Game Night

The weekly game night.

An unsung celebration of the studious and the knowledgeable during which sundry eclectic caprices heroically achieve cultural redemption, every foolishly frowned upon trivial impulse suddenly validated as if their mass accumulation was as generally admired as owning a car or playing a sport, nachos and salsa haphazardly served up raw or baked while crucially captious considerations undauntedly contend within diminutively prescribed limits, immediate artistic delineations and divinations juxtaposed with lexicographical ease, Pennsylvania Avenue, the spur of the moment strategic themes of the adorably innovative inculpable thesauri, trivially lounging, cloaked fissures, fonts, forays.

An uptight observant redheaded enforcer banished from their midst.

Past infidelities accidentally exposed introducing argumentative contention.

Reversed roles confounding traditional mating rituals as a perceptive relativistic ingenue inquisitively examines her date for the evening.

A couple struggling to bear young finds romantic sustainability as one representative demonstrates unconditional love.

For her reliable steed's unconscious trauma is preventing his troops from conceptually mustering.

The source of said trauma having just reappeared.

To recommence belittling and outperforming.

After having superciliously commanded: a change of venue.

Game Night brings family and friends together to diabolically transform team-based knowledge quests into mortal streetwise altercations invading private spaces intent on supersonically hedging fraternal marigold combat.

Not necessarily like that, however it does have an edge, and its insightful journeyperson script does delicately tread tightropes uniting bourgeois romance with impoverished plutocratic proclivities, in a homely horrorshow, fearlessly exonerating conjugal endeavour.

Did anyone notice Kyle Chandler's (Brooks) solid Leonardo DiCaprio pastiche (Inception)?

Is Rachel McAdams (Annie) the new Meg Ryan?

Limbrous isn't a word.

So I'll stick with almost mind-blowing.

Meetings with a Young Poet

A gifted writer's successful poetic publication emboldens his desire to meet his favourite author, Samuel Beckett (Stephen McHattie), and a letter is sent, a reply is crafted, the two meeting thereafter to see if they can keep collegial compatibility in check, incandescentally enacting a enduring competitive discussion throughout, which gradually foments a spry friendship.

A gifted performing artists seeks the rights to stage one of Beckett's plays, the rights belonging to the poet, hoping to modify an aspect which some consider prescribed, her illuminated life-force agilely advocating.

Their dialogues actively overcome an empty silence whose initial poetic flourish debilitatingly became a literal reality (his love of Beckett prevented him from writing for many years).

Meetings with a Young Poet troubled me.

At points its pretensions made me feel ill while at others I was humbly affected to the teardrop, like reading Mr. Dickens, or a poem lacking rhyme and/or rhythm which still vindicates delicate ethereal reminiscences, simultaneously jealous of Paul Susser's (Vincent Hoss-Desmarais) good fortune and cognizant of why Beckett recommended to run from Proust and Joyce, his obvious love for people and the lighter side of life crushing me like waxed ephemeral wicker, two sides of the haughty intellectualized niche contending, one bound to a forlorn pincushion, the other overflowing with grace.

Carole Thomas's (Maria de Medeiros) role, her constantly revitalized cascading flora, this presence generously transmitted to her subjects of desire, thereby simultaneously transferring to them what they need to reboot while obtaining her sought after intention, infuses the film with a bounding effervescence, every bubble's balance beneficially accrued.

Character driven.