somewhat cool.

Perhaps longing for something less superficial prevented me from appreciating H😻lidate, for it briefly seemed debonair eccentric at the irritated outset.

A series about single professionals could work as well most certainly, one which discovers long-lasting meaning through endearing humorous friendship.

Different characters in every episode, different countries and walks of life.

Netflix is super international.

Testing limits across the globe.

Written on the Wind

Two friends having grown up together remain collegially close as mature callings beckon.

Romance passionately translates reflections from one to the other, but Kyle (Robert Stack) seeks the damsel more readily, outmaneuvering alternative constructs.

His outlandish sister (Dorothy Malone as Marylee) has been in love with Mitch (Rock Hudson) for as long as she can remember, but he only sees her as family, which encourages rebellion.

They're some of the wealthiest peeps in Texas yet aren't detached or country club, preferring less ornate otherworldly enrichments to pretentious self-aggrandizement.

But young, Kyle seeks to raise young and encounters structural impediments, which leads to an excess o' corn, and generally swished saturation.

Mitch still loves Kyle's formerly blushing bride (Lauren Bacall as Lucy) but would never betray his friend, and even though she's somewhat flattered, she'll stay true to the bitter end.

The assiduous patriarch is none too impressed with the lackadaisical proclivities of his offspring, but he's too busy to run their lives, and they're far too independent.

Principled woe and abandoned happiness stoically blend within, to remain forever youthful, punishment Written on the Wind.

The first twenty minutes or so, the inspired improvised courtship, pull you in with literary enchantments, strictly spellbound as they subside, the austere tooth & nail.

Douglas Sirk holds things together enabling tragic tight-laced wonder, misfortune lamenting dreams, distressed dissolved exaggeration.

A solemn reverence for loyalty doesn't lack charming consistency, desire manifest and consequent yet forbidden barred ill-favoured.

The townsfolk hesitantly assert themselves to add poignant sociocultural depth, as demographics merge collide to interrogate what's left.

Acrimonious acclimations.

Antique shivers cloaked.

To have everything but what you want when it isn't even out of the question.

Friendly fusions immoderate misgivings distant lands picturesque pastures, if more had to be done perhaps everything would have seemed less demanding, like a light bit of sweet shushing distraction, honeysuckled spruce butterscotch haunts.  

A shake.

Camping.

Ye olde Yahtzee or Trivial Pursuit. 

Unconcerned with discourse immutable. 

Take it easy. 

Just the way things go.

The Verdict

A troubled lawyer stricken and saturated is handed a routine straightforward gift, just show up and take the money ($70,000) and the controversial case is closed.

That's a lot of dough for maybe 20 hours spent meeting clients and doing a bit of research, show up, converse, agree, sign, and it's 6 more months living free and easy.

But there was a time when justice and reason inspirationally dawned and motivated, their ethical objective illuminations stoically crafting truthful light.

He doesn't plea he takes the case re-emerging from heartfelt pitfalls, an old colleague from back in the day providing ample inclusive support.

But the judge is resignedly stubborn and ornately impressed by antecedent repute, prone to belittling and austere exaltations of the concrete master narrative.

The opposition is equally dismissive of his regenerative resolve, and has lofty resources and a dedicated team at its institutional disposal. 

A star witness suddenly disappears, leaving him without that much of a case.

But he digs deep and perseveres as jurisprudence comes 'a calling.

It's classic David & Goliath emitting resonant influential social justice, the honest driven innate perspicacity as level-headed as it is hardworking.

Truth indeed equanimically supports him as he clashes with litigious artifice, protocol and proper procedure favouring blunt ostentatious deception.

Theoretically the law persists beyond specific ideological constructs, each case consisting of unique arguments to be meritoriously considered.

Objective discerning judgment may lack attuned collegiality, but inasmuch as it upholds the truth it represents an unbiased ideal.

It's an ideal which cultivates fair play and resounding equality before the law, and is therefore fundamental to democracy insofar as it's apolitical.

The independence of a country's judiciary is constitutionally vital, and keeps impulse and ploys and caprice from wildly reckoning with fads unprecedented.

The Verdict seeks mercy and clemency far beyond authoritarian influence.

Legal objectivity favours both sides.

Through tried and true uncontested resiliency. 

Tôkyô no yado (An Inn in Tokyo)

A single dad wanders from town to town in search of work with his two sons, with no place to stay and little money for food, he struggles as he searches for assured circumstances.

