Lavish living, routinely enjoying the most sumptuous victuals to play the role your standing traditionally authenticates, variable inspired expenses infusing a literary aura with the carefree bravado of limitless production, malleability, ceremonial constants, presumed ostentation auriferously manifesting guilds, assumed impeccability unerringly suspecting intrigue, lashed foibles pronounced yet overlooked inasmuch as they characterize, at home amidst scandal and rumour, brash confidence supposed, instinctually attuned to grasped levitational predicament, brazen yet steadfast, polished yoke adjourned.
Suddenly married.
To a partner less docile than anticipated.
Eventually comprehending her worth, her value to the Parisian imagination, she challenges her freewheeling worldly spouse, who's become dependent on her novel individualism.
Wondering if the art's progress solely by chance or accident?
It seems that many well read erudite professionals reasonably publish that which they believe will profitably sustain them, their understanding of the arts being generally more reliable than a gambler's knowledge of cards or horse racing, and by reading public tastes or those of private audiences thereby, a cultural continuum emerges within which it's possible to earn a living.
Thus Willy (Dominic West) initially dismisses Colette's (Keira Knightley) first novel, thinking it won't tastefully fit the literate French spirit as he distills it, but as bills pile up and nothing appealing conveniently presents itself, he eventually pursues its publication, and it's an immediate success.
Who knows really?
J. K. Rowling, rejected.
Proust, rejected.
You can't assume novelty and experimentation will cultivate financial freedoms without worry, perhaps there are publishing houses who can with whom I'm unfamiliar, but regardless every so often that magical narrative seductively hits the shelves and its unique unbridled perfectly fitting plots, ideas, characters, and settings, impassion stoic readers who have otherwise succumbed to the piquant yet predictable.
Colette's novels sell with the unmitigated fury of an exclamatory tempest, generating revenues most sound for her foolish spendthrift husband.
She puts up with it for quite some time before finally bidding adieu and heading out on her own.
The film critiques M. Gauthier-Villars but not too severely, preferring to dis/harmoniously celebrate the times during which they excelled together to dwelling upon their inevitable break.
How could you go that far?
Such betrayal.
For a miserly pittance.
A lively entertaining clever examination of a voice which slowly learns to independently express itself, complete with a critical yet unpretentious account of conjugal versatility, straddling the upper stratosphere, agitating deals, drafts, dogmas.
Indoctrinations.
Mischievous celebratory circumnavigation afloat.
Disenchanting yet enticing.
Love Keira Knightley's outrage.
Showing posts with label Adultery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adultery. Show all posts
Friday, November 2, 2018
Friday, February 17, 2017
Fences
Friendship, family, filaments and filibusters, Denzel Washington's Fences (based upon the play by August Wilson) encloses dreams and protests and confrontations within a patriarchal shard, not that there isn't a willingness to entertain, as long as his fam remembers who's regally legion.
Potatoes and lard.
He's sacrificed a lot to responsibly take care of things, but his personal experience blinds him to the realities facing his youngest son (Jovan Adepo as Cory), who has a shot at playing professional football, even if dad had to spend his career on the sidelines (baseball).
The answer lies within the stories he dramatically tells, stories which enthusiastically explain how the United States changed over the course of the last 40 years (the film's set in the 1950s), meaning that if America's current composition is resoundingly different from that within which he wildly grew up, the tough lessons he learned through his trials may no longer directly apply to his son's struggles, a son who may therefore have opportunities that were cruelly denied him.
He can't understand the new, he can't comprehend change.
He's hard on his wife Rose (Viola Davis) as well, delivering a devastating blow just as their lives start to become less burdensome.
No settling into old age.
No moving on to greener pastures.
It's not as sad as all that when you listen to him telling his tales, nevertheless, when you watch as he multidimensionally exhales fiction, reverie, and fact.
Denzel (Troy) delivers a brilliant performance full of love, contempt, joy, confusion, understanding, obstinacy, fear, and courage, if you ever wondered why he's been so successful for the last thirty years, Fences offers distinct evidence, as Washington proves that he's far beyond playing typecast roles, that he can indeed competently display intricate multilateral e/motions.
While playing a regular guy.
Viola Davis excels as well.
The film's reminiscent of adaptations of Tennessee Williams or Edward Albee plays, an expansive, caring, sophisticated, realistically controversial examination of real people living hard lives, who aren't afraid to share extended thoughts and commentaries.
Lives being lived, power struggles crisp and bold.
Brief moments of tantalizing largesse.
Rustling through rhythms.
Struggles struck and starchy.
Electric portions.
Potatoes and lard.
He's sacrificed a lot to responsibly take care of things, but his personal experience blinds him to the realities facing his youngest son (Jovan Adepo as Cory), who has a shot at playing professional football, even if dad had to spend his career on the sidelines (baseball).
The answer lies within the stories he dramatically tells, stories which enthusiastically explain how the United States changed over the course of the last 40 years (the film's set in the 1950s), meaning that if America's current composition is resoundingly different from that within which he wildly grew up, the tough lessons he learned through his trials may no longer directly apply to his son's struggles, a son who may therefore have opportunities that were cruelly denied him.
He can't understand the new, he can't comprehend change.
He's hard on his wife Rose (Viola Davis) as well, delivering a devastating blow just as their lives start to become less burdensome.
No settling into old age.
No moving on to greener pastures.
It's not as sad as all that when you listen to him telling his tales, nevertheless, when you watch as he multidimensionally exhales fiction, reverie, and fact.
Denzel (Troy) delivers a brilliant performance full of love, contempt, joy, confusion, understanding, obstinacy, fear, and courage, if you ever wondered why he's been so successful for the last thirty years, Fences offers distinct evidence, as Washington proves that he's far beyond playing typecast roles, that he can indeed competently display intricate multilateral e/motions.
While playing a regular guy.
Viola Davis excels as well.
The film's reminiscent of adaptations of Tennessee Williams or Edward Albee plays, an expansive, caring, sophisticated, realistically controversial examination of real people living hard lives, who aren't afraid to share extended thoughts and commentaries.
Lives being lived, power struggles crisp and bold.
Brief moments of tantalizing largesse.
Rustling through rhythms.
Struggles struck and starchy.
Electric portions.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Elle
It doesn't get much darker than Elle.
A great companion piece for The Lobster if you're craving an evening of total anarchy.
This January.
In the film, a highly functioning potentially psychotic successful businessperson conducts her affairs with extreme emotional detachment, unless her ex-husband's involved, she's trying to help her emotionally abused son (a bad relationship with another potential psycho), or hoping her mother won't marry a coddling gigolo.
Even as she's raped at home and then thoroughly humiliated at work, at her own company, which produces sexually explicit video games, she still generally proceeds as if nothing's wrong and manages to accomplish an extraordinarily diverse number of tasks, pure robotic efficiency, as if she's been there and done that for every possible scenario, stoic impeccability existentially exonerated.
Unfortunately, in her youth, she accompanied her father as he proceeded to murder most of their neighbours, the story becoming a nationwide sensation, her life quite strange at all times forever after.
That's not all, it's even more dysfunctional, the eclectic cast of diverse oddballs even congregated for Christmas dinner, a scene that could have transported Elle into unapproachable contemptuous infinities, had it been even more sinister, had it sought after true infamy.
Therein lies a play for someone else to write.
Adam Reed? Mitchell Hurwitz?
Sadomasochistically submerged in ineffable grotesque hypotheticals, Elle's bourgeois community still must interrelate, it can't help it if that was how it was written.
Like pure misogyny masquerading as a caring caricature of feminine strength, Elle is as undefinable as it is cold and direct, its unmuzzled licentious agency, its pristine putrefaction, calculated to deafeningly depreciate, in gross inherent disillusion.
