Summertime

An American tourist, curious and friendly, finds herself effortlessly immersed in Venice, wondrous monuments and sights to see resplendently resounding with ancient mystery (Katharine Hepburn as Jane Hudson). 

She's been saving for quite some time and her heartfelt sacrifice is finally paying off, the food and fireworks firmaments and fortunes felicitously fascinating with feisty fervour.

An enterprising urchin assists her endeavours as she graciously plays the tourist, his incisive knowledge of the local landscape providing entertainment and commercial escapades (Gaetano Autiero as Mauro).

She enters a shop within which a goblet illustriously guides her acquisitive proclivities, the shopkeeper, having noticed her once before, rather enthused by the striking coincidence (Rossano Brazzi as Renato de Rossi). 

Touristic and tantamount dialectic trajectories then tantalize tactician testaments, with sprightly spontaneous quizzical synergies, a night out on the welcoming town.

They hit it off seductively so soulful stature and synchronous surety, things warmly progressing to amorous awestruck inspiring mutual bold acculturations.

But she's only in town for a limited time and her hour of departure is swiftly approaching.

Could something enduring daringly bewilder?

Romantic poise, cavalier composure?

David Lean's Summertime celebrates love and innocent endearing enchantments, letting go to dynamically dream and embrace relaxed excursions. 

Spellbound sentience impressionable guides not much conflict like a favourite pillow, for once risk is resonantly rewarded beyond grief stricken dispatching doubt.

Venice is picturesquely presented an evocative blend of the old and new, at times it's like you're really there with an animate interest in its unique revelations. 

Not that you're trying to see everything you're rather led by convivial impulse, more of a feeling than a prescribed agenda which calmly takes in everything it sees.

As to how to proceed in similar situations I'm afraid I have no advice. I prefer the European style. Ms. Hudson has no regrets.

Jack Hildyard's cinematography breathtakingly captures so many sights and sounds, revelling in the aqueous undulating abundance as aerial vistas abound.

Perfect if you want to learn more about Venice and life and living too.

I hope to make it there one day.

Would be nice to see so much of Europe. 

Madeleine

A flexible titled dreamer finds a new home in Scotland (Ivan Desny as Emile L'Angelier), equipped with the devoted awestruck l'amour of a reputable fervent lass (Ann Todd as Madeleine Smith). 

She's from a stilted family which discourages intrigue however, her love flourishing incognito, concealed in furtive full-on trust.

Her father (Leslie Banks) hopes she'll accept the courting of a well-to-do local lad (Norman Wooland as Minnoch), who's settled within high society and conjugally keen.

He rules their lavish abode with patriarchal austerity, abiding by strict codes of conduct the subversion of which may lead to ruin.

Or the sanitarium or some such place she has absolutely no desire go, the resultant pestiferous pressure overwhelming her romantic longing.

You would hope there would be more opportunity, other options besides a propitious marriage, but these were different times indeed with fewer outlets for spry prosperity.

Her nerve implodes forlorn and lost she breaks off her clandestine betrothal. 

Her lover notably distraught.

And in possession of secret letters.

David Lean's Madeleine interrogates scandal as a matter of propriety, etched deep with the upper echelons indelicately diagnosing disquiet.

Odd to consider that one so well off would be so strictly bound, not with the desire to promote debauchery, but rather without independent means at her disposal.

It's a shame that tabloid fascination reconstitutes festive fetters, the skeptical gaze of the cynical eye necessitating stealth and cumbersome zeal. 

Madeleine does have deceptive means to be elaborately employed, yet her exceptional liberating scheming fails to pass without further comment.

What risk to take the one which leads to less disputatious uproar, or perhaps to nothing at all, perhaps void of thrill or consequence?

Certainly not a romantic take on lauded cherished flush true love, nevertheless unique in its remonstrations in its unorthodox blinding outrage.

Understanding is of critical import from disconsolate passionate perspectives, commiserating comprehensions deconstructed invariability. 

The inviolable traditionalist may regard Madeleine with horror, as endearing sought after outcomes languish in bitter virulence.

But the novelty remains somewhat comic from alternative dispositions.

By no means grand or exemplary. 

But still encouraging greater freedom.  

Blithe Spirit

A pleasant writer eager to diversify festively flirts with paranormal benediction (Rex Harrison as Charles Condomine), inviting a celebrated medium to his estate to engage in freelance séance (Margaret Rutherford as Madame Arcati).

Scientific objectivity and spiritual curiosity conversationally mingle meanwhile, as his second wife prepares for potential skepticism (Constance Cummings as Ruth Condomine), from the close friends they're sincerely hosting. 

The séance begins and things seem a bit odd as they often do when undertakings lack precedent, and when it suddenly ends humdrum happenstance seems to have been reconstituted. 