He's a tender man who's upset but not bitter, and still finds ways to imaginatively play with his children, they go with the flow and keep things light encountering another family who can't find work either.

Catching stray dogs can earn them something, even if flashy clothes are more appealing than food, and one night as it looks like they'll sleep outside, an old friend appears and offers them shelter.

A job is found shortly thereafter and things slowly and surely stabilize, but fortunate Kihachi (Takeshi Sakamoto) loves his sake, and from time to time drinks way too much.

As his life improves the other family's takes a turn for the superlative worse, and Kihachi feels he must do something to hold back the ferocious abyss.

Tôkyô no yado (An Inn in Tokyo) compassionately examines difficult times, the hardships confronting a kind man of conscience, who fights back against impoverished misfortune.

He accepts his fate and loves his children and never weeps or blows his top, finding solace in simple pleasures, in harvests and yields and crops.

Agency exists partout in mutating differing degrees, and it isn't only the affluent who can facilitate change, it's just a matter of persevering to the best of your abilities, resilient recourse diverse refrains.

A lot of the time chill solutions fluidly present themselves with communal care, whether it's a meal or shelter or a job, a placement, perhaps fixing something.

Kihachi's sacrifice achieves sublime ends even if it's tragic in its composure, a refusal to be bound by material reality in the pursuit of piecemeal justice.

Rare to come across films that are so patient and caring, that slow things down to enact cinematic resolve, to showcase emboldened endearing good spirits, humanistic agency beyond wealth or income.

Even though the situation is grim and reprieves seem like remote impossibilities, rich imagination still naturally flourishes, through age old non-violent customs.

It's a triumph of spirit immersed in contemplation, considering outcomes beyond individualistic concerns, even if you lack wealth you can still do something, invigorate animate turns.

Perfect for a light Spring evening where you want to embrace a less rapid pace.

Some bread, some cheese, some spirits.

Enjoyed with thought and emotion.  

The Big Heat

After a police officer's apparent suicide is determined to be suspicious, an honest detective sergeant uncompromisingly takes the case.

The clues point to a stern crime syndicate which is well entrenched within the town, but making arrests or acquiring evidence proves inextricably drawn and complicated.

Bannion (Glenn Ford) proceeds regardless with noble intent exceeding righteousness, directly to the established regime who's none too impressed with the inspired intrusion.

Soon his legitimate motives are questioned as he becomes a target for enraged thuggery, possessing commensurate headstrong wherewithal, things are bleak and rugged and ruthless. 

It's not inquisitive parlay, he's taken things right to the nerve stricken centre, without much forethought or investigation, like Kurtz he just thought it up and did it.

The repercussions are harsh, his resolve fierce and sympathetic, as he refuses to simply back down, attuned to paramount sublime ideals, and a bit of stubborn insanity.

But the world's by no means idyllic even if virtue is highly regarded.

In such a situation how does one proceed?

How do they induce potent logic?

Helps if you're not on your own and others appear offering tough helping hands, and the script's written to firmly uphold as you freely and nimbly engage.

It's perhaps too bluntly composed as Bannion boldly contends and interacts, too direct, to too the point, without moderate intervening placations. 

The Big Heat's stark contention examines polarized jurisprudence, but doesn't focus on the intermittent stages with much multifaceted concentration.

It's sort of like a football game where good and evil are the opposing teams, and while such a strategy works in sporty realms, it's somewhat disappointing when applied to film.

Realistic film anyways, or films that don't experiment with reality. You expect that kind of thing from superheroes but not from real world crime drama. You could argue that therefore The Big Heat presents the unexpected, which can be a positive thing, since it's important to tear down boundaries when considering alternatives.  Sometimes constabulary candour works well in less grandiose environs, but not when the situation requires depth to convincingly deconstruct the big picture.

Still, for a shout out to doing the right thing within the exceptional bounds of the superheroic, The Big Heat and Glenn Ford deliver.

Not without their share of sacrifice.

Not sure if it qualifies as film noir.   

Fisherman's Friends

Daily life twists and turns much as it always has in a small Cornish town, the local inhabitants full of stern comment bluntly mixed with jocose observation.

Not much has changed in recent centuries concerning work and the steadfast tide, the sea continuing to provide spry livelihoods for those rich in oceanic endeavour.