Not to say that it isn't well done.
It's quite well done in fact.
A sensation.
Pathologically speaking.
A great companion piece for The Lobster if you're craving an evening of total anarchy.
This January.
In the film, a highly functioning potentially psychotic successful businessperson conducts her affairs with extreme emotional detachment, unless her ex-husband's involved, she's trying to help her emotionally abused son (a bad relationship with another potential psycho), or hoping her mother won't marry a coddling gigolo.
Even as she's raped at home and then thoroughly humiliated at work, at her own company, which produces sexually explicit video games, she still generally proceeds as if nothing's wrong and manages to accomplish an extraordinarily diverse number of tasks, pure robotic efficiency, as if she's been there and done that for every possible scenario, stoic impeccability existentially exonerated.
Unfortunately, in her youth, she accompanied her father as he proceeded to murder most of their neighbours, the story becoming a nationwide sensation, her life quite strange at all times forever after.
That's not all, it's even more dysfunctional, the eclectic cast of diverse oddballs even congregated for Christmas dinner, a scene that could have transported Elle into unapproachable contemptuous infinities, had it been even more sinister, had it sought after true infamy.
Therein lies a play for someone else to write.
Adam Reed? Mitchell Hurwitz?
Sadomasochistically submerged in ineffable grotesque hypotheticals, Elle's bourgeois community still must interrelate, it can't help it if that was how it was written.
Like pure misogyny masquerading as a caring caricature of feminine strength, Elle is as undefinable as it is cold and direct, its unmuzzled licentious agency, its pristine putrefaction, calculated to deafeningly depreciate, in gross inherent disillusion.
Not to say that it isn't well done.
It's quite well done in fact.
A sensation.
Pathologically speaking.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
The Girl on the Train
Woebegone coy wailing whispers, loves lost unavailing misters, crescents incoherent past, conjuring disclosed the tracks exacting causal punishments, the unignored passions hellbent mystery steeping pains in bellowed seemingly surficial celloed, instinct buried deep beneath each crushing dipsomanic beat, could she clue in expressly solve and vindicate romantic sprawls?
Wherewithal.
Consensual adulterous ramifications haunting Tom (Justin Theroux) and Anna's (Rebecca Ferguson) marriage, his ex-wife Rachel (Emily Blunt) obsessively views the putters of the wealthy suburb where she once happily lived as she passes by on the train every morning, like a saturated classics scholar trying to piece together the activities of an ancient civilization based solely upon tantalizingly loose scattered fragments, it soon becomes apparent that she has seen something, although it will take some fecund fogcutting to find out if she has indeed taken note.
Panoramic puzzling.
Cross worded deluge.
Tate Taylor's The Girl on the Train sounds comedic but is in fact deadly serious.
Tensions gradually increase as the baffled slowly fit the pieces together, jilted jigsawing jousts in stark rendition, autumnal auspicious reminiscence, engendered through firm resolve.
Acrimony.
Tenderness.
The film's well-structured, deftly integrating seemingly innocuous lives to suspensefully prepare you for myopic innocence with scenes that prevaricate in probability.
Multiple characters skilfully intertwined as Rachel's ride proceeds bush tag.
Hokey at points and Rachel's conclusion could have been lengthier.
Traditional comments on marital infidelity chimed.
Infatuated caprice.
Destructive blind ceremony.
Wherewithal.
Consensual adulterous ramifications haunting Tom (Justin Theroux) and Anna's (Rebecca Ferguson) marriage, his ex-wife Rachel (Emily Blunt) obsessively views the putters of the wealthy suburb where she once happily lived as she passes by on the train every morning, like a saturated classics scholar trying to piece together the activities of an ancient civilization based solely upon tantalizingly loose scattered fragments, it soon becomes apparent that she has seen something, although it will take some fecund fogcutting to find out if she has indeed taken note.
Panoramic puzzling.
Cross worded deluge.
Tate Taylor's The Girl on the Train sounds comedic but is in fact deadly serious.
Tensions gradually increase as the baffled slowly fit the pieces together, jilted jigsawing jousts in stark rendition, autumnal auspicious reminiscence, engendered through firm resolve.
Acrimony.
Tenderness.
The film's well-structured, deftly integrating seemingly innocuous lives to suspensefully prepare you for myopic innocence with scenes that prevaricate in probability.
Multiple characters skilfully intertwined as Rachel's ride proceeds bush tag.
Hokey at points and Rachel's conclusion could have been lengthier.
Traditional comments on marital infidelity chimed.
Infatuated caprice.
Destructive blind ceremony.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Sleeping Giant
Rest and relaxation, worry free contemplation blended with spirited solace and imaginary blunders, tranquility, wandering here and there to curiously explore, observing this, defining that, revelry and romance serendipitously replenishing, merrymaking mischief immersed in mirth and candour, spontaneous wit and jocose gentility, a Summer celebrated in the woods at bay, fellowships fermenting, in rowdy eccentric arbor.
I wish it could have been like that throughout Andrew Cividino's Sleeping Giant, just scene after scene of amazed revelation accompanied by stunning imagery and various fauna, a study of freewill rambunctiously investigating its surroundings, but I suppose films often have points, points to make, and conflicts, morals, tragedies, resolutions.
They're prominent features of story telling ;).
Sleeping Giant examines three young adult friends with nothing to do all Summer but soak up the rays.
Adam Hudson (Jackson Martin) is intelligent and shy, less interested in fighting, theft, booze, and drugs, but willing to go along for the ride.
Riley (Reece Moffett) is confident and direct, easy to get along with, chill, cool, breezy.
Nate (Nick Serino [Serino's like a younger Brad Dourif]) is a jealous vindictive punk who compensates for his lack of booksmarts with abrasively striking observations.
He finds out that Adam's father (David Disher as William Hudson) cheated on his wife (Lorraine Philp as Linda Hudson) after hours which frustrates things as their friendship slowly breaks down, sort of like 1er amour but Mrs. Hudson never finds out.
Adam's family is groovier than Riley and Nate's.
Riley don't care but Nate takes exception.
The narrative boils down to extroverted boorishness interacting with introverted contemplation, Riley caught between Adam and Nate as the latter becomes increasingly hostile.
Since Adam gets along well with Riley but poorly with Nate, Sleeping Giant isn't necessarily narratively characterizing demographic stereotypes, although Nate does wind up dead in the end, perhaps suggesting that when envious aggressive not-so-smart blowhards try to take control the results can be disastrous, and insects are featured throughout, one burned alive.
Did Cividino love Joe's So Mean to Josephine in his youth?
I was super impressed with the film regardless. Cividino's not as wild as Xavier Dolan but his thoughtful illustrations and gentle delineations reminded me of his films, environmental encapsulations, im/permanence in jest.
Forested.
Didn't like seeing the insect burned alive though.
I think I should have been a buddhist.
Enchanting woe.
Extracurricular.
Cinematography by James Klopko.
I wish it could have been like that throughout Andrew Cividino's Sleeping Giant, just scene after scene of amazed revelation accompanied by stunning imagery and various fauna, a study of freewill rambunctiously investigating its surroundings, but I suppose films often have points, points to make, and conflicts, morals, tragedies, resolutions.
They're prominent features of story telling ;).
Sleeping Giant examines three young adult friends with nothing to do all Summer but soak up the rays.
Adam Hudson (Jackson Martin) is intelligent and shy, less interested in fighting, theft, booze, and drugs, but willing to go along for the ride.
Riley (Reece Moffett) is confident and direct, easy to get along with, chill, cool, breezy.
