Andrei Rublev

An alternative cultural construction with manifest differences delineating structure, long before the global economy had secured widespread sustenance and reasonable lodging.

The Medieval world as intricately depicted sees religious endeavour faithfully grounded, at animate odds with pagans and artists who stray from the obedient path.

Without a market to sell his work and talent too imposing for traditional canvases, Andrei Rublev is avidly tasked with painting houses of religious worship.

Difficult to gain his trust or even convince him to take the commission, the fear of failure much too threatening in a climate of ruthless disciplinary punishment. 

So exacting so austere that even the most gifted refute prestige, and desperately fear their inspiration will fail to placate despotic envy. 

More difficult to meticulously nurture the aesthetic glory of a large cathedral, where your complex loyal design will be swiftly scrutinized by so many.

Individual texts may pass unnoticed or only interest a select few, but a public building will indeed be visited by a vast a/critical audience.

Where the devout artist's loyalty and faith will also be self-critically disposed.

Innocently answering their unique calling.

While conflict annihilates soulful reckoning.

It would be intriguing to learn more about the production and reception of Andrei Rublev, which bravely challenged the Soviet people not to overlook their religious heritage.

At a time when censorship was keen although not as orthodox as Stalin's tenure, the release of a 3 hour tome that lives up to its image and reveres religion suggests wild daring.

It's original monumental filmmaking that gathers thousands to collectively recreate, complex varied compelling shots of industrious impeti boldly undertaken.

To directly challenge a hostile regime with such innate overwhelming brilliance, no doubt recasts artistic conceptions through previously unimagined codes of conduct.

I even searched to see if they had actually cast the bell.

So realistic. So sincere. So inherently dangerous. So artistic. 

The apotheosis of religious filmmaking, crafted in communist Russia.

Microcosmos

If seeking to find a source of enticing limitless variability, look no further than the world of insects, where diminutive dynamism thrives indelicately. 

Lithely chronicled in Microcosmos as patiently directed by Claude Nuridsany and Marie Pérennou, within vibrant versatile insect life peculiarly transmits intense reverberations. 

The scenes they capture motivate wonder to efficiently charm warm and pleasant enchantments, as imaginative random uncanny creatures magically enhance sundry fertile environments.

They present ants and moths and snails and bees and butterflies plus dragonflies to name a few, as they go about their embowering business within sprightly forests, ponds, and meadows.

The shots they take of a random meadow or pond or even the integral backwoods, peacefully remind observant viewers of the incredible life residing yonder.

It's not the easiest thing to do to film or photograph chill insect encounters, to find moments which showcase romance or strife or industry can take a long time.

So worth it when it finally comes to evocatively and picturesquely pass, so many mind-blowing moments in Microcosmos it's a feverish feast for the cerebral senses. 

The unobtrusive close-ups delicately offering detailed macroscopic visuals, that focus on the limbs and bodies and colours which nature has crafted with so much precision.

It's often the colours I find most intriguing the illuminative spectrum artistically manifested, intense greens reds oranges and blues collectively conjuring luminescent spontaneity. 

So many of them have wings as well their bodies are so compact and they can fly, I must admit that if they can sense us they likely pity our lack of flight.

Lol, there's no doubt many of them can sense us dragonflies even protect us when mosquitoes swarm, and bees severely criticize if we seek their honey, and flies indubitably make their presence known!

I've mentioned that it's like an art museum the sundry ludic bug shapes and sizes (and nature generally), as I'm sure many others have as well, the striking majesty of creation/evolution.

The world of insects really is much more diverse than that of rodents or reptiles or birds, there are so many shockingly unique characteristics that fluidly regale multivariable lifeforms. 

I liked the lack of narration and the light-hearted chill and comic soundtrack.

I wonder how many naturalists Microcosmos inspired.

As winter sets in, bring on the documentaries (plus Love Nature)! 

Jubilee

Queen Elizabeth I seeks direct knowledge of the future, and an accommodating angel is summoned, divinely endowed with prophetic precision he graciously enables clairvoyant caricatures, as they travel to a post-apocalyptic future feverishly enamoured with punk rock.

Strange to provide ahistorical comparisons between the alternative social constructs, but whereas the Queen monopolises power way back when, a media mogul exercises similar authority over yonder.