Record industry reps show up for a jaunt in the afternoon one sunshiny day, their activities irritating the townsfolk after they necessitate search and rescue.

But true to form they keep an ear open and discover an old school sound, fisherpeeps revitalizing age old melodies in newfound vibrant distinct bounds.

One remains after the lads depart to see if they're interested in a record deal, the singers responding with cheeky discord as he makes his lively pitch.

They're not to be won over swiftly so he must prove himself at sea, departing with them shortly thereafter bona fide recruitment pleas.

But his friends are having a laugh and don't intend to sign the band, which ruffles his feisty feathers since they've agreed to chant offhand.

He decides to go it alone and find another label who might like their sound.

Falling for village life. 

And a suspicious homegrown belle (Tuppence Middleton as Alwyn).

Fisherman's Friends celebrates traditional valour with bucolic pluck and sombre tenacity, the unwritten integrity of the spoken word as dearly vital as brave responsibility.

As brave as voting for Biden in Texas.

It's clear what will happen from the outset but that's entirely keeping with form, since a degree of predictability is to be expected from ancient scores.

A strong filmscape doesn't only include the wondrous novelties of the avant-garde, since democracy takes into account multivariable vast divergence.

It's not up to one or the other to uniformly evoke taste or style, since democracy is inherently diverse and such diversity upholds tradition.

Tradition itself isn't always as concrete as proponents would have you believe, libraries home to exceptional repositories of historical change and off-kilter mutation.

I imagine many people have traditions which they hold dear, and would change others posthaste if given the chance, the corresponding multifaceted dialectic robust with intrigue and grave indignation.

Ye olde tradition was once likely novel or as innovative as Zoom or the Dodo.

Biden himself is rich in tradition.

And clearly innovates with old school integrity.  

Hubie Halloween

As Halloween ascends, devout Hubie (Adam Sandler) prepares to celebrate, decorating his yard with festive rigour, taking the time to trust and care.

He also instructs local children at the high school he once attended, and even if they respond critically to his counsel, he still persists with animate declamation.

He still longs for his childhood crush whom he still has difficulty approaching (Julie Bowen as Violet Valentine), although he can string verbal loci together, when tasked with delicate comment.

His mom (June Squibb) does her best to encourage his loyal safety-oriented verbose reckonings, even if the rest of the town has taken to responding with varied projectiles.

But a new neighbour has recently moved in who's unfamiliar with traditional testaments (Steve Buscemi as Walter Lambert), and advises against disturbing him even if noise proves dire and irksome.

Local police are well-versed in Hubie as he consistently warns them of danger, and have developed related protocols designed to rapidly appease his qualms.

But on the particular Halloween in question Hubie's unease is more on the ball.

As people begin to disappear around town.

People known to lambaste his self-sacrifice.

It's been a long time since I've seen an Adam Sandler film, and I was wholeheartedly impressed, the old school magic still playfully enchanting as the ridiculousness flows unhinged.

Well-attuned to the rowdy shenanigans freely generated by social interactions, Hubie Halloween proceeds unabashed for another round of Sandlerian mischief.

A narrative such as this could have shifted and swerved into harrowing hysterical heartache, but it was hewn by less psychotic impulses to emerge imaginatively constructive.

As is often the case, the do-gooding lack versatile camaraderie, and struggle to cohesively integrate as they pursue less raunchy endeavours.

But Hubie's actions do not pass unnoticed as he employs freeform unsupervised tutelage, for members of the community do respond to his altruistic forgiving theatrics.

Hubie Halloween transported me back to a time less schizoid and volatile, when statespeople seemed to care more about governance than likes and shares on Twitter and Instagram.

When things seemed like they were moving forward far beyond O'Doyle's rules, consistent current manifestations mind-boggling grim unfathomable reversals. 

I'd say Sandler's still got it, can still teach while having some fun.

The urine stained sheet, the would be werewolf.

Nice to see a Halloween film that's a bit more lighthearted.  

*Buscemi doesn't show up in spellcheck. 😎

The Prestige

Professional rivalry, two up and coming magicians, each determined to present the most striking spectacle, imaginable, yet one is careless, and the other's cherished love interest passes, things taking a vicious turn in the aftermath, as they both refuse to back down.

One believes in dangerous risk taking while the other is more reserved, although the intensity of their grim competition provokes grand transformations forthcoming.