Nate (Nick Serino [Serino's like a younger Brad Dourif]) is a jealous vindictive punk who compensates for his lack of booksmarts with abrasively striking observations.
He finds out that Adam's father (David Disher as William Hudson) cheated on his wife (Lorraine Philp as Linda Hudson) after hours which frustrates things as their friendship slowly breaks down, sort of like 1er amour but Mrs. Hudson never finds out.
Adam's family is groovier than Riley and Nate's.
Riley don't care but Nate takes exception.
The narrative boils down to extroverted boorishness interacting with introverted contemplation, Riley caught between Adam and Nate as the latter becomes increasingly hostile.
Since Adam gets along well with Riley but poorly with Nate, Sleeping Giant isn't necessarily narratively characterizing demographic stereotypes, although Nate does wind up dead in the end, perhaps suggesting that when envious aggressive not-so-smart blowhards try to take control the results can be disastrous, and insects are featured throughout, one burned alive.
Did Cividino love Joe's So Mean to Josephine in his youth?
I was super impressed with the film regardless. Cividino's not as wild as Xavier Dolan but his thoughtful illustrations and gentle delineations reminded me of his films, environmental encapsulations, im/permanence in jest.
Forested.
Didn't like seeing the insect burned alive though.
I think I should have been a buddhist.
Enchanting woe.
Extracurricular.
Cinematography by James Klopko.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Gurov & Anna
Another bleak film, Rafaël Ouellet's Gurov & Anna, not as bleak as Chorus, which seems to have set out to create the most depressing film ever, nevertheless, quite bleak, desolate.
Post-Oscar season.
No sign of a Grand Budapest Hotel this March.
Gurov & Anna examines the line where literature intersects with reality, where imaginary creations try to fit within a quotidian schematic, this particular schematic slowly becoming increasingly more desperate as the realistic variables which haven't been taken into account significantly diverge from their literary counterpoints.
I couldn't generate sympathy for Ben (Andreas Apergis) as he sacrifices his near perfect life for an impromptu affair, an impromptu affair which maniacally consumes him, causing him to lose all sense of decorum.
You see that he's a jerk to begin with, critical when he should be supportive, neglectful of the luxuries life has granted him, more concerned with control than cooperation, a success, but still quite empty inside.
He thinks an affair will somehow revitalize his lost youth, or romantically overcome his overwhelming sense of aged futility, as it does occasionally in books, without taking into consideration the price such sensualists often pay.
He doesn't even try to get to know young Mercedes (Sophie Desmarais), just purely objectifies her, slowly becoming more and more brutal as an individual accustomed to the dictates of reason succumbs to hedonistic madness.
He's made all the right moves throughout his life and doesn't have the historicopsychological makeup to formalize being a complete and utter screw-up.
If that's possible.
When it becomes obvious that he can't control the affair in the same way he controls everything else in his life, not realizing that his ecstasy is the product of the affair's lack of limitations, which can't be controlled without being effaced, entropy sets in, with its accompanying focus on destruction.
Contentment.
There's something to be said for contentment.
Not in the sense that you let it prevent you from changing or let it cause you to stop innovating within the boundaries established by your marriage, in the sense that, from time to time, like Dale Cooper's daily present, without letting it neuter you, you appreciate the wonderful situation you find yourself within, and thereby seek to find new ways to enhance its diversity, through the art of conversation and the love of difference, through youthfully embracing the maturity of the role.
I know it doesn't work out that way a lot of the time.
It does in Kierkegaard's Aesthetic Validity of Marriage however; so easy to write, so difficult to realize.
Mercedes is as full of life and beauty as Ben is full of reserve and banality.
Her presence saves the film.
A complicated look at relationships and their shortcomings, the wonders of the imagination, and realism's abyss.
Post-Oscar season.
No sign of a Grand Budapest Hotel this March.
Gurov & Anna examines the line where literature intersects with reality, where imaginary creations try to fit within a quotidian schematic, this particular schematic slowly becoming increasingly more desperate as the realistic variables which haven't been taken into account significantly diverge from their literary counterpoints.
I couldn't generate sympathy for Ben (Andreas Apergis) as he sacrifices his near perfect life for an impromptu affair, an impromptu affair which maniacally consumes him, causing him to lose all sense of decorum.
You see that he's a jerk to begin with, critical when he should be supportive, neglectful of the luxuries life has granted him, more concerned with control than cooperation, a success, but still quite empty inside.
He thinks an affair will somehow revitalize his lost youth, or romantically overcome his overwhelming sense of aged futility, as it does occasionally in books, without taking into consideration the price such sensualists often pay.
He doesn't even try to get to know young Mercedes (Sophie Desmarais), just purely objectifies her, slowly becoming more and more brutal as an individual accustomed to the dictates of reason succumbs to hedonistic madness.
He's made all the right moves throughout his life and doesn't have the historicopsychological makeup to formalize being a complete and utter screw-up.
If that's possible.
When it becomes obvious that he can't control the affair in the same way he controls everything else in his life, not realizing that his ecstasy is the product of the affair's lack of limitations, which can't be controlled without being effaced, entropy sets in, with its accompanying focus on destruction.
Contentment.
There's something to be said for contentment.
Not in the sense that you let it prevent you from changing or let it cause you to stop innovating within the boundaries established by your marriage, in the sense that, from time to time, like Dale Cooper's daily present, without letting it neuter you, you appreciate the wonderful situation you find yourself within, and thereby seek to find new ways to enhance its diversity, through the art of conversation and the love of difference, through youthfully embracing the maturity of the role.
I know it doesn't work out that way a lot of the time.
It does in Kierkegaard's Aesthetic Validity of Marriage however; so easy to write, so difficult to realize.
Mercedes is as full of life and beauty as Ben is full of reserve and banality.
Her presence saves the film.
A complicated look at relationships and their shortcomings, the wonders of the imagination, and realism's abyss.
Friday, February 20, 2015
Leviafan (Leviathan)
Isolated in a small town in Northern Russia, a man fights to save his home from a corrupt mayor, relying on an oligarchically inclined legal system, and a lawyer skilled in the art of public sensation.
He's lived his whole life in the town.
Grew up there, became a family man, it's all he knows.
He has personality, responsibilities, a network.
Remote plutocratic politics.
A voice, legal rights, Andrey Zvyagintsev's take on contemporary Russia, Leviafan (Leviathan), like the skeleton of a massive destructive unstoppable procession, religion sans spirituality, futile to fight back, take the offer, drink, drink more, from one historical epoch to the next, take reprehensible thugs and give them wealth, prestige and power, hold them in place with the threat of imprisonment, they'll do as they're told, don't find a middle ground between what things were like before and after the 1917 revolution, recreate the system that lead to that revolution, bask in its imperialistic splendour, lock things down for a generation, flaunt your might, and see what Hobbes gets you.
Trust was placed where trust was deserved, its betrayal ripe with spontaneous idiocy, 10 blissful minutes for the bored, a maximum security sentence for the innocent.
Innocence requires innocence.
Angelic quid pro quo.
The act provides the mayor with leverage, a solid footing, authority.
Opulent construction.
In the gently falling snow.
He's lived his whole life in the town.
Grew up there, became a family man, it's all he knows.
He has personality, responsibilities, a network.
Remote plutocratic politics.
A voice, legal rights, Andrey Zvyagintsev's take on contemporary Russia, Leviafan (Leviathan), like the skeleton of a massive destructive unstoppable procession, religion sans spirituality, futile to fight back, take the offer, drink, drink more, from one historical epoch to the next, take reprehensible thugs and give them wealth, prestige and power, hold them in place with the threat of imprisonment, they'll do as they're told, don't find a middle ground between what things were like before and after the 1917 revolution, recreate the system that lead to that revolution, bask in its imperialistic splendour, lock things down for a generation, flaunt your might, and see what Hobbes gets you.