But Charles is hearing voices that no one else perceives, his first wife having accidentally etherealized (Kay Hammond as Elvira Condomine), and since he's the only one who can indubitably see her, doting Ruth erupts in fury at the loss of his creative mind.

But even if Elvira can't be seen she can still move objects with physical impertinence, and soon Ruth can't deny her presence, or the resultant distraught envy.

Charles is clever and easy going and does his best to hospitably accommodate, although his diplomatic discernment is cajolingly critiqued as both wives crave attention.

Mortality is habitually embittered as Elvira seeks a self-indulged conclusion.

But Ruth falls into the trap.

Eventually returning to assert predominance. 

The intangible substantially elucidates in David Lean's enigmatic Blithe Spirit, wherein which supernatural composure acculturates through mystical reflection.

The urge to forge consensus irascibly flounders as stalwarts inveigh, monogamy championed in the distracted afterlife, expediency heartily obstructed.

The script's a resounding brain feast for film lovers contesting somnambulistic oblivion, Noël Coward delivering literary liaisons conjugally cultivated through cerebral import.

A comic situation which has likely occurred to some erratically estimating generalized quintessentials, as logical improbability reasonably articulates through grand realistic fiction.

Whether or not there's anything to it I admit to keeping an open mind, as long as it doesn't cost more than 5 or 6 bucks, and an elaborate plot can't be detected. 

I was born predisposed to the otherworldly until science started to make much more sense.

Of course there are so many things it still can't explain.

Yet likely will.

Through the passage of time.

Thunder Force

The preponderance of superheroic heuristics imaginatively captivating multigenerational audiences, has perhaps left the less scholastically oriented behind in its cultivation of characteristic exception, not to critique the academically inclined, such ambitions are no doubt admirable and praiseworthy, and they'd just cause an uproar every day if there weren't brainy jobs out there awaiting them (love my jobs!), driving people crazy at Wendy's or the Gap, as they struggle within practical boundaries, but a democracy is not solely inhabited by studious ambitions alone, and hands-on tacticians deserve more representation in intergalactic narratives, like representatives from the workforce sitting on executive boards, in order to avoid a surfeit of theoretical impracticality (I am not indirectly critiquing the Liberal's most recent generous beneficial budget which I imagine they made in consultation with their grassroots). 

Captain America has played such a role well in many a Marvel film, his humble origins a sharp contrast to Thor or Tony Stark's, but he still lacks the contentious unconcern humorously invigorated by Thunder Force's Lydia Berman (Melissa McCarthy), who's nimble burger & fries lack of pretension leads to endearing syntheses of experimental know-how.

She's teamed up with a brilliant researcher whose parents were murdered by miscreants, the immodest destructive sociopaths who were mutated and given superpowers by cosmic radiation. 

Emily Stanton (Octavia Spencer) has devoted her life to stopping them by trying to find a way to give superpowers to anyone, through experimental research, childhood friend Lydia accidentally interrupting her experiment on the eve of their high school reunion, taking the transformative medication herself.

Once started the process can't be halted without ruining years of dedicated research, a lengthy arduous treatment program ensuing complete with intricate training exercises. 

Lydia is given super strength while Ms. Stanton uploads invisibility, the two eventually heading to the streets to fight crime, where they swiftly encounter the Crab (Jason Bateman). 

He works for the would be mayor who's currently running a duplicitous campaign (Bobby Cannavale), an authoritative miscreant himself who's promising to emphatically thwart them.

Melissa McCarthy brings raw uncompromised grit and tenacity to the superheroic domain, providing wild unscripted alternative impulse to prescribed elitist reckoning.

Like freelance writers doing their own thing or independent filmmakers authentically crafting, Lydia pursues justice with democratic intrigue while coming to terms with her unexpected powers.

There are a lot of funny moments and a memorable date night with McCarthy and Bateman, an extended scene that goes beyond so many neat and tidy encounters ("This is a trigger environment for me" 😂).

As for creating super soldiers I'll never forget Jacob's Ladder, or that episode of The X-Files, or pesky Khan or steroids in general.

Isn't eliminating poverty preferable to creating genetically enhanced warriors?

Doesn't a multidisciplinary sustainable economy also fight poverty and boredom?

Between the Lines

Isn't journalism healthier if it's crafted by a multiplicity of voices, taking local, regional, national and international scoops into account, as myriad stories suddenly present themselves throughout the feisty day, millions of people, multiple interests, a wide variety attempting to take them into account, don't people from Denver want to know what's happening in Denver, don't people from any town or city care about what's happening in their own backyard, doesn't a wide variety of editors ensure more fact checking and less uniformity, an informative multilateral public sphere where subjective outlooks can't be monopolized?