One visits the coveted Tesla (David Bowie) at his residence in the wilds of Colorado, and requests the creation of a machine that can transport matter from one location to another.

He believes such a sensation has already been acquired by his adversary, and spends a fortune to flagrantly duel, his nemesis not in possession of exhaustive funds, yet more innovative counterintuitively speaking.

I've never understood compulsive obsession and the personal desire to win at all costs. Sportspersonship is too valuable a concept to be obscured by personal ambition.

It's preferable to lose having played by the rules than to succeed through nefarious means, as long as you give your best effort and suppress destructive envious tendencies.

I pay too much attention to sports to proceed otherwise, not that I'm by any means a great athlete, but so many great athletes compete year after year without ever winning anything.

This doesn't prevent them from competing or trying to win one more time, they're great role models for the active spirit who never grows weary of enriching fair play.

Alfred Borden (Christian Bale) and Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) take things to levels I can't comprehend, to resort to sabotage or deliberate vengeance insults the art they're skilfully crafting.

I thought the arts would be much more friendly in my youth since so many of the artistic people I knew were often kind, the realities of the art world somewhat disconcerting as people critically jockey for position.

I suppose there are fewer opportunities to succeed as an artist than there are for sporty peeps, and the lack of engaging opportunity drives ambition to psychotic levels.

But it seems better to chill on the fringe than embrace destructive psychologies.

If you want the world to be a better place and you adopt ruthless means how will anything ever change?

Beyond what's written.

More respect for aging artists in the Anglo-American sphere may lead to less intense conflict, I'm by no means an expert on French culture, but it's clear they hold the arts in much higher esteem.

In general, not in relation to me, French culture seems to cultivate a much more level playing field for the arts and sports, which could explain why they're so successful at both, why they keep generating such incredible outputs.

The Prestige is an excellent film that showcases unsettling realities. 

There's so little to soulfully gain.

Through bland underhanded corruption. 

My Octopus Teacher

In keeping with the fame of YouTube's adorable octopus video(s), Netflix has released My Octopus Teacher, a stunning documentary that follows an octopus, shifting from one aqueous locale to the next.

It's a nature documentary like no other, focused on one flexible beastie in particular, not a seal or a dolphin or a whale, but a camouflaged octopus, hiding away.

Undaunted by the challenge of locating the same octopus every day for months in chilly water, Craig Foster proceeds like a diligent inspector, and learns to find clues in the imposing seabed, until enough knowledge is acquired for routine confidence.

He's inspired by African tribespeople who can track wildlife in manifold forms, because they read their environment like a book that's as logical as it is multifaceted.

I encourage pursuing higher learning at length or at least for as long as it compels you, but that doesn't mean people who don't acquire a formal education simply sit back and shut off their brains.

They just apply their intelligence to alternative variables just as rich with imaginative wonder, never tiring of intellectual endeavour, as it relates to non-scholastic rhythms. 

Thus, you find ingenious indigenous peeps who can't read or write or use a computer, who still understand their natural landscapes like surgeons preparing for open-heart surgery.

Hence, Foster doesn't give up, as he slowly teaches himself to track octopi, his troubles compounded by a lack of oxygen, or having to constantly resurface.

Total respect for such aquatic ambition, tracking earthbound wildlife seems much lighter in comparison, tack on the cold and the fluctuating visibility, and you've got wondrous herculean composure.

Planet Earth 2 seems like the apotheosis of nature documentaries, with countless shots of remote terrains, terrains that are incredibly difficult to access, its material presented with vigorous narrative.

But nature documentaries are vast and consistently mutating, finding new ways to resiliently captivate, My Octopus Teacher a remarkable feat of filmmaking ingenuity.

Plus Foster is interviewed throughout and provides thoughtful commentaries about his labours, which capture the stages he patiently went through as he learned more and more about his shifty subject.

The octopus isn't exactly chillin', indeed things are rather intense when sharks come a' callin'.

But he eludes them as best he can.

A must see examination of a fascinating creature.    

THX 1138

A totalitarian society, all-encompassed inanimate below ground, every aspect of daily life accounted for, no slip-ups, no love, no quarter.

Drugs are used to manage every aspect of existence, each with its own specific function, ubiquitous relentless mind-control, from the unsuspecting cradle to the strung out grave.

Physical love is anathema, forbidden, and theoretically resigned to the past, those who find themselves amorously stricken assigned chemical recalibration.