Trust was placed where trust was deserved, its betrayal ripe with spontaneous idiocy, 10 blissful minutes for the bored, a maximum security sentence for the innocent.
Innocence requires innocence.
Angelic quid pro quo.
The act provides the mayor with leverage, a solid footing, authority.
Opulent construction.
In the gently falling snow.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Gone Girl
Just what goes into sustaining a successful marriage, what is that secret critical ingredient for ensuring the preeminence of your conjugal bliss?
Mad blind overwhelming desire may wear off, especially if the couple in question doesn't role play or at least dress-up from time to time, possibly as their favourite Star Trek character, and if the initial hard-pounding insatiable craze dissipates, the arduous work necessary to recapture its incandescence sets in, both participants required to reimagine its stringency, dedication and commitment, adhered to as pluralizing factors.
In David Fincher's Gone Girl, Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck) refuses to abide by such an adherence, succumbing to adulterous lechery, slowly destroying the love of his spirited partner.
Mistake.
Or mistakes, seeing how he's been ignoring her for years while living a life of sloth off her trust fund, after having moved from New York City (where he worked as a writer) to Missouri, much to wife Amy's (Rosamund Pike) dismay.
He's a jerk, he blames it on her, total jackass.
But he has no idea that Amy's pure psycho.
The film's divided into two halves, one focusing on Nick as he comes to terms with his inextricable predicament, the other which brings Amy into the mix, focusing on her troubles on the road, until a crucial accidental resurgence, of the romantic love which at one point defined her.
Kierkegaard style.
At first I thought the introduction of Amy was an unfortunate twist.
I figured the film would slowly continue to suffocate lacklustre Nick, his tension inimically increasing, a high-wired harrowing stench, accentuating paranoid asphyxia.
Amy's introduction eliminates this tension, replacing it with alternative constraints which infernalize her psychotic scenario, which is rather excessive, considering that she could have just left him.
But her passion demands vengeance, vengeance which she seeks eruditely, revelling in the media's saccharine sensationalization, before rediscovering that lost kernel of youth.
There's a great sequence where she's robbed after letting her guard down, the sequence diversifying the film's wedded hysteria by injecting minor seemingly ineffectual characters, who become common denominators in the subsequent action.
Gone Girl has plenty of variability, strong major and minor characters, ridiculous yet plausible logistics, competing disastrous degenerations, polarities within polarities, a sympathetic coach, an amorphous yet easy-to-follow blend of media, family, legality, and law enforcement, Proust is mentioned twice (in uncomplimentary fashions however), desperate strategic planning, and a non-traditional take on victimization.
The ending's solid, a bizarre reversal of what's-to-be-expected, the film's myriad depressions, sentimentally sanctified.
Quite dark.
Quite good.
Not my favourite David Fincher film, but you still see why he's one of America's best.
Mad blind overwhelming desire may wear off, especially if the couple in question doesn't role play or at least dress-up from time to time, possibly as their favourite Star Trek character, and if the initial hard-pounding insatiable craze dissipates, the arduous work necessary to recapture its incandescence sets in, both participants required to reimagine its stringency, dedication and commitment, adhered to as pluralizing factors.
In David Fincher's Gone Girl, Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck) refuses to abide by such an adherence, succumbing to adulterous lechery, slowly destroying the love of his spirited partner.
Mistake.
Or mistakes, seeing how he's been ignoring her for years while living a life of sloth off her trust fund, after having moved from New York City (where he worked as a writer) to Missouri, much to wife Amy's (Rosamund Pike) dismay.
He's a jerk, he blames it on her, total jackass.
But he has no idea that Amy's pure psycho.
The film's divided into two halves, one focusing on Nick as he comes to terms with his inextricable predicament, the other which brings Amy into the mix, focusing on her troubles on the road, until a crucial accidental resurgence, of the romantic love which at one point defined her.
Kierkegaard style.
At first I thought the introduction of Amy was an unfortunate twist.
I figured the film would slowly continue to suffocate lacklustre Nick, his tension inimically increasing, a high-wired harrowing stench, accentuating paranoid asphyxia.
Amy's introduction eliminates this tension, replacing it with alternative constraints which infernalize her psychotic scenario, which is rather excessive, considering that she could have just left him.
But her passion demands vengeance, vengeance which she seeks eruditely, revelling in the media's saccharine sensationalization, before rediscovering that lost kernel of youth.
There's a great sequence where she's robbed after letting her guard down, the sequence diversifying the film's wedded hysteria by injecting minor seemingly ineffectual characters, who become common denominators in the subsequent action.
Gone Girl has plenty of variability, strong major and minor characters, ridiculous yet plausible logistics, competing disastrous degenerations, polarities within polarities, a sympathetic coach, an amorphous yet easy-to-follow blend of media, family, legality, and law enforcement, Proust is mentioned twice (in uncomplimentary fashions however), desperate strategic planning, and a non-traditional take on victimization.
The ending's solid, a bizarre reversal of what's-to-be-expected, the film's myriad depressions, sentimentally sanctified.
Quite dark.
Quite good.
Not my favourite David Fincher film, but you still see why he's one of America's best.
Friday, August 8, 2014
O Lobo atrás da Porta (A Wolf at the Door)
Desire's stability taunts the victim of a brutish man's lust in Fernando Coimbra's O Lobo atrás da Porta (A Wolf at the Door), consuming her unworldly trusting desperation, a locked-latched-and-lesioned barricade, jaded withdrawn innocence, enraged, and vindictive.
Love for the transgressed.
Unforgivable abuse.
Atrocity begetting atrocity.
Wherein recoils the unleashed.
Oddly light, considering its subject matter, O Lobo atrás da Porta emphasizes contemplation as opposed to emotion while exfoliating an affair, a detective's blind recourse, to the facts, judiciously partaken.
The film's madness is kept hidden beneath a cloak of reason, its insulating logistics, perhaps too cerebral for its conditioning.
The score highlights this tension, erupting in intermittent bursts, reminiscent of Ennio Morricone's from The Thing (1982), striking yet transitory, harrowingly subdued.
Seduction.
Seclusion.
Possession.
Crime.
Love for the transgressed.
Unforgivable abuse.
Atrocity begetting atrocity.
Wherein recoils the unleashed.
Oddly light, considering its subject matter, O Lobo atrás da Porta emphasizes contemplation as opposed to emotion while exfoliating an affair, a detective's blind recourse, to the facts, judiciously partaken.
The film's madness is kept hidden beneath a cloak of reason, its insulating logistics, perhaps too cerebral for its conditioning.
The score highlights this tension, erupting in intermittent bursts, reminiscent of Ennio Morricone's from The Thing (1982), striking yet transitory, harrowingly subdued.
Seduction.
Seclusion.
Possession.
Crime.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Le règne de la beauté (An Eye for Beauty)
With the passing of the years, conjugal ecstasies having become strictly formal, extracurricular assignations suddenly appear enlightening, to two young architects tectonically seeking closure.
Life goes on afterwards, routines residing in recreational parlance, sports celebrating individual merits receiving spectacular extensions, taking on constitutional communal attributes, as the seasons change.
Denys Arcand's Le règne de la beauté (An Eye for Beauty) is a mature film, shrewdly exercising the interrelationship between stability and desire, focusing primarily on a couple living North of Québec City, the incredible beauty of their surrounding landscape, and the traditions of lifelong friends and family.