Isn't it a dangerous thing to have only a handful of newspapers for a country with around 350 million people, where every region promotes diversity and particular concurrence is tough to come by?

If there are only a handful of newspapers running the same stories and not bothering to compete with one another, can you trust that they're providing objective accounts of whatever they happen to be disseminating?

Couldn't the various senior editors simply get together for the weekend and come up with a specific focus that their employees would then have to concentrate on in order to present a particularized slice of subjective dubious truth?

If there are only a handful of news outlets and tens of thousands of people want the extremely limited positions, doesn't conformity override independence after an initial dazzling display?

And don't journalists desperate to hold on to their jobs feel more willing to abide by the dictates of a tiny cadre of editors, if there are no other jobs available and independence is judged anathema?

Isn't that totalitarianism cloaked in objective truth, with a monopoly on public opinion that's generally left unchecked?

Doesn't bold risk taking and daring investigative journalism suffer within such an unchallenged hegemonic filtered narrow environment?

Isn't it more likely that the best journalists won't find jobs since they're more likely to possess a dynamic independent spirit?

Won't they be more likely to start thousands of independent websites across the country multivariably focused on examining local daily news?

And won't their voices seem more authentic than a unilateral team which can't question its own institution without risking ostracization?

Won't both sides call each other fake and won't everything seem preposterous as they clash to the point where nonsense starts to seem meaningful?

Has this already happened?

Am I way off here?

Sabita naifu

Witnesses to a crime must choose between cash and conscience, the police desperate to find a witness, the killer flagitiously roaming free.

There's more accommodation than you might expect but not if greed recklessly overflows, grievous tests of heinous hang-ups begetting morose mortal woes. 

The initial crime is callously compounded by further murderous malfeasance, as it becomes apparent that the very same culprit also terminated innocent true love.

When the bereaved forsakenly discovers the rampant illicit carnage, he sets off to furiously avenge his unsuspecting humble sweetheart.

It's much easier to suddenly confront higher-ups in this old school style of film, and soon an extended street fight reminds one of The Quiet Man or They Live. 

But by the belligerent declarative end it becomes despondently clear, that another is responsible heretofore delegating unscathed.

The despondent lover resolutely agrees to help the local constabulary, as does another witness who is soon grimly betrayed.

A crooked counsel distressfully dissembling is soon caught by just repose.

But can his intel make amends?

As righteousness implodes.

Modest nondescript bold filmmaking jurisprudently avails within, as corruption and rehabilitation mutually balliset unhinged.

Imposed amoral mechanization confronts conscientious betrayal, as upright balanced codes of conduct disenchantingly detect treachery.

Suppose that's the way things go as cultures cultivate civilization, alternative visions boisterously clashing swathed in disconsolate ideological conflict.

Those who enjoy the conflict chaotically prosper beyond reason, irreconcilable institutional sophistries ensuring unconcerned abstract elevations.

In the artistic realm such elevations make for compelling books, Proust et les signes (Deleuze) for instance which isn't too abstruse.

In politics however you would hope one outlook doesn't govern inherent multiplicities, unless such a viewpoint encourages multicultural lateral growth and inclusive sustainable employment (or there's a pandemic on and people need to wear masks, stick close to home, and social distance, in order to avoid catching and then spreading a deadly virus).

Too bad mutually constructive lateral growth so often gives way to imperial ambitions.

I'd rather chill in Parc Jeanne-Mance myself.

iTunes music.

Microbrasserie du Lac-Saint-Jean. 

Ripley's Game

Hardboiled sociopath Tom Ripley (John Malkovich) has moved to the peaceful suburbs, where he's intent on making friends, even taking the time to show up at social gatherings, playfully evoking gentility. 

At one such gathering however, a neighbour starts to confidently ridicule him, unaware that he's in the room, and listening with disaffection. 

Not one to let things go, the next time he's propositioned to commit murder, he remembers his unprovoked disparagement, and conceives a wicked plan.

He knows his unsuspecting assailant is terminally ill and could use good news on the home front, so he suggests that his underground contact asks him to commit the murder instead.

In exchange, a meeting with a coveted specialist will be serendipitously set up, where perhaps the new diagnosis will ease his family's despair.

He reluctantly agrees and soon it's off for feisty Berlin, where he timorously performs his newfound duty to his target's mortal chagrin.

But round 2 proves more of a challenge so Mr. Ripley lends a hand.

Where he makes a critical error.

And an unexpected friend.

A fictional glimpse into high functioning psychosis, Ripley's Game lacks ethical cohesion, everything passing by so quickly that morality languishes in ruin.

It's still an intriguing film controversially abounding with radical conscience, like a theatrical response to a philosophical question no ethicist ever thought to ask.

Ripley considers himself charming and likes to indulge in pretentious luxury, yet hasn't lost the quotidian touch which helped him amass his modest fortune.