His friends characterize the past with random inspired proclamations, like a series of disgruntled spirited diatribes diabolically manifested through armageddon. 

Puzzling to the astonished Queen who takes it in with modest whimsy, somewhat shocked by the blatant contrasts but otherwise scientifically disposed.

The police have taken to violence and no longer put up with the slightest objection, quickly firing should constructive criticisms ever dare to voice concerns.

People discovered with nothing to do must endure underground lectures on various topics, an audience desired found within the streets where millions remain unemployed.

What can the bewildered Queen then boldly administer amongst her subjects?

To imagine alternative global paths.

Prominently incorporating widespread leisure. 

Treading imaginatively throughout time multivariable presents chaotically mingle, to effectively generate kinetic shards exuberantly coruscating wild endeavours.

Had the Queen spent more time delicately observing the tribulations of her stately epoch, perhaps the sensational uproars may have seemed less grandiose as semantically situated within composite streams.

Thoroughly saturated embellished beacons enthusiastically disseminating jocose hypotheses, not as devoutly determined by chronological forecasts much more individualistically composed. 

Like ye olde Lite Brite or David Lynch's picture to be found in another room, Jarman bedazzlingly creates improvised disharmonies through substantial recourse to extant obscurity. 

With good times endearingly awaiting the shape-shifting collectives in balm and friendship, indeed forging lackadaisical teams to fortuitously treasure infinite subjectivity. 

Carefree and unfortunately at odds with so many disciplined lavish demeanours.

Still unafraid to ebulliently exist.

Brilliant breaching.

Nebulous nerve. 

*Criterion keyword: freight. 

Abigail's Party

There's more to the appreciation of art than the ready-made exemplars designated famous, personal choice and inspirational lounging eclectically factoring in novel unpredictability. 

It's therefore important to make your own choices based upon what you specifically enjoy, not simply a work that's been historically lauded, but rather something you genuinely love.

There is the cocktail party game where you're supposed to recall celebrated painters and writers, and correspondingly list their famous works while modestly reciting what's been written about them.

It's not such a bad thing to be well-informed and aware of the critical continuum, but if you start to gather a collection of your own, are you doing so because you like it, or someone else does?

I admit to having more respect for the kitschy aficionado than the literate snob, even if I disagree with many of their choices, I still highly value their unabashed individuality.

If you can learn the categorical distinctions while also cultivating your own subtle voice, you may develop enviable taste that for a time may clearly fascinate.

It's not about being right or wrong you see it's more like romance or falling in love, it's difficult to find cherished longing in a textbook when you could be globetrotting with a Nickelback fan. 

When you start to read all the conflicting accounts that defiantly challenge the encyclopedic status quo, and become immersed in the critical maelstrom thoughtfully keeping things fresh and active, it becomes apparent that there really aren't any foundations although manifold traditions joyfully emerge, but with the lack of organic resonance, why do your own preferences not also matter?

Thus, there is vitriolic criticism passionately unleashed in Abigail's Party, regarding the elevation of paintings exuberantly categorized through aggrieved sincere textbook learning.

I feel bad because he's trying to educate himself and I widely support such scholarly ambitions, but he loves and brags about things simply because he's rather quite certain that he's supposed to.

His wife's more into the modern and couldn't care less what anyone thinks.

She's still rather cruel to him however.

So hard to hold it together.

If you're ever critiquing your personal decision to indeed never marry perhaps watch this film, and chant decisively with the blessed thereafter since really thank god that isn't your life.

Not that married life doesn't certainly have discerning benefits bachelors miss out on.

But you eventually reach a certain age.

Where it no longer holds much mischievous meaning. 

*Criterion keyword: beaver 🦫 

Bis ans Ende der Welt (Until the End of the World)

Fluidly transmitting interactive hybrid tender phenomena, Bis ans Ende der Welt (Until the End of the World) randomly travels around the world.

I can't imagine what it must have been like to exotically film in so many countries, at an accelerated intricate pace kinetically connected universally lithe.

I couldn't watch the entire film in one extended sitting so I divided it into 3 parts, the first two hours, the second two hours, and the last 47 odd minutes.