Computers monitor everything and not even the most ingenious citizens can outwit them, but there's nothing else to do so they try, the consequences at least a novel distraction.

Leisure time consists of televisual depictions of those punished for immoderate transgressions, all sense of individuality or uniqueness having been thematically sterilized.

A woman and a man living together find themselves caught in the grips of illicit passion, their newfound wanton recklessness quickly detected and sternly dealt with.

But THX 1138 (Robert Duvall) is able to miraculously escape, robot police following in hot pursuit, as he seeks his domain's outer limits.

But this film was made in the '70s, so there are less guards to flexibly elude, the budget generated to ensure his capture, swiftly spiralling exponentially ascending.

A chilling take on a panoptic alliance between religion and the sciences, binding psychiatric liturgies coldly blended with ascetic computation.

It often seems that if science and religion could simply try harder to collectively resonate, the world would be less fanatically divided, and balance and order would felicitously reign.

It also seemed like the cyberspatial genesis wouldn't be transformed into a hotbed of lies, that truth and reason would inevitably flourish, harnessing foresight and benevolent judgment. 

I suppose Animal Farm comes into play, the founders of a new scientific-religious equanimity reasoning with resplendent illumination, before the next generation realizes less cohesive principles, and the balance of power is transformed anew.

It doesn't have to be that way of course, Scandinavia has seemed sure and steady for decades, with a strong commitment to responsible schools, intently focused on cultivating respect.

If there could only be more profit in respectable truths and less of a willingness to cash in on crazy, more opportunities for people left behind in an affluent system, paving the way to act constructively.

As generations raised by the internet mature then lead and govern, it will be interesting to see what happens, if political discourse changes profoundly.

Still a decade or so to go.

Endless narratives could be written meanwhile.

If Animal Farm is taken for granted, doesn't utopia have novel appeal?

Even if it only emerges for mandates.

Isn't that still something to strive for?

Midnight Special

With manifold signals being transmitted ubiquitously throughout the air, who knows what mental or physical transformations are in store for forthcoming cyberspatial generations?

If physiological indiscretions are emerging nonchalantly, they're passing by generally unobserved, or at least I've never heard them commented upon, in my active yet limited experience.

If there are any pathological side-effects of widespread wi-fi whispers, I imagine they would be carcinogenic in nature, but those immune to such theoretical maladies may still develop previously unheard of synthetic adaptations.

I don't deny the oft maligned potential for supernatural emergence, I just approach it scientifically, the classic unique characteristics that mystifyingly seem divine, the product of uncategorized mutations challenging established truths.

You need established truths to consistently function, but taking them too seriously leads to error, especially when they don't apply to a political context that emerges as variable forces interact.

The emergence of unpredictable situations tests political wills with animate rigour, and responses motivated by ideology may fall short if adjustments aren't flexibly adopted.

But without an ideology how do you ever inspire or drive or motivate, without some goal that's always out of reach why would you ever bother trying to do anything?

Alton (Jaeden Martell) just tries to exist but his gifts generate spiritual passion, in a strict localized religious cult devoted to translating his peculiar reckonings.

His unique abilities lead to prophetical acclamations as the status quo seeks to readily adapt, but it's no life for a confused young child, so his father (Michael Shannon as Roy) helps him break free of the compound.

His devotees are ill-amused and set off to track him down (as does the F.B.I), endemic clashes inevitably ensuing, in a traditionally focused sci-fi drama.

Classifying what he can do in general is beyond my limited comprehension, but it's like his mind is an organic computer that blindly communicates with various satellites.

Midnight Special's focus on the supernaturally down-to-earth offers a humbler vision than many Übermensch testimonials, the larger-than-life phenom immersed in environments more akin to the X-Men than the Avengers.

It's somewhat straightforward yet still exciting, I freely admit that I love this kind of narrative, with a surprising ending and calm and collected characters instinctually reacting to volatile circumstances.

Perhaps they are really are out there.

But without more evidence, who's really to say?

I like Joe Biden's down-to-earth progressions.

He seems like a really cool guy.

Fotbal Infinit (Infinite Football)

Sometimes you savour the sweet conversation effortlessly generated by bizarro dreams. 

The improbability encourages rash exploration the ridiculousness of which augments middle-age.

Or any free-spirited time period wherein which dreams distract distinctly, and sweet nothings or crafty fantasies conjure wayward cogent reckonings.