He's like a jealous predator who sadistically taunts through practical experiment, and if his victims react with flexible accord he learns to cherish them like age old friends.

These friends become intoxicated with the shocking amoral venom, and lose sight of peaceful rationalities as the complacency consumes them.

A chilling examination of untethered ambition monstrously aligned with lavish desire, not entirely lacking in remorse, like a tiger seeking ardent companionship. 

Everything's a logical puzzle requiring a fresh improvised solution.

Like haunting impulsive calculation. 

Devoid of wholesome life. 

Skylines

An alien/human hybrid lives nonchalantly off the grid, remorse constricting personal ambitions, due to a failure to act in battle.

She's diligently sought after however à cause de her extraterrestrial expertise, a new mission having been spearheaded to search for booty on an alien homeworld.

A war was fought between human and alien in the not so distant past, from which terrans emerged victorious, the military mind still engaging recalibrated hypotheticals as it worries about the future.

After the war, abundant alien pilots were freed from coerced somnambulism, making their home on planet Earth thereafter, perhaps fighting to protect animal rights.

But a virus is transforming them back into mindless grasping automatons, who rile and ravage everything they see, in chaotic grand decrepitude. 

Rose (Lindsey Morgan) accepts the mission and soon it's off to the far reaches of space, her compatriots bluntly unveiling envy, while wondering if she'll freeze once more.

But something much more sinister is recklessly salvaged after they furiously crash land, embittered genocidal knowledge which facilitates lofty commands.

Will they outwit Deep Space Nine's Alexander Siddig (Radford) in time to stop the raging pandemic?

Or will coldhearted unaccommodating vengeance seal the fate of millions?

It's emphatic fast-paced sci-fi abounding with hyperreactive apocalyptic import, scene after scene fuelling kinetic reconnaissance through altruistic embellished endeavour.

Astronomical odds extenuating precision displaced diasporas conceived reconciliation, the low budget spirit ascending judiciously through wave upon wave of nimble creation.

Perhaps somewhat too catastrophic inasmuch as genocide is always distasteful, the grim sadistic paranoid leadership unimpressed with interspecial acculturations. 

Nuclear strikes etcetera aren't well-timed with the current political climate, since just a short time ago disarmament goals were radically scoffed at.

Nevertheless, it is just a film operating outside political theatre, perhaps still commentating on jingoistic pretensions in order to encourage less destructive initiatives. 

In fact in the final moments political prisoners are discovered and their release encouraged, a collection of soulful dissenting voices who vigorously critiqued warlike passions.

Cool sci-fi thoughtfully nurturing multilateral collegiality. 

We can think the same way about animals.

And bring those on the brink back from extinction. 

Return to Oz

After having returned from Oz, little Dorothy is having trouble sleeping, her parents believing the care for her insomnia lies in electric shock therapy.

She's transported to a local institution hell bent on legitimizing experimental theory, the radical idea no doubt having been spearheaded by bored opportunistic sadists.

Another patient warns her of the horrors and they make a dashing escape together, during a forbidding storm no less, the "doctors" trailing in hot pursuit.

Dorothy awakes the next haunting morning to find herself having returned to Oz, amidst a lugubrious transformation ill-disposed to posit welcome.

She's remembered with distraught reverence by the absolutists who have brought about ruin, and as she attempts to discover what's happened tribulation maniacally sets in.

Fortunately, she quickly makes friends who are none too fond of totalitarianism, and seek to assist her altruistic endeavours to facilitate reanimated prosperity (I am not saying the COVID-19 measures in Canada are totalitarian. I support them and the ways in which they will save the lives of frontline workers).

But an evil queen and gnome king flourish in the bland malaise.

The bourgeoisie having been crushed.

Along with craft and celebration.

A bit of a puzzle as to how Walt Disney gave this idea the green light, why did executives think the sequel to a cherished family classic should be cultivated through mass depression?

The Wizard of Oz was once perhaps the most popular film, and it festively aired every year on television, even 40 years later in my youth, it was still mesmerizingly reverberating.

Why then did Disney decide to produce a calamitous morose successor, Dorothy has only aged 6 months, and has yet to be tested by practical independence?

From the point of view of teasing or distressing mad comedy it indubitably succeeds, bizarro decisions blended with inane guidance through the art of dysfunctional aneurism. 

It's just so strange to see Disney emphatically promoting what's usually reserved for art house mischief.

No Cowardly Lion, no Tin Man, hardly any Scarecrow, sure let's make a sequel without them!

It's like Newt and Hicks perishing before the beginning of Alien 3.

Instead there's a decapitated moose who talks, a wise robot, a pumpkin man, and a chicken (no Toto in Oz).

Perfect for cynical head wounds.

Otherwise somewhat dismal.