Galaxy Quest

The jaded cast of a sci-fi hit grow tired and weary of the sideshow circuit, depressing thoughts of theatrical authenticity clouding their chillaxed better judgment. 

It's a routine life filled with fame and fortune but it's not Olivier or Brando's bag, still playful and adored and loved and cherished but lacking awestruck critical acclaim.

The leader and sincerely-most-loved isn't as gloomy as the rest of the cast, and still seems to love the antiquated spotlight with as much vibrant gusto as when the show was running.

The others regard him contemptuously as he struts and frets and jives and exclaims, while he tries to bring them together as he once did upon the show.

When out of the blue, an alien species applaudingly arrives to seek their aid, a devious and degenerate ruthless alien threatening the safety of their realm.

They've modelled their entire culture on the dynamics of the show, and even built a working space vessel that can swiftly travel throughout the galaxy.

The noted leader generously agrees to help them out in their hour of need, but doesn't understand that it's actually happening that he's definitively become the objective leader. 

And after realizing that the aliens indeed seek their trusted homegrown knowledge.

The whole crew embarks to lend a hand through awkward yet genuine improvisation.

Obviously if you star in a television show you shouldn't have to play the same role in real life, to effectively feel a sense of accomplishment regarding your heartfelt cinematic endeavours. 

Some of these shows may seem ridiculous but they do still influence hearts and minds, the computer on the Starship Enterprise often anticipating contemporary life.

There's a spectrum that fluctuates and bends that can help out at dismal times, or provide a concise working model for upbeat psychological construction.

0-35% of the population seeks life free of management and structure, and tries to influence accordingly while rules change and regulations shift. 

35-65% of the population lives firmly in the middle, accepting that education isn't everything but certainly helps out a lot of the time.

65-100% of the population doesn't seek the input of others, and tries to manage everything from the top often with devastating effects.

If you find yourself in the 35-65% of the population who curiously listens to both sides, and brokers deals between workers and management you're likely enjoying an active life.

You're not enthusiastically ignoring a wide segment of the population, and likely enjoy the show you once starred in should you find yourself within such a situation.

This does seem to be where Canada's Liberal Party resides, and that's why they win so many elections or at least consistently do quite well. 

Managed by industry leaders like Mark Carney hopefully supported by Alexandre Boulerice, we could become an energy superpower that pays well (I'm looking at you hydroelectric power in Northern Ontario, Manitoba, . . . ), and stalwartly tread wild shifting waters. 

Never Eat Alone

Some days I'm pretty busy, there's a lot of stuff to do, but I always try to reserve some time for loved ones, so they don't spend the whole day by themselves.

By so doing, I get updates on the day's events and share observations about my work and studies, while appreciating an alternative way of life which once flourished in yesteryear. 

Sofia Bohdanowicz's Never Eat Alone captures a nimble Canadian ethos, a light yet edgy thoughtful look at something wholesome that isn't austere. 

It reminded me of some of the best programming I used to see on the CBC in my youth, entertainment that was also instructive without making you feel like you were learning.

I know it's difficult for Anglo-Canadian films to compete with American ones in domestic markets, from conducting a bit of research it seems that even the most popular struggle to turn a profit.

I believe it doesn't have to be that way though because I've seen what they've done in Australia and Québec, similar markets where American films are also shown on a regular basis.

That's one of the coolest things about Québec, the minimalized American influence, it's so much less intense than you find elsewhere in the country, a remarkable break from an imposing character.

With the minimalized American influence and a strong focus on supporting local artists, Québec actually developed markets for their films which consistently play in local theatres. 

Talk to the people in Québec and you'll find they have a strong working knowledge of their celebrities as well, like Anglo-Canadians have of American and British ones, it's really quite impressive.

It came about when the Parti Québecois starting financing culture in the 1970s, the government started investing heavily in film etc. and people loved it - the industry took off.

The same thing can happen in English Canada if governments follow the Québecois lead, we can develop markets throughout the country that keep homegrown talent from moving away.

I mention this not only because this seems like the perfect time (this is the perfect time) but also because Australia did the same thing, their government started investing heavily in culture and they made so many incredible films.

Canada is quite similar to Australia in terms of size and population, it isn't on its own in another part of the world far away from the United States however. 

You would think that if the United States was your neighbour you would have an incredible local film industry, like Germany's rivalry with France, with theatres packed every single weekend.

I love English Canadian films like Never Eat Alone because they're creative and heartfelt and loving, if they had a larger market it would no doubt be outstanding.

Look at what Australia has done (see the Australian New Wave) and what Québec has done as well.

Seek out political candidates who would cultivate the same in English Canada.

Create tens of thousands of jobs for local artists.