Do English Canadians really seem that pretentious?
They certainly aren't eating chicken wings.
People don't shop at IKEA?
How much money do you have to have not to shop there?
The film thematically picks up where L'âge des ténèbres left off, Toronto and rural Québec functioning as counterpoints, reservedly climactic events taking place in Québec City.
There's a chilling moment when Luc Sauvageau (Éric Bruneau) meets Lindsay Walker (Melanie Merkosky) there while his wife Stéphanie (Mélanie Thierry) considers suicide back home for unrelated reasons, trickery in the foreshadow, smashing insomniatic guilt, divine connections abstractly suggested thereafter.
A sub/conscious account of individuality, critiquing while elevating bourgeois attainments, Le règne de la beauté matriculates a reasonable desire, subjugates caution, then exculpates.
Life goes on afterwards, routines residing in recreational parlance, sports celebrating individual merits receiving spectacular extensions, taking on constitutional communal attributes, as the seasons change.
Denys Arcand's Le règne de la beauté (An Eye for Beauty) is a mature film, shrewdly exercising the interrelationship between stability and desire, focusing primarily on a couple living North of Québec City, the incredible beauty of their surrounding landscape, and the traditions of lifelong friends and family.
Do English Canadians really seem that pretentious?
They certainly aren't eating chicken wings.
People don't shop at IKEA?
How much money do you have to have not to shop there?
The film thematically picks up where L'âge des ténèbres left off, Toronto and rural Québec functioning as counterpoints, reservedly climactic events taking place in Québec City.
There's a chilling moment when Luc Sauvageau (Éric Bruneau) meets Lindsay Walker (Melanie Merkosky) there while his wife Stéphanie (Mélanie Thierry) considers suicide back home for unrelated reasons, trickery in the foreshadow, smashing insomniatic guilt, divine connections abstractly suggested thereafter.
A sub/conscious account of individuality, critiquing while elevating bourgeois attainments, Le règne de la beauté matriculates a reasonable desire, subjugates caution, then exculpates.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Miraculum
Flight plans, guilt-ridden, felicitous, miserable, and emancipating flight plans, desperately intermingle differing degrees of shock, immersed in Daniel Grou's Miraculum, as risks deteriorate familial stabilities, and the concept of vice, is multifariously de/moralized.
Synoptic suffering.
A weary outcast attempts to make amends through profits earned from drug smuggling.
An affair crushes and/or enlivens the members of two elderly couples.
Distant addictive empty partners seek to rejuvenate their marriage.
A struggling Jehovah's Witness is tempted by secular advancements (blood transfusions).
The four stories downtroddenly unfurl within and without (like Babel or Tian zhu ding), lucidly pinpointing vectorized vertices, occasionally peaking ensemble, dedicating a despondent deconstructive density to open-minded conscientious plights, which resists clear and distinct binding generalizations, to materially matriculate the mundanely divine.
Although communal belonging is fluidly challenged as unforgiving bulwarks fortify their positions.
Wherein resistance is rather futile.
Miraculum isn't like pastis, milk, and honey, more like a caressing melancholic ideological tempest, compelling in its whirlwinds, tight, multifaceted, challenging.
Editing by Valérie Héroux.
Written by Gabriel Sabourin (Valérie Beaugrand-Champagne consulting).
It breathes difficult distinct tetralectics into profound ethical quotients, corrugating crisp conceptions of the beautiful, rationally masterminded, exacting, composed.
Keeping you focused at full attention.
Built to multilaterally stimulate.
Synoptic suffering.
A weary outcast attempts to make amends through profits earned from drug smuggling.
An affair crushes and/or enlivens the members of two elderly couples.
Distant addictive empty partners seek to rejuvenate their marriage.
A struggling Jehovah's Witness is tempted by secular advancements (blood transfusions).
The four stories downtroddenly unfurl within and without (like Babel or Tian zhu ding), lucidly pinpointing vectorized vertices, occasionally peaking ensemble, dedicating a despondent deconstructive density to open-minded conscientious plights, which resists clear and distinct binding generalizations, to materially matriculate the mundanely divine.
Although communal belonging is fluidly challenged as unforgiving bulwarks fortify their positions.
Wherein resistance is rather futile.
Miraculum isn't like pastis, milk, and honey, more like a caressing melancholic ideological tempest, compelling in its whirlwinds, tight, multifaceted, challenging.
Editing by Valérie Héroux.
Written by Gabriel Sabourin (Valérie Beaugrand-Champagne consulting).
It breathes difficult distinct tetralectics into profound ethical quotients, corrugating crisp conceptions of the beautiful, rationally masterminded, exacting, composed.
Keeping you focused at full attention.
Built to multilaterally stimulate.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
The Wolf of Wall Street
What to make of this one.
Comparing Scorsese's Wolf of Wall Street to Oliver Stone's Wall Street could generate some compelling comparative data, in regards to their historical censures.
Has this particular epoch enabled Scorsese to direct without limits, to go beyond Seth MacFarlane and Adam Reed, to freely proceed with neither caution nor complaint in an excessive wanton capitalistic cynosure, to gratuitously salute the golden age of sleaze?
He tests you within.
He bombards you with luscious images of in/accessible voluptuous beauties, interspersing tips on illegally playing the stock market, and then asks you whether or not you're capable of following the lecture, playing with the process of narrativization throughout.
Tantalizing tutelage?
He takes a group of guys who grew up together, installs one as leader after he learns how to make enormous sums of money, they all then make enormous sums of money, and they basically never leave high school for the rest of their lives, and not one of them even so much as ends up in the hospital.
There are funny moments.
But why they needed 180 minutes to retool this tale is beyond me.
There's just no Gravity in this film.
That's arguably the point, and it's presented as a best case example of raunchy sophomoric absurdity.
But there's too much exploitation for me.
It is fun getting to know smart women.
There's one female stockbroker who succeeds but her role's tacked-on, she's belittled in the end, and is initially dependent on the generosity of men.
However, like American Hustle, it's filled with tips on how to avoid being scammed.
Comparing Scorsese's Wolf of Wall Street to Oliver Stone's Wall Street could generate some compelling comparative data, in regards to their historical censures.
Has this particular epoch enabled Scorsese to direct without limits, to go beyond Seth MacFarlane and Adam Reed, to freely proceed with neither caution nor complaint in an excessive wanton capitalistic cynosure, to gratuitously salute the golden age of sleaze?
He tests you within.
He bombards you with luscious images of in/accessible voluptuous beauties, interspersing tips on illegally playing the stock market, and then asks you whether or not you're capable of following the lecture, playing with the process of narrativization throughout.
Tantalizing tutelage?
He takes a group of guys who grew up together, installs one as leader after he learns how to make enormous sums of money, they all then make enormous sums of money, and they basically never leave high school for the rest of their lives, and not one of them even so much as ends up in the hospital.
There are funny moments.
But why they needed 180 minutes to retool this tale is beyond me.
There's just no Gravity in this film.
That's arguably the point, and it's presented as a best case example of raunchy sophomoric absurdity.
But there's too much exploitation for me.
It is fun getting to know smart women.
There's one female stockbroker who succeeds but her role's tacked-on, she's belittled in the end, and is initially dependent on the generosity of men.
However, like American Hustle, it's filled with tips on how to avoid being scammed.
Monday, January 13, 2014
American Hustle
Serious sustained elusively sentimental cirrhosis, soberly conceived and symptomatically executed, the established bland underground beacon coerced into serving an opportunistic senseless gold digger, retentively reliant yet arrogantly exploitative, the combination's blinds leaving him susceptible to implosive cracks, their fissures directly proportional to their aggrandizements, seismically de/centralizing, corpus allumé.