While I was watching I admired its freedom as it temperamentally trotted the globe, while casually presenting endemic technologies along with brief interrogative artifacts. 

The 4 hour and 47 minute film leaves the viewer full of lighthearted enriching anticipation, comfortably rewarded for investing their time while convivially considering the mischievous details.

Part 1 as accidentally compartmentalized offers a chase as previously mentioned around the world, as a romantic artful passionate soul sets out in search of a would-be lover.

He's stolen some money from her which she borrowed from thieves who stole it from Nice, and as she keeps finding him and he keeps escaping dynamic love blossoms with fugacious flurries.

The second act is much more settled as the lively couple finds rest in Australia, several characters who came along for the ride jocosely joining them then forming a band.

The destruction of a nuclear satellite has knocked out communications around the world, with practically no machines in working order it's time to jam sit back and enjoy life.

The last act sees the principal characters become addicted to an ingenious device (global power restored), which records your dreams and plays them back for you to freely watch throughout your day.

Unfortunately, the dreams become reality and those taking part refuse to do anything else but watch them.

Drifting into cerebral psychosis. 

Like turtles all the way down. 🐢

If searching for an offbeat romance that celebrates active unorthodox lives, improvisationally following their own distinct paths, Bis ans Ende der Welt is worth seeing for sure.

My favourite scenario was the chillaxed jam where music reimagines being and nothingness.

Reminded me of old times in the countryside.

Laidback livin'.

Kitchen jams.

A Beautiful Life

A resilient fisherman makes a day-to-day living helping some friends down at the nearby docks, living on a sweet boat that his parents left him after they wound up in a tragic accident.

One of his mates likes to play music and he assists at his gigs around town, one night impressing a legendary widow with his exceptional singing and practical songwriting. 

She likes him so much that she invites him to patiently record at her in-house studio, with her daughter producing the songs, it's an incredible opportunity.

But he isn't ready at first the temperamental transition playing with his head, he still doubts his homegrown talent and trepidatiously remains hyper-critically unsure.

His songs are solid however and as he records them enthusiasm blossoms, and after the first release is met with applause self-assured belief tantalizingly manifests.

Moving from the wharf to superstardom in a couple of months still takes quite the heavy toll.

With newfound relationship responsibilities. 

Tantamount tension.

Consummate joy.

I suppose a lot of people are shy and it's difficult to prepare for mass observation, the overwhelming scrutiny of every micromovement generating controversy, buzz, and takeaway. 

I see the most ridiculous stuff in the For You news section on my cell (can someone hook me up with better articles?), it's like Malibu Stacy getting a new hat, I'm really just not that into it.

Nonetheless, I recognize that people are and that mundane trivialities build community, or through the relationships and fashionable choices of famous stars conversations matriculate.

I worry that fame can alter an otherwise innocent unique trajectory, that it's easy to filter out distractions when you aren't being meticulously criticized. 

If you can harness that tumultuous energy and use it to fuel your celebrated progression, I imagine that things would work out and that your outputs would consistently diversify. 

That's what the Beatles did anyways, they took that worldwide hysteria and responded impeccably. 

It's mind-boggling what they achieved from 1965 to 1970.

So many bands would deal with Satan for the albums Help! and Let it Be.

And for The Beatles, those aren't even the good ones.

Insanely good band.

Cool film too.

*Seriously, between 1965 and 1969 The Beatles released Rubber Soul, Revolver, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Magical Mystery Tour, The White Album (a crazy good double), and Abbey Road. With Yellow Submarine thrown in the mix too. Plus a bunch of hit singles that weren't on the LPs. It baffles the mind how anyone could have ever produced so much amazing pop in such a short period of time. I can't find anyone to compare them with. Plus their sound consistently changed throughout. How did they pull that off? They did stop touring early on. That may have played an instrumental role. 

The Horse's Mouth

I imagine The Horse's Mouth has been inspiring cheek for generations, as it magnanimously schemes through stray ludicrous accord.

Hark then, take offhand note, an imaginative artist is released from prison, immediately resuming the stress thereafter which initially led to his foul distemper.

Thus, with no income at hand and no commission retroactively forthcoming, a theoretical deal which may have merit seductively swelters in sordid cynosure.

Strange how someone so sought after just wildly wanders half-starved and disputative, you would think there'd be some kind of role for him to adequately play with solemn disinterest?

But wandering salubriously suits him with soliloquized synergies short and syncopated, the odd connoisseur taking distracted note, random deals struck fugaciously unaltered.

Inspiration indeed surely struts and mischievously materializes maelström and mayhem, as it does within The Horse's Mouth when idyllic lustre illustriously liaises. 

Indubitably, a frenzied subaltern is even enlisted with aggrieved bravado, the lack of orthodox laborious blueprints producing reluctant starstruck nebulae. 

No doubt encouraging flagrant entropy resiliently mutating into adamant verse. 

At times some things go amiss.

Textiles tantamount cantankered probity.

You wonder where he's headed in the auspicious final moments, imagine having a boat fortuitously buoyant and inquisitively seafaring.

I suppose if you can catch your dinner with moderate success there's no horizon, puzzling predicaments at times bemoaning yet still loose and lithe and limber.

With abundant material work may flourish beyond reckless trope and placated gale, regenerative lapse demonstrative brine lopsided latitude elegant shades.

Romance wasn't once so dangerous although tremulous realism distorts as well, without hope how do you ever achieve assuming a hearty practical frailty? 

Sometimes things relax and tactile comforts efficiently abound.

Soak it in, time for a breather.

It may even last.

'About on the seas.

*Essential viewing for Alec Guinness fans. It's like Obi-Wan Kenobi if he'd never had Jedi training. 

Junebug

A couple basks in enriching romance their union potentially a success, effervescent wondrous innocence characterizing their lithe shenanigans. 

The wife (Embeth Davidtz as Madeleine) runs a caring gallery which genuinely looks after its unsung artists, discovering unknown local talent then helping to find an adoring audience.

Her work takes her to the down-home town where her agile husband (Alessandro Nivola as George) was curiously raised, which means it's time to meet the fam while engaging in bucolic expenditure.

George's brother's (Ben McKenzie as Johnny) become somewhat nasty having grown tired of his steady routine, even though his chill wife's (Amy Adams as Ashley) pregnant and looking forward to starting a family.

He has no time to reminisce but his better half's still warm and friendly, Madeleine sincerely responding to her lack of conceit and freeform enthusiastic reckoning.

There could be more cutting tension arising from prejudicial misconceptions, but thankfully observations aren't frequently shared within the offbeat household's public sphere.

In fact Junebug creatively presents endearing heartfelt loving characters, thoroughly interested in the lives of others as they go about their interactive quibbling.

The arts devoid of stout pretension and destructive distasteful foul snobbery, search freely far and wide for newfound novel uncanny yens.

At the same time homegrown peeps hold back none of their natural spirits, a husband certainly most distressing, his wife like an ebullient summer's bloom.

The buzz around Amy Adams's performance is bang on like nothing else I've seen, her facial movements and inherent fascination far beyond what's oft described as memorable.

It's like there's a range of depth within which multidimension nimbly materializes, and her zags and cascading zigs ethereally flow towards its striking zenith.

Davidtz shouldn't be overlooked either I hope her character has persuasive fluency.

They're an incredible combination.

In a film that promotes compassion and understanding.

Orlando

What one gains to live forever without aging amongst the royals, while perennially persisting in novel light of heart heuristics. 

Through non-determinate trail and error Orlando (Tilda Swinton) learns of love and politics, like a youngster dabbling in frisk and fancy with everlasting inhibition. 

Not that everyone's at play the social lab invokes decorum, but as time passes new tasks emerge mischievously befitting a young immortal.

Orlando the film generates true innocence ironically immersed in frayed executive, eager to dally forlorn forever while at times taking part commissioned commanding.

The typical tropes you find in narratives concerned with living forever can't be found, as Orlando frolics through the centuries with jocose beam and slight expenditure.

Thus, concerns with true romance and personal loss don't fit within, not that there aren't moments of genuine displeasure along with strong desires fawned unrequited.

Perhaps it's supposed to be much more serious I'm afraid I just can't view it that way, Swinton's simply just too adorable and seems at home at rest at play.

I've had this problem with les adorables who as a metaphysical rule