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.