Note: people always complain about how terrible American films are. Do something about it! Help create a climate where we make even better ones here! When people say it will never work tell them to look at Australia and Québec. It didn't happen overnight. But with support, it did eventually happen.

Criterion keyword: Canada.

*P.S - when I talk about Canadian actors, I don't mean the ones working in the United States or Britain. I mean the ones who have spent most of their careers living and working in Canada. Let's create a more prominent film industry for them. There's no doubt they totally deserve it. 

Doraibu mai kâ (Drive My Car)

The active life sustaining supple harmless interactive thought, consoling quirky consternation adept immersive ingenuity.

The calm and patient holistic vision stoic steadfast solemn varsity, pertinent adaptable expansive sizzle earmarked voltaic latent pressure.

But his (Hidetoshi Nishijima as Yûsuke Kafuku) loving partner (Reika Kirishima as Oto) suddenly passes when perhaps he could have intervened, or said something to swiftly alter the dismal moribounding hemorrhage. 

Psychologically deconstructed he gradually jukes and jets and jigsaws, slowly reimagining amenable principle through lighthearted chill experiment.

At one time he reflexively envisioned daunting twists tantalizing turmoil, without pause or critical reflection the plain and simple erudite schism.

But his wife first found the idea, after which he quickly improvised.

The working relationship romantically inclined freeform forgiveness inveterate l'amour, a rare gift celestially insatiable prolonged compression distilled adrenaline.

A common goal remarkably productive intermittent rowdy regenerative horseplay, benefits accrued conducive clutches laidback lax alert consistency.

Not one to overlook novelty, he notices his new driver's (Tôko Miura as Misaki Watari) abounding with pluck, somewhat forlorn yet still observant eager to multidimensionally disperse.

In possession of secrets so much distraction inanimate disconcerting dalliance, inopportune exported rationed irrevocable hardwire harrowing husk.

Kafuku winds up working with a young actor (Masaki Okada as Koji Takatsuki) who had an affair with his wife, the two awkwardly engaged through mutual love lost shin limitless lugubrity.

One young and blunt unwilling to hold back the thoughts which emerge to haunt him, the other sombre and much less eager to discuss such sensitive direct subjects.

Through these discussions a play takes shape as volatility blends with reason.

Only to ceremoniously fade.

Tragic rage.

Resurgent vellum. 

Licorice Pizza

The motivations behind Paul Thomas Anderson's Licorice Pizza remain somewhat mysterious, and may depend upon whether or not he's friends with Quentin Tarantino. 

Mr. Tarantino is well-known and highly respected for making brainy yet sensual nostalgic metakitsch, that seeks to recapture a raw aesthetic that wildly flourished in yesteryear.

His devotion to the genres is quite commendable, and when it works, a film for the ages, at least I'll keep watching Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, and Inglourious Basterds throughout my life, and will be up for checking out his other films one if not several more times, it's possible I missed something the first shocking run through.

With Licorice Pizza, Paul Thomas Anderson also seems to be seeking to resuscitate a bygone aesthetic, but it's difficult to determine if his attempt is genuine, in fact at times it seems as if he's subtly lampooning attempts to resuscitate bygone aesthetics themselves, unless I completely missed something, if this film's meant to be taken seriously, my apologies. 

I've missed new music in my life since the pandemic started and cut me off from my favourite festivals, I can always search for new music online, but I'm still kind of old school, I like to head out to find it.

The lack of new or old music I've never heard before in my life has made me highly susceptible to catchy songs I hear on television, even if at a later date I can't believe I was sucked in.

But that didn't happen with Licorice Pizza. It's soundtrack isn't classic Tarantino. I was confused by Bowie's Life on Mars which is an amazing song, but the rest of the music left me unimpressed, even though I'm highly susceptible. 

It made me think Anderson was deliberately choosing lacklustre songs to see if he could disingenuously stultify Tarantino's success, perhaps in relation to some harmless wager between the two, although it could also just be a simple matter of preference, but my sensors were somewhat bewildered, due to my heightened susceptibility. 

Some of the situations weren't particularly captivating as well, like struggling to find gas during a fuel crisis, or trying to sell waterbeds.

Was Anderson subtly lampooning an aesthetic he developed (I'm not that familiar with his films)?

The title also seems like something someone would come up with if they were trying to playfully criticize a technique or style they didn't genuinely respect, like something one of the male co-stars Anderson consistently critiques in the film for having no class would have come up with, and tried to laud as if it was something exceptionally astounding, which it isn't.

The ending's still quite well done, a traditional elevation of newfound love modestly blossoming amidst scandalous tomfoolery.

My apologies again if this was meant to be taken seriously.

Otherwise, a metacritical masterpiece.  

Code inconnu: Récit incomplet de divers voyages (Code Unknown)

Indeterminate reactions sidestepping stimuli, attempts to integrate impressionistic zeal, melded with studied yet experimental role play, opportune emphasis, vernacular vixen.