Everything'd be too serious otherwise, there would be no compassionate touch, assuming the difference between reason and absurdity still maintained a coherent balance.

An unacknowledged coherent balance, the irregularities of sincerest trust, cultivated through fleeting foundations, or mutually presumed ill-favour.

In conversation.

There's an art to this kind of conversation which preserves imaginative youth, and myriad compelling narratives have theoretically been spawned thereafter (Ferris Bueller's, Strange Brew . . . ).

Fotbal Infinit (Infinite Football) examines a champion who's taken things way too far, so caught up in his gripping imagination that he's lost sight of the inherent humour.

It seems like he's taking his idea seriously, far beyond rational realistic applications, but he may just be humorously distressed, and there doesn't seem to be much else to talk about.

An injury suffered in his youth led him to stop playing soccer/football, and his dreams of moving to the U.S. were forgotten after his country joined the EU.

Expecting to find excitement in the years following, he instead wound up in a permanent position lacking bureaucratic fluidity.

As the years past his thrilling fantasy became much more appealing than his daily routine, and began to permeate every discussion integrated into his private life.

Does he take things too far in his reckonings and turn every conversation into an awkward exchange, or is there just nothing else left to talk about, and has he found expeditious refrain?

He finds ways to apply his dream to each and every social interaction, it's a remarkable feat of maladroit dynamism, that revels in novel disjunction. 

I'm not sure if he notices the difference between dream and reality any longer, but he's found a way to spice up his life that's at least individualistically invigorating.

What reality's in fact the most ludicrous is perhaps a pertinent question?

Beyond the public sphere.

Quizzical misgivings.

Discursive implosion. 

All About Eve

A celebrated actress at home on the stage, routinely delivering multifaceted exonerations, of unspoken thoughts and dreams, desires, ambitions, theories, a daring picturesque virtuoso, caught up with rhythmic sage.

Involved with a significant other, in a situation lacking scandal, discursive variation tact frivolity, consistent thoughtful bustling capers.

An idea forged through shades transformative delicately shared to invoke dispute, enlivening playful courageous wagers, and joyful crazed repute.

The introduction of another, obsequious and bashful, offering her services for little in return, as the weeks pass she slowly accumulates subtle regard for performance earned.

Her name emerges in conversation with consistent animate praise, remarkable piecemeal code conversion sundry trades professed liaised.

Enriched through understudy awaiting fortune shifts stage lights, the occasion swiftly surging with a levity airtight.

As newfound inspiration reimagines ways and means, novelty or contagion flows sustains the evergreen.

Bit of a downer for the resourceful Margo (Bette Davis) who didn't see it comin'. Fame persisting less assured now that Eve (Anne Baxter) is in the running.

A traditional take on awestruck rivalry that extols acting, reflective fervour, All About Eve introduces a competitive element that transfigures as it stupefies.

I imagine its age old subject matter still resonates today, not only in terms of acting, but Netflix etc. and countless ads prove there's neverending commercial work for any actor.

I even saw David Spade starring in a recent Netflix film (it was terrible) and it looks like a new Bill & Ted film has been released (not on Netflix), plus famous directors like Martin Scorsese, Michael Bay, and the Coen Brothers have released films on Netflix, which I never thought I'd see happen, it's like the medium's extending careers indefinitely while still forging opportunities for younger talents, the game has seriously changed, and it's fun to view the superstructural transformations.

For advertisements, when I was growing up, if you ever saw famous actors at the height of their careers in ads it was surprising, I don't recall it ever happening, but from time to time you see it nowadays, meaning there's less work to go around (love the A & W guy!).

It's like there used to be a code of sorts where film actors never did television/series or commercials, and television/series or commercial actors wanted to be film actors, perhaps that's slipped away into the past, along with reputation and prestige.

Margo takes a break in All About Eve and perhaps will work no more, which would have been a shame, considering the incredible work Nicole Kidman's doing, not to mention Jeff Bridges or Tom Cruise. 

Adversarial competitions aside, All About Eve's concern with acting as opposed to writing or directing reminded me of my youth, when it was important to see everything an actor had made, before I became familiar with auteurs. 

And I doubt that will ever go away, the public love of actors is something timeless. 

I'll still go see a film if it's starring one of my favourites.

Even if I'm supposed to know better.

😉