Feminine elements complicate and complement the messy procedure as pressures coruscate emotional embers, and logical jealousies prevaricate relational rationalities.
Should this film be taken seriously?
On the one hand, as Irving Rosenfeld's (Christian Bale) character, the intelligent flexible streetwise devoted husband scam artist, suggests, we definitely should be, as his livelihood and familial security depends on it, even though he's a criminal.
On the other, as Richie DeMaso's (Bradley Cooper) character, the brash insubordinate wild-eyed FBI agent, suggests, we definitely should not be, as his reckless and life threatening decisions are simply too preposterous to take, even though he's enforcing the law.
The hilarious repeated transitional scene which sees the camera shoot the ground floor of American Hustle's FBI headquarters and then rapidly shift its focus to the top, suggests that David O. Russell is seriously playfully shining (editing by Alan Baumgarten, Jay Cassidy, and Crispin Struthers).
His beams brightly illuminate upright politician Carmine Polito (Jeremy Renner), a true person of the people and loving family man, tricked into accepting bribes.
Ethically, I find it highly problematic when politicians take bribes to stimulate economies through casino construction since casinos can and have ruin/ed the lives of many a low-income worker.
Real worldly, a lot of people don't seem to care about these realities anymore and think being exploited is great.
Rosenfeld doesn't like being exploited although he earns a living exploiting people.
He feels guilty for his actions in relation to Polito's eventual arrest, because even though casino creation is exploitative, Polito is acting on the people's behalf, according to the film's cavalier combustion.
Great film on many levels.
But in terms of bribing politicians to achieve specific ends, it fails to reflectively hustle.
A suave sensational scam?
Not persuasive enough of a play.
But it does offer effective indirect advice on how to avoid being scammed and the script's excellent (written by David O. Russell and Eric Warren Singer).
Which works.
Feminine elements complicate and complement the messy procedure as pressures coruscate emotional embers, and logical jealousies prevaricate relational rationalities.
Should this film be taken seriously?
On the one hand, as Irving Rosenfeld's (Christian Bale) character, the intelligent flexible streetwise devoted husband scam artist, suggests, we definitely should be, as his livelihood and familial security depends on it, even though he's a criminal.
On the other, as Richie DeMaso's (Bradley Cooper) character, the brash insubordinate wild-eyed FBI agent, suggests, we definitely should not be, as his reckless and life threatening decisions are simply too preposterous to take, even though he's enforcing the law.
The hilarious repeated transitional scene which sees the camera shoot the ground floor of American Hustle's FBI headquarters and then rapidly shift its focus to the top, suggests that David O. Russell is seriously playfully shining (editing by Alan Baumgarten, Jay Cassidy, and Crispin Struthers).
His beams brightly illuminate upright politician Carmine Polito (Jeremy Renner), a true person of the people and loving family man, tricked into accepting bribes.
Ethically, I find it highly problematic when politicians take bribes to stimulate economies through casino construction since casinos can and have ruin/ed the lives of many a low-income worker.
Real worldly, a lot of people don't seem to care about these realities anymore and think being exploited is great.
Rosenfeld doesn't like being exploited although he earns a living exploiting people.
He feels guilty for his actions in relation to Polito's eventual arrest, because even though casino creation is exploitative, Polito is acting on the people's behalf, according to the film's cavalier combustion.
Great film on many levels.
But in terms of bribing politicians to achieve specific ends, it fails to reflectively hustle.
A suave sensational scam?
Not persuasive enough of a play.
But it does offer effective indirect advice on how to avoid being scammed and the script's excellent (written by David O. Russell and Eric Warren Singer).
Which works.
Monday, November 11, 2013
All the Wrong Reasons
Solid beginnings for All the Wrong Reasons.
Chummy quotidian banter, an elastic sense of low-budget self-aware elusion, characters who seem relatable but have enough cinematic distance built-in to problematize their realistic preoccupations, polish, tragedy, helplessness, grit.
Facial expressions provoke chuckles.
Background details add flavour.
Surveyed departmental legacies.
Evacuated evasive everyday elevations.
It doesn't hold together well as things become more serious however.
It's not that I didn't like the development of Kate (Karine Vanasse) and Simon's (Kevin Zegers) affections.
They're strong characters and their interactions curve and merge.
But as the intensity of the wry melodrama increases, and morality becomes a potent factor, the comedy disintegrates, and austerity commands.
I liked some of the scenes and the resolutions, but the general air of upright tension in the second half suffered from a lack of contrapuntal displacement.
Unsuccessful juxtaposition.
Solid beginnings though, solid beginnings.
Chummy quotidian banter, an elastic sense of low-budget self-aware elusion, characters who seem relatable but have enough cinematic distance built-in to problematize their realistic preoccupations, polish, tragedy, helplessness, grit.
Facial expressions provoke chuckles.
Background details add flavour.
Surveyed departmental legacies.
Evacuated evasive everyday elevations.
It doesn't hold together well as things become more serious however.
It's not that I didn't like the development of Kate (Karine Vanasse) and Simon's (Kevin Zegers) affections.
They're strong characters and their interactions curve and merge.
But as the intensity of the wry melodrama increases, and morality becomes a potent factor, the comedy disintegrates, and austerity commands.
I liked some of the scenes and the resolutions, but the general air of upright tension in the second half suffered from a lack of contrapuntal displacement.
Unsuccessful juxtaposition.
Solid beginnings though, solid beginnings.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Amsterdam
Three close friends, living in a small town, married and settled, habitual and unsuspecting, routine linear sturdy timber, off for an expected excursion, wives, nothing to be worried about.
But a salacious drug and alcohol fuelled binge replaces their traditional fishing trip, in none other than fabled Amsterdam, during which an adulterous peculiarity comes to light, ushering in a new set of incongruous relational vertices, discordant complexities, whose devastated heartbroken pinpricked clutches, deceptively destabilize a longstanding foundation of trust.
It's a morality tale.
A classic case of conjugal infidelity crushing one's sense of purpose and well-being.
The crush is perhaps too limiting as its despondent affects prevent Sam (Robin Aubert) from taking part in most of the film, exploratory analysis sacrificed for betrayed obsession, Amsterdam examining the detonation of reason, as thoughts of forgiveness abandon.
His friends are left trying to explain his absence after he chooses to remain in Europe, their cover-up exacerbating the situation, lies, trauma, incompatibility.
They didn't hire Columbo to investigate this one.
Old school yet relevant, Amsterdam substantializes conceptions of loyalty and friendship, refusing to disqualify their guilt, hardboiled chaotic remorse.
But it really boils down to childishness.
Whose the more childish, Sam or Jeff (Gabriel Sabourin)?
From right to left?
But a salacious drug and alcohol fuelled binge replaces their traditional fishing trip, in none other than fabled Amsterdam, during which an adulterous peculiarity comes to light, ushering in a new set of incongruous relational vertices, discordant complexities, whose devastated heartbroken pinpricked clutches, deceptively destabilize a longstanding foundation of trust.
It's a morality tale.
A classic case of conjugal infidelity crushing one's sense of purpose and well-being.
The crush is perhaps too limiting as its despondent affects prevent Sam (Robin Aubert) from taking part in most of the film, exploratory analysis sacrificed for betrayed obsession, Amsterdam examining the detonation of reason, as thoughts of forgiveness abandon.
His friends are left trying to explain his absence after he chooses to remain in Europe, their cover-up exacerbating the situation, lies, trauma, incompatibility.
They didn't hire Columbo to investigate this one.
Old school yet relevant, Amsterdam substantializes conceptions of loyalty and friendship, refusing to disqualify their guilt, hardboiled chaotic remorse.
But it really boils down to childishness.
Whose the more childish, Sam or Jeff (Gabriel Sabourin)?
From right to left?
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Blue Jasmine
Financial fermentations can require that lifestyle adjustments be made, Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine perplexedly yet malleably corrugating lead character Jasmine's (Cate Blanchett) descent into madness, competing economic logistics blending the blunt and the beautiful, comedically interspersing experimental affective influences, opportunity knocking, devotion concocting, bitterness imbibing, ripely spoiled.
The truth can be important.
Truths within truths etherealize.
The ethereal cherishes its material foundations.
Specific bases firmly rooted in itinerant psychohistorical discourses.
Jasmine drifts into the past as social interactions manifest a poppy madeleine effect, but their incremental narrative progressions problematize the device's distractions, the plot being secondary to the reflections in In Search of Lost Time.
I've got to find some way to work Proust into the cinema.
The device itself at first tore me away from Blue Jasmine's narrative thread, interrupting scenes which I was hoping would last much longer, at which point I was mildly frustrated by the intrusion, then lured in by the realism, but initially dissatisfied with the resolution.
Within the resolution, when the distraction's coordinated revelations reveal Jasmine's role as ethical agent, the two narratives synthesize then implode, a symbol for the equation of the imaginary and the real, drinking the water of life, causing her to lose her mind consequently.
Which makes the resolution satisfactory, albeit too neat and tidy, apart from the madness, I suppose.
The act of going with the flow is subtly and not-so-subtly lampooned throughout.
With Sally Hawkins (Ginger), Bobby Cannavale (Chili), and Andrew Dice Clay (Augie).
The truth can be important.
Truths within truths etherealize.
The ethereal cherishes its material foundations.
Specific bases firmly rooted in itinerant psychohistorical discourses.
Jasmine drifts into the past as social interactions manifest a poppy madeleine effect, but their incremental narrative progressions problematize the device's distractions, the plot being secondary to the reflections in In Search of Lost Time.
I've got to find some way to work Proust into the cinema.
The device itself at first tore me away from Blue Jasmine's narrative thread, interrupting scenes which I was hoping would last much longer, at which point I was mildly frustrated by the intrusion, then lured in by the realism, but initially dissatisfied with the resolution.
Within the resolution, when the distraction's coordinated revelations reveal Jasmine's role as ethical agent, the two narratives synthesize then implode, a symbol for the equation of the imaginary and the real, drinking the water of life, causing her to lose her mind consequently.
Which makes the resolution satisfactory, albeit too neat and tidy, apart from the madness, I suppose.
The act of going with the flow is subtly and not-so-subtly lampooned throughout.
With Sally Hawkins (Ginger), Bobby Cannavale (Chili), and Andrew Dice Clay (Augie).
Saturday, May 25, 2013
The Great Gatsby
Extravagant timidity humbly refrains an opulent recourse to true's love sustain.
Spare no expense, attract the best and the brightest, the emotion's too deep, the goal of the tightest.
Business contacts whose illicit elixirs submerge their protractive congenial mixtures.
Sponsor time honoured traditions of courtship, implying ambitious circuitous quartets.
As fate's lavish weave blends with chance's reprieve, the noblest of dreams hail permanency.
For people, and Queens, and the prettiest things.
Preferred Australia and Moulin Rouge!
Spare no expense, attract the best and the brightest, the emotion's too deep, the goal of the tightest.
Business contacts whose illicit elixirs submerge their protractive congenial mixtures.
Sponsor time honoured traditions of courtship, implying ambitious circuitous quartets.
As fate's lavish weave blends with chance's reprieve, the noblest of dreams hail permanency.
For people, and Queens, and the prettiest things.
Preferred Australia and Moulin Rouge!
Monday, February 4, 2013
En kongelig affære (A Royal Affair)
A gifted enlightened town doctor (Mads Mikkelsen as Johann Friedrich Struensee) fortuitously finds himself suddenly reshaping his country's (Denmark) feudal character in Nikolaj Arcel's En kongelig affære (A Royal Affair), relying heavily upon his lucid acumen to enact social democratic reforms.
But a misguided sense of permanency and an affectionate indiscretion result in his ignominious downfall.
King Christian VII (Mikkel Følsgaard) wants little to do with ruling and prefers to revel in unconditioned debauchery.
Doctor Struensee does little to disuade his ambition and the two strike up an amiable friendship, prominently acting for the good of the people.
As opportunity strikes, freedom materializes, yet its nascent state fails to consider history's quotidien counterbalance.
As dinner is served, a competitive course of cultural compositions is collusively seared, and the foundations of a revolving polemic picturesquely present themselves.
Too picturesquely perhaps.
One of En kongelig affære's principal problems is that there aren't any proactive plebeian representatives. A film boldly illustrating a crucial moment in Danish social democratic development should have likely included characters to whom said developments directly apply.
Instead they're stereotypically depicted as a mob.
It may have been too maudlin to include proactive plebeian reps but it also lacks a healthy contingent of subtle continuous economically disadvantaged background personnages which could have diversified its filmscape.
Obviously doing this continuously throughout a film is expensive and time consuming, and since En kongelig affære highlights the dangers of proceeding too quickly with social democratic reforms, perhaps this is an example of form working hand-in-hand with content.
The economic dangers are obviously real but so are the dangers of a right wing government that constantly pleads poverty (or creates an inexhaustible debt) when there is in fact of abundance of wealth, and the film examines a period which inaugurated social democratic reforms, not one where they already hold partial institutional prominence in some countries.
The King is at least cognizant of his faults and logically prefers friendship to fidelity considering his own predilections.
The film also concerns a love affair.
Don't know if I've ever seen a better example of the ridiculousness of the absolute application of ideology than when the Queen (Alicia Vikander [Denmark's Keira Knightley or Natalie Portman?]) is told to be more ladylike while giving birth.
Outstanding.
But a misguided sense of permanency and an affectionate indiscretion result in his ignominious downfall.
King Christian VII (Mikkel Følsgaard) wants little to do with ruling and prefers to revel in unconditioned debauchery.
Doctor Struensee does little to disuade his ambition and the two strike up an amiable friendship, prominently acting for the good of the people.
As opportunity strikes, freedom materializes, yet its nascent state fails to consider history's quotidien counterbalance.
As dinner is served, a competitive course of cultural compositions is collusively seared, and the foundations of a revolving polemic picturesquely present themselves.
Too picturesquely perhaps.
One of En kongelig affære's principal problems is that there aren't any proactive plebeian representatives. A film boldly illustrating a crucial moment in Danish social democratic development should have likely included characters to whom said developments directly apply.
Instead they're stereotypically depicted as a mob.
It may have been too maudlin to include proactive plebeian reps but it also lacks a healthy contingent of subtle continuous economically disadvantaged background personnages which could have diversified its filmscape.
Obviously doing this continuously throughout a film is expensive and time consuming, and since En kongelig affære highlights the dangers of proceeding too quickly with social democratic reforms, perhaps this is an example of form working hand-in-hand with content.
The economic dangers are obviously real but so are the dangers of a right wing government that constantly pleads poverty (or creates an inexhaustible debt) when there is in fact of abundance of wealth, and the film examines a period which inaugurated social democratic reforms, not one where they already hold partial institutional prominence in some countries.
The King is at least cognizant of his faults and logically prefers friendship to fidelity considering his own predilections.
The film also concerns a love affair.
Don't know if I've ever seen a better example of the ridiculousness of the absolute application of ideology than when the Queen (Alicia Vikander [Denmark's Keira Knightley or Natalie Portman?]) is told to be more ladylike while giving birth.
Outstanding.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Anna Karenina
Didn't expect to like Anna Karenina after viewing its terrible previews multiple times, but it's actually quite well done.
I usually shudder when classic novels of considerable length are reduced to a specific one-part generalized interpretative 'quintessential' crystallization, but, if I'm not mistaken, Tom Stoppard took this predicament into account when writing his screenplay, and, through sheer interdisciplinary brilliance, managed to pack more multilayered jaunty selective dramatic action into 30 seconds of his adaptation than you often see in a full 120-minute feature, perhaps pleasing devotees of the novel (which I haven't read but I did read War and Peace), while more importantly crafting a demanding entertaining brain teaser.
At least until the act of adultery is committed.
The film clearly demonstrates the oppressive nature of a patriarchal culture without hesitating to sanctify members of its elite while causing their betrayers to appear flippant yet justified.
In terms of love.
Lacking on the various stages is a prominent position for manifold markets from which working people can condition economic cultural amalgams (pulp fiction for instance) through which they can freely synthesize away.
It is perhaps symbolically suggested that the creation of a public sphere within which such operations perform an integral function would nurture a more level playing field for the matriarchically oriented, the optimal situation producing dynamics where both genders possess flexible agencies while reserving a place for the immutable non-authoritarian pink and blue.
Anna Karenina's first act is an accelerated literary cinematic conflagration whose intense inductive transformative flames generously invigorate deductive zodiacs.
Allusively aligned.
(Happy holidays!)
I usually shudder when classic novels of considerable length are reduced to a specific one-part generalized interpretative 'quintessential' crystallization, but, if I'm not mistaken, Tom Stoppard took this predicament into account when writing his screenplay, and, through sheer interdisciplinary brilliance, managed to pack more multilayered jaunty selective dramatic action into 30 seconds of his adaptation than you often see in a full 120-minute feature, perhaps pleasing devotees of the novel (which I haven't read but I did read War and Peace), while more importantly crafting a demanding entertaining brain teaser.
At least until the act of adultery is committed.
The film clearly demonstrates the oppressive nature of a patriarchal culture without hesitating to sanctify members of its elite while causing their betrayers to appear flippant yet justified.
In terms of love.
Lacking on the various stages is a prominent position for manifold markets from which working people can condition economic cultural amalgams (pulp fiction for instance) through which they can freely synthesize away.
It is perhaps symbolically suggested that the creation of a public sphere within which such operations perform an integral function would nurture a more level playing field for the matriarchically oriented, the optimal situation producing dynamics where both genders possess flexible agencies while reserving a place for the immutable non-authoritarian pink and blue.
Anna Karenina's first act is an accelerated literary cinematic conflagration whose intense inductive transformative flames generously invigorate deductive zodiacs.
Allusively aligned.
(Happy holidays!)
Saturday, December 8, 2012
A Late Quartet
Love listening to the fiddle or violin.
Would be nice to sit back and listen to a couple of hours of violin or fiddle music with an ample supply of grapes and unpasteurized cheese plus a nice glass of red wine.
I don't know that much about classical music but I have a couple of favourite texts (Chopin's Piano Concerto No. 2 in F minor, Rachmaninoff's Symphony no. 2) and enjoy tuning into classical radio stations when I find myself moving from one place to another in an automobile. I usually find that there are moments within many works that induce compelling impressions and others that patiently/quizzically/reflectively/demonstratively/emotively set the scene. The relationship between these elements interpreted through my subjective pluralisis can create a narrative of sorts, a story, an idiom. The same thing happens when I listen to jazz or pop music, The Rolling Stones's Let it Bleed lodged in my memory as the first album to which I suddenly applied this universal transition.
That's obvious enough.
The structural elements within Yaron Zilberman's A Late Quartet resemble a classical piece of music, as can every film I suppose depending on the relative position of its viewer and their own transsemantic didactic verisimilitude.
The film humanizes the performance of classical music with a subtle piquant plasticity which is simultaneously confident, energetically atonal, and furtively self-critical, perhaps theorizing/applying a classical perception of the postmodern, except when it comes to the production of the music itself.
The daring contends with the quartet's format within and the consequent side affects necessitate an harmonious etherealization (in terms of its performance).
I was more concerned with Christopher Walken's (Peter Mitchell) internal posture. It's classic Christopher Walken. One scene precociously pastiches his role in Pulp Fiction and his lines are delivered with the same characteristic bright, perspicacious, concerned yet uncommitted comfortably chilling dexterity that has made him a cinematic icon.
But he's not playing a gangster and/or someone with underlying violent explosivities, steeping, ready to erupt.
He's probably had lots of roles where he doesn't play such characters in films I unfortunately haven't seen.
But in A Late Quartet he plays the friendly, wise, avuncular rock that collegially holds a prominent sophisticated classical music quartet together.
There's one scene where he's sitting back thinking about the death of his wife after some heated social interaction. There's no dialogue, but tears are produced, and, when it's situated within the context of the film, while bearing in mind his traditional roles, which A Late Quartet seems to be doing, it transforms the classical perception of his expressions into something equally affective yet much less threatening.
As if the goal is the reconceptualization of volatility.
His performance isn't the only one that stands out.
Original music by Angelo Badalamenti, cinematography by Frederick Elmes.
Would be nice to sit back and listen to a couple of hours of violin or fiddle music with an ample supply of grapes and unpasteurized cheese plus a nice glass of red wine.
I don't know that much about classical music but I have a couple of favourite texts (Chopin's Piano Concerto No. 2 in F minor, Rachmaninoff's Symphony no. 2) and enjoy tuning into classical radio stations when I find myself moving from one place to another in an automobile. I usually find that there are moments within many works that induce compelling impressions and others that patiently/quizzically/reflectively/demonstratively/emotively set the scene. The relationship between these elements interpreted through my subjective pluralisis can create a narrative of sorts, a story, an idiom. The same thing happens when I listen to jazz or pop music, The Rolling Stones's Let it Bleed lodged in my memory as the first album to which I suddenly applied this universal transition.
That's obvious enough.
The structural elements within Yaron Zilberman's A Late Quartet resemble a classical piece of music, as can every film I suppose depending on the relative position of its viewer and their own transsemantic didactic verisimilitude.
The film humanizes the performance of classical music with a subtle piquant plasticity which is simultaneously confident, energetically atonal, and furtively self-critical, perhaps theorizing/applying a classical perception of the postmodern, except when it comes to the production of the music itself.
The daring contends with the quartet's format within and the consequent side affects necessitate an harmonious etherealization (in terms of its performance).
I was more concerned with Christopher Walken's (Peter Mitchell) internal posture. It's classic Christopher Walken. One scene precociously pastiches his role in Pulp Fiction and his lines are delivered with the same characteristic bright, perspicacious, concerned yet uncommitted comfortably chilling dexterity that has made him a cinematic icon.
But he's not playing a gangster and/or someone with underlying violent explosivities, steeping, ready to erupt.
He's probably had lots of roles where he doesn't play such characters in films I unfortunately haven't seen.
But in A Late Quartet he plays the friendly, wise, avuncular rock that collegially holds a prominent sophisticated classical music quartet together.
There's one scene where he's sitting back thinking about the death of his wife after some heated social interaction. There's no dialogue, but tears are produced, and, when it's situated within the context of the film, while bearing in mind his traditional roles, which A Late Quartet seems to be doing, it transforms the classical perception of his expressions into something equally affective yet much less threatening.
As if the goal is the reconceptualization of volatility.
His performance isn't the only one that stands out.
Original music by Angelo Badalamenti, cinematography by Frederick Elmes.
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