Pumpernickel panache intuited hesitant precocious pantried parasol protocol, emergent revelation anodyne rubric ecstatic reservation lands unknown.

Subtle or daring cryptic courageous imperative nondescript agile evanescence, manifold merged transformative mysteries maestro a' mewing critically conscious. 

Restive receptive quizzical consommé piecemeal perceptive narrative legend, dwelling itinerant quadrants continuums amorous crooned cartographical quay.

Descriptive departure rhapsodic rapids whippoorwill whirlwind cortical calm, dorsal fin dreamy demonstrative dashing zephyrous zigzag literal lounge.

Nautically nestled lampooned luminescence solemn centripetal sermonized soirée, exotic exodus fermenting fusions coastal consensus taciturn tracts.

Vehement vessels ensconced equilibrium qualms quotients choral affirméd flotilla, doughty destination irrelevant rations unparlayed particulars maritime motion.

Envisioned intricate haphazard hijinks amusingly harmonized holistic surf, assertive rebuffles distraught notwithstanding inquisitive mischievous mirth.

Mundane immersive inevitable unchanging unified concordant prediction, intermittently erupting through humdrum monotonous atonal routine seas.

Variety unsurpassed inexplicably tactile imaginative gripping re-emergence, delicately embraces expansionist curious interactive proclivities. 

Patterns cherished patterns critiqued patterns belovéd patterns disdained, corresponding cohesions upheavals erratically nuanced through mood in flux.

Ever onwards agendas uncharted heuristic random anticipated happenstance, at times successful at others disheartening fluid trajectories fun intercessions. 

The pressing break of day landlubbing routine discordant seclusion.

Tasty latté ready to go.

Subconscious synergies.

Active stasis.

*That's my take on Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir's first date. If they ever really went out.

Living in Oblivion

Nerve infiltrates compacted peaceful slumber, as unspoken grim anxieties manifest bold social daring.

The act of producing low-budget melodrama generates distracting emotional tributaries, the resultant active jocose jubilee a startling frank holistic wonder.

Much of the action doesn't technically take place even if it still seems realistic, as if the tremors could tumultuously tantalize with neither shock nor animate discord.

As if this kind of thing routinely radiates fluid fluctuation, the finished product an ironic miracle when compared to remonstrations on set.

As if it's just as thought provoking to showcase inherent volatility, as schemes daydreams schematics soporifics seductively succour dis/continuity.

From back in the metaday when filmmakers were more concerned with layers of meaning, and creating remarkably clever scripts, Living in Oblivion proceeds self-reflexively. 

Language employed is critically analyzed as harmless accidents beguile tactile speech, and worst case scenarios disconcertingly duel with resonant rascally aggrieved reverie.

During this heyday way back in fact when I was but a wee ginger lad, I thought it would be cool to create a film adorned with a making of feature which was a common practice at the time.

But I also thought it would be cooler to include an additional making of feature about the making of feature, and then a third making of feature for a 4-disc set in compulsory total.

Thus, there would have been a making of the making of the making of feature to be found in the crazed metaconceit.

Perhaps with each making of feature shot in a different genre.

Sort of like Inception in a way (had this idea before I saw Inception [did Inception indirectly signal the end of the metacraze?]).

The key would have been to apply as much sincerity to each and every making of film (and make sure they were all at least 90 minutes in length).

Probably would have taken too much time.

But the finished product would have been exceptional.

Living in Oblivion bluntly impresses with endearing heartwarming chaotic charm, its agile breakdowns and plump peculiarities highlighting earnest lackadaisical indiscretion.

Daydreaming with 30 seconds to spare.

Latent practicalities of a dream sequence.

The perfect take's emergence.

Obduracy in charge.

Its title's well-suited to a pandemic as meaning consistently shifts and sways.

Found another Steve Buscemi Criterion (Nick Reve [Buscemi doesn't show up in spellcheck!])! 

With Peter Dinklage (doesn't show up in spellcheck either), Catherine Keener, Dermot Mulroney, and Tom Jarmusch (shouldn't show up in spellcheck). 

Tommaso

A caring romantic versatile actor intuitively attempts to settle into middle-age (Willem Dafoe as Tommaso), living in Italy at the moment, with his wife Nikki (Cristina Chiriac) and infant daughter.

He's recovering from an adventurous youth and is more in touch with routine than spontaneity, but Nikki's much younger than he is, and in possession of bold free spirits.

His warmhearted personality and wide-ranging depth of learning still generate friendship and opportunity, as he teaches from time to time and pursues vigorous Italian studies.

There's no shortage of work nor lack of inspiration in his multifaceted intriguing realm, in fact I'd argue moving somewhere new revitalizes the artistic life (as many others do too).

But he's becoming a bit more rigid, a little more convinced there's a way things should be, and he's much more willing to express his discontent at least at home when he's moody and hungry.

His family's non-traditional inasmuch as its roles aren't strictly typecast, not that he's looking for something that definitive, but he's also grown tired of loose-knit structures.

He's sensitive and hates being left out even if no slight was intended.

He feels like he's grown accustomed to neglect.

And tries to do something about it.

It's a pretty chill film for the most part, cool people living independent lives, creativity blossoming in the moment, relaxed agile thought and feeling.

Like Domicile conjugal, nevertheless, it has to introduce provocative conflict (without the comedy), which unfortunately transforms the synergies into something much less romantic.

Does there have to be a power struggle, do people have to try to take control?, I've met married couples who respect each other's boundaries and the results are often super fun.

I suppose narrative conflict's fundamental, one of the first things you consider when writing a script, but does that mean such narratives are fundamentalist, even when they're exploring unorthodox lives?

It doesn't, although you could see it that way if you grow tired of watching artistic films which embrace cataclysm, not that every art film should be laissez-faire, but it'd still be cool if it happened more often.

Isn't there realism in the laissez-faire as well, inasmuch as a lot of life isn't one big power struggle, beyond corporate trial and error, like a random ice cream sundae?

Is everyone just angry with everyone else (the Trump effect) and is it up to auteurs to serialize that angst, or do Degrassiesque ontologies persist like blanketed communal Zit Remedies?

Tommaso's a solid film but I was disappointed with the ending.

Would still watch it again though.

Abel Ferrara's still got it.

Postcards from the Edge

Constant motion, exceptional circumstances, wild indulgence, disorienting repercussions.

A blossoming actress well-versed in cinematic intrigue takes things multiple steps too far, and is sentenced to move back home.

She can therefore continue working after her overdose, even if incumbent oversight bewilders her resolve.

Things remain relatively calm, in Ms. Vale's (Meryl Streep) case anyways, but jealousy and deception neither flounder nor subside, as her mom (Shirley MacLaine) and newfound beau Jack Faulkner (Dennis Quaid) contend and philander respectively.

Explanations or reasons why disputatiously illuminate, as the struggling actress carries on.

Her strength is most impressive.

Her talent, undeniable.

Postcards from the Edge honestly presents a cerebral state of affairs.

Even though the situation's quite serious, lighthearted charm reveals resilient subtle character.

Blending in both sympathy and censure.

It resists impulses to sound too preachy and consequently doesn't infantalize.

It doesn't let anyone off the hook, but doesn't overflow with guilt or blame either.

I didn't know Carrie Fisher was such a good writer.

Postcards excels at offering versatile soul searching conversations between parent and young, examining the thought provoking envy that aggrandized their lives in show business.

But it's not simply envy, the envy's mixed with support and compassion, these beacons emitting clever conversational poise that tries not to offend as it resists temptation.

If it's blunt, it isn't overstated.

The conversations become more and more genuine as the film progresses, and director Mike Nichols gives them plenty of time to bloom as they patiently generate their own lifeforce.

Vale and Faulkner have some good arguments as well.

Some people who overdose don't get to return to work so shortly thereafter, so Postcards is a bit hands-on fairy tale.

But if forgiveness and mercy are to constructively abound, who's to critique such remarkable developments?

Cool film.

Wasn't on me radar way back when.

The Death and Life of John F. Donovan

A child reaches out to his favourite television star, and as fate would have it, he amicably responds.

Years later, transformed into an assertive young man, the fan discusses their correspondence with a none-too-keen reporter.

For something as innocent as a literary exchange, frail controversy abounds, the boy's life at school assailed, the star denying any involvement.

He was transitioning at the time to augmented cultured renown, replete with haywire strained theatrics, and their accompanying dis/enchantments.

As isolated feelings shocked and enervated, he became increasingly fraught and torn.

Both troubled penpals engage in heated exchanges with their mothers, youthful angst exploding, less dramatic knots unnerving.

Neither quite at home yet settled.

Pronounced and blunt misgivings.

The Death and Life of John F. Donovan tills new mainstream ground, its innovative form both strength and weakness, as thought duels with emotive viscerals.

Impassioned feeling erupts at times, defined by aggrieved adolescence, and it makes an impact inasmuch as it startles, and critiques with unhinged fury.

These scenes aptly reflect wild destructive rage, and they make dismal embittered sense, and they're rarely encountered with such derisive vehemence, like sure sighted succinct storms.

When I think about the scenes, their style indeed seems quite well-chosen, especially if you've ever lost or seen someone lose your/their temper, and let loose vitriolic condemnation.

But they're a classic example of honest hands-on realism clashing with deceptive fantasy, insofar as the raw echoing sincerity doesn't fit the upscale production.

I can't criticize them for being histrionic because the situations they dispute are akin to exaggeration, but it's still discomforting to watch as they shriek and tantrum, and the poor mother looks on despondent.

Dolan's arguably a master of such scenes and it's nice to see they weren't held back, to see him workin' his style pseudo-studio, and I'm wondering if a rushed schedule left him directing in haste, because his more independent features capture such frenzies with ironic delicacy, and leave you overwhelmed with comatose disbelief.

A learning experience.

A stepping stone.

Who knows what happened here?

It's a cool enough story that's super melodramatic.

But the abrupt pace lacks the composure of his earlier work.

So it depends on how you like your melodrama.

I like refined melodramatic ridiculousness.

Missed the boat on John F. Donovan I'm afraid.

Madeline's Madeline

Raw inimitable frothing exuberant talent exasperated within deductive convention extemporaneously seething through.

Misunderstandings contraceptively disputing improvised codes maladroitly enfeebling eruptive creative scripture, diminutive tisane steeped in self-doubt ominous reckless outbursts wildly stricken angst.

No rules.

No mentor.

Consuming instinct cognizant of its gravity elementally composing ephemeral truths, the art of reflecting a god's experimental impulses editing in universal flux, objectives unrecognized ceaseless mismatched byproducts tempering environmental exfoliation; arboreal glimpses sowing conscious splash.

Climatology.

Raindrops.

She's phenomenal.

Constant motion excavating incorporeal archaeological feeling clasped in whisked conjecture verifiably asymmetrically drawn.

Random impulse subconsciously sleuthing bare recalcitrants embroiled revealed.

Ethereal alma mater intuitively grasped like love blindly struck with congenital nuisance empiric moisture foam.

Mama lynx still a kit feisty mews mystified matriculating.

Exotic overtures.

Prone discomfort.

Abstruse grammar attuned not specialized boldly stoked constrained gusts briskly pounced moans rosetta.

Obscene exhaustion retail shock.

Peace of mind on stage.

Constituent convalescence.

Emotional infinities planetary permutations feline fluctuation omniscient ceremony.

Bertha dans la zone.

It's like performance anxiety is strictly material as Madeline (Helena Howard) disconcertingly asserts stratos.

Duelling with classification.

Alternatives strictly conceived.

The Seagull

I've never given much thought to creating new dramatic forms.

I figured I'd just keep going and if something remarkably different popped into my head one day I'd share it and see what happens.

The Seagull examines an eager son's desire to impress his dismissive mother whose highly regarded literary partner has fallen for a would-be ingenue.

Her son loves her as well but the world is set to injure.

He writes an innocent play involving animals and the devil and boasts of having created a revolutionary form which is ridiculed thereafter.

The daughter of the family who manages their farm loves him, although he never notices, and an enthusiastic yet dull schoolmaster loves her, and she could sincerely care less.

An admirable doctor and a wise aged uncle (Brian Dennehy as Sorin) provide colourful commentaries throughout the film, which is based on the play by Chekhov, and contains characters who are generally engaging even if they're somewhat hedged-in.

He's a cad, she's a diva, he's seen better days, she's a dreamer, he's optimistic, etc.

But most (or all) plays lack the thousands of pages Proust had to consider his characters as they grew over the course of a lifetime, so I can't categorically fault an artist for introducing individuals prone to one trait or another, especially when they have so many clever and passionate things to say during so many meaningful exchanges.

Imagine no one ever spoke their mind or shared their point of view, their silence an attempt to preserve a sense of authoritative detachment when observing a discussion held between friends and relatives (they aren't bored), which often expresses either a lack of courage or adventure, if they truly have something valuable to say.

Someone could write a play where a modest youth consistently presents novel insights and ideas while surrounded by established personalities who refute everything he or she says through recourse to stereotyped vitriol and name it after The Logical Song.

Or call it Canonized.

The Seagull tragically blends innocence and maturity to warn artistic youths to beware of popularity and its influence as it unconsciously recasts everything it can control in its own marketable image.

It promotes novelty and difference but situates them within a covetous frame that scathingly materializes naive spirited dreams.

To mock itself, perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool

A trip, an excursion, an itinerant vocation, dazzling and wooing, inspiring and enticing, at the actor's discretion, exuberantly, around the globe, a marriage a liaison a fling, an assignation, redefined convergence impertinently penetrating curious hearts and minds with interpretive variability and starstruck quivers, paramount mercurial mischief seductively invested and tantalizingly outfitted, a song bird, a siren, fervid fledgling sweetly swooning, hesitantly marooning, eternal embraces jockeying for illumination lightly treading chaotic chasms with resplendent divination, resting, nesting, flocking, guilty pleasures routinely exonerated, a cue, applause.

Gloria Grahame (Annette Bening) finds herself in England in Paul McGuigan's Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool, dating an aspiring local actor (Jamie Bell as Peter Turner) while reimagining herself on the British stage.

She's sick however, no one knows that but her, and her secret confuses young Pete as he tries to romantically conjure.

The film compassionately reveals an agile professional resiliently refining her art, continuously seeking new challenges to sustain hardboiled momentum, brilliantly unaccustomed to the demands of routine structures, suddenly forced, to withdraw bedridden.

Flashbacks.

There's a wonderful scene where her and Mr. Turner authenticate on a beach beneath a cavalier sky, discussing life and love and fortune, as fish begin to frolic in the nearby sea.

Another which captures her radiantly celebrating a performance.

She seems like she must have been fun to hang out with until you got too close or demanded too much attention.

Peter must have meant something, but his expectations clashed with her carefully hidden secrets, which were concealed to promote her career, to ensure she would never have to stop working.

She knew that, not him, she knew what she had to do to maintain her image, her mystique, her fame, Pete does eventually acknowledge this, even if it unintentionally tears him up deep down.

I read an article the other day/month/year which stated that love was like an addiction and people require medical aid after breakups.

This article.

Not the most romantic way to examine loves lost.

Proust's Fugitive may function as a literary counterbalance.

Which proves the scientific point.

Without sterilizing the poetic dysfunction.

Good film.

The Disaster Artist

Let's make a film.

Just write one up and shoot it.

Figure shit out on the fly.

Improvised panoramas.

Excelsior.

Incumbent deconstruction, the drive, the crew, the means, ecstatic Aberdeen, no questions asked, no answers given, just pure raw sutured cataclysm, supercilious sagacity, uncompromising desire, and opaque expertise.

For The Room, the team was assembled, it was undertaken with zero film production knowledge, conflicts inherently emerging between director/writer/producer/star/ . . . Tommy and those he had hired, a cult-classic aggregated through the mayhem, complete with rarefied mystifying endearing bewilderment.

Think things through?

Don't think things through, ye outcast with inexhaustible resources, many of Herzog's early films weren't that good, but some of them were, and he kept making more and more until he became a sought after phenom, morbidly obsessed with death and violence, doin' his thang, cultivatin' that groove.

Tommy needed someone, a friend, a pal, a partner, a confidant, he needed someone around to motivate him to do something, like ambient social energizing parlay, he found it while studying acting in San Francisco, in the form of an enthusiastic fellow student named Greg (Dave Franco), according to The Disaster Artist, which seems genuine if it isn't too commercial, anyways, he just needed that someone to talk to, one person, even if he was self-absorbed and unapproachable, he couldn't live the dream on his own, he needed another, a self-sustaining uplifting bromantic catalyst, which would have been tragic if he hadn't embraced the comedy.

The laughter.

I've never seen The Room nor made or been part of the making of a film, but I imagine its lauded receptions has helped its aggrieved creators overlook disputes impassioned on set.

Perhaps, with unlimited wealth, it would be wiser to study film before directing and writing and producing and acting in one, even if the prestige of the self-made auteur simultaneously excites while oppressing bohemians everywhere, but you can't beat the novelty of rash unrefined dedicated loose imagination, wildly conjuring with eclectic poise, self-destructing to salute freewill, as long as it's true to its ever widening vision, and not in charge of the world's largest military.

The Disaster Artist is a lot of fun.

It examines underground filmmaking through a critically sympathetic super bizarro lens that regards the traditionally foolish with legendary unheralded agency.

With respect.

Blending the creepy and the courageous with warm resolute congeniality, or campy contagion, it transforms shock into sensation, midnight into lounging afternoon praise.

Damned irrefutable.

Les mauvaises herbes (Bad Seeds)

An unlikely trio of mismatched screw-ups ironically discovers health and well-being after one of them forces the other two to help him cultivate his marijuana crop, alone in isolation, on a rural Québecois farm.

The low down.

Simon (Gilles Renaud) has an estranged son with whom he wishes to make amends by leaving him land after he dies. He's been hired by bikers to grow weed to make this dream a reality.

Jacques (Alexis Martin) has crippling gambling debts due to an uncontrollable slot machine addiction and although he lives the life of a cultured actor, has little knowledge of rough impoverished mannerisms.

Francesca (Emmanuelle Lussier Martinez) is much younger than Simon and Jacques and prone to passionate outbursts of justifiable rage. She's lesbian and her parents no longer talk to her and she has trouble relating to others. Her youth dynamically contrasts Jacques and Simon's odd older couple and the film is at its best when her wrath is unleashed.

Les mauvaises herbes (Bad Seeds) is like watching your favourite sports team struggle to win a game. In the end, victory is achieved, and some outstanding plays are made, but there's a fumble here and there, blown coverage, a break away, 12% shooting for half a quarter, a run walked in, calico.

It unreels with two sensibilities, one naive, innocent, and unsuspecting, the other harsh, vindictive, and punitive, like its three principal characters, misfits who haven't had the best of luck (their innocence has led to harsh reprisals which in turn has caused them to be somewhat harsh when they aren't seduced by naivety).

It's funny at times, the introduction of the barn for instance, or Jacques running through the countryside dressed like a French aristocrat, but stalls at points, especially when Simon and Francesca start developing their bond, or when Jacques and Simon are initially juxtaposed (Renaud and Martin don't have much chemistry[Martinez compensates]).

Eventually, after Simon becomes Francesca's surrogate father, and she his lost child, it does work, pulls at the heartstrings without seeming contrived, but the process of getting there has some hiccups, like a running game that doesn't take off till the 4th quarter.

The two sensibilities are sharply contrasted when thug Patenaude (Luc Picard) comes to collect his debts. He's in the barn with Simon searching for Jacques and at first it's too light, he doesn't seem threatening, but then after discovering him hiding beneath a table, it takes a wicked turn and is suddenly frightening, the film becoming more dramatic thereafter.

I still don't see why Patenaude drove the stolen snow mobile over the ice instead of hitting the road, but that's just me.

Jacques makes huge plays in the film's final moments, generating an affective harsh innocence.

He courageously applies his acting skills to the real world to make a deal with bikers before meeting Simon's son (Patrick Hivon as Alexandre).

Some of it comes up short, but Les mauvaises herbes still thoughtfully provides its misfits with room to gently or furiously explain themselves, even Patenaude, its tender moments like spoonfuls of cookie dough, its fury like animated hellspawn.

It blends the immiscible with bizarro good cheer while detonating its intersections with genuine self-righteousness, in the oddest of situations, bad attitudes slowly fading.

There's also a great shot of falling snow.

Birdman: or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)

Spiralling prosaic haunting indecision, contraction instigated, distraction, procured, a play must be performed, negative emotion dominating, that voice, that voice which collegially condemns, internally and externally, belittling, haunting, there are specific time limits, the exceptional exceptionally parades, tender loving affairs, perpetual motion, angst rehabilitated, worst case after worst case, coming together, working, in unison, taking things too far, hold tight, flip, perform, do what you have always done, resolve strengthens, misgivings matriculate, swoop, soar, Silencio, glide on the currents like a nuthatched pin cushion, Birdman, Michael Keaton, what happened to Michael Keaton?, he disappeared, I thought, it's bound to be sold out, it's starring Michael Keaton, just like the '90s, purchase advanced tickets, line-up like Batman, she makes out like she did in Mulholland Drive, the soundtrack's embedded, bejewelled, it can't be extracted, necrophonic needlework, the lines, the perfectly delivered palatial lines, discursive krypton, in motion, in constant motion, assert, lose it, discuss, advocate, temporally sketched to last a lifetime, impotency notwithstanding, harness the haunting perpetual motion, aloofly pepper with speeches and scenes all of which are capable of standing alone, united to etherealize commercial artistic bedlam, for applause, for fortune, if I were Tennessee Williams I'd orgasm, Birdman, Birdman, Birdman, syntheses within syntheses, a kind word, still a movie, it's still a movie, it never loses sight of the fact that it's still a movie for entertaining, mesmerizing, a kind of charming magical cinematic awareness simultaneously celebrating and criticizing the medium, without appearing sentimental or confectionary, I shouldn't have used the word magical, a failure, I fail, flotsam flickering and flailing, taking note, sprawling to capture this ingenious tenure, this incomparable sight, this modest, coy, Birdman: or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance), in the act of creation, it reacts anew.

The Congress

A thought provoking hypothesis concerning the future of acting descends into dystopian banality as Ari Folman's Congress transforms its initial personal conflict into a convoluted cultural malaise, the leap from the subjective to the universal itself profound, its execution entangled in histrionic thickets.

Computer generated cults and combines engulf the narrative's characterization in a co-opted corporate/revolutionary temporally and physically unbound constraint, which dialectically plays with animation and the corporeal to enticingly comment on a general contemporary lack of concern with poverty and alienation, the individual escapes or s/he suffers, and/or escapes and suffers, with no plan in place to improve downtrodden standards of living.

The relationship between selling your character to a studio through the process of having it duplicated by a complex array of computational codes thereafter used in whatever film the studio sees fit, regardless of whether or not you approve of the role, seems to have been commercialized en masse, individuals escaping to an animated realm to avoid finding solutions to real problems, this realm, probably representing current obsessions with the internet, which can be a remarkable tool for activism and engagement, enables individuals to become their own ideal self on the upload, leaving everything behind in the construct.

Or not. I don't know. This film's a mess. I felt like I had the flu watching its second act. I like complex takes on the byzantine nature of sociopolitical dynamics, but the acts don't communicate well with one another, there's no chrysalis, they just happen.

Without this communication, the film needs to stand tall on its own thereby encouraging you to see it again, like Mulholland Dr. or Lost Highway, and The Congress, with its misplaced animation, becomes too melodramatic and opaque, its structure obfuscating its outputs.

As an obscure piece of relevant cultural commentary it succeeds.

As an enduring film, I'm not so sure.

Ekstra

Taking a humanistic approach to the production of soap operas, focusing primarily on the arduous routines followed by their hope-filled extras, digging in real deep, opportunity jostling with obsolescence, divas, directors, and delays, a rigid overworked tawdry hierarchical continuity graciously swoons to sycophantically accommodate, while viciously displacing its retributive wrath.

The extras take the heat for egocentric conceits, yet flexibly flow in bleached toiled caprice.

Irony abounds as the stars and high ranking members of the crew act like precious progenitors of substantial stakes while creating horrendous gaudy cylindrical refuse.

The cigarette burn improvisation.

A tasteless product placement.

The insertion of an automobile.

Cinematically fell for Loida Malabanan (Vilma Santos) as she attempts to breakthrough, her roles functioning as metafictional realistic vindications as she fantastically battles the wicked, heartbreakingly symbolic, cold, and unforgiving.

Ekstra is also filled with congenial moments of accidental amicable trust, tightrope walking starstruck stalking vests, multiple different angles, competing operational perspectives.

On the fly.

Caesar Must Die

The real's incarcerated dominion finds itself transformed into a Shakespearian atemporal time warp whose interpersonal intertextual transhistorical vertices passionately bridge a parochial rubicon.

The play within the play transports the film into a concrete surreal hyper-reactive microcosmology, crime, punishment, serendipity, urbanity, patiently orchestrated by Paolo and Vittorio Taviani, enacted by denizens of the damned.

As the conception is corporealized manifested methodologies collaboratively clash while their situational subject matter is acutely fumigated.

Artistic adornments and monumental minutiae see their beings metamorphically idealized as the process of creation extends its interdimensional limits.

Memories forge an objective counterbalance.

Brutus and Cassius must flee.

That is how it was written.

More than a thousand years after the fact.

A roguish retinue theatrically matriculates as an artistic presence brings semantics to life.

In/transitively.

Magnifica Presenza (Magnificent Presence)

Radiating an offbeat, gentle, luminescent reflexivity, Magnifica Presenza's Pietro Pontechievello (Elio Germano) works in a bakery while striving to become an actor.  

After renting a house, he's visited by the ghosts of a theatre troupe (Compangia Appollonio) who worked for the resistance and were betrayed by their feature during World War II.

They strike up a friendship and their influence ameliorates his performance while imbuing his social interactions with experimental antiquated idiosyncrasies.

Awkwardly yet humanistically elevating while humorously tenderizing an artist's ambitions, subtly suggesting that blending the contemporary with the historical can lead to a broader understanding of one's self, or the surmounting of socio-cultural barriers (the stigma of homosexuality) more suited to a different time (within the film's temporal boundaries the stigma of homosexuality isn't prominent), and simultaneously warning against and romanticizing the internalization of the cult of the hero, Magnifica Presenza lovingly offers a clinical diagnosis of loneliness alongside a curative aid.

Boundlessly allusive and reticently merry.

In the mind's eye.

My Week with Marilyn

Suddenly thrust into an accelerated kinetic critical creative complexity wherein two distinct approaches to acting clash on their way towards cinematic seduction, the youthful Colin Clark (Eddie Redmayne) finds himself balancing myriad egotistical dexterities while trying to maintain his liturgical nerve.

And pacify the deployments of irrepressible temptations.

Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams) has an undeniably perplexing presence whose improvised flexible non-linear magnetism has trouble adhering itself to Laurence Olivier's (Kenneth Branagh) by-the-book routine.

Olivier isn't the most forgiving figure either and Marilyn struggles with his disdain. She also misinterprets some of her husband's writing which accentuates her sense of ineptitude.

But as established unflattering men futilely attempt to control her, she combats their derision with a burgeoning youthful laissez-faire methodology which aesthetically appeals to the young and energetic Colin.

Whose working on his first film.

My Week with Marilyn studies the convoluted diversions and rewarding excursions to whose preponderant inconsistencies young professionals must rationally respond. Colin's seamless integration and exceptional ability to smoothly fluctuate perhaps doesn't offer the most transferable set of relatable interactive qualifications, but his success and good fortune can generate abundant ambitious daydreams, from whose integrated prosperous peaks one can fleetingly unearth kernels of truth.

After placing them within a poetic context and analyzing the resultant metaphorical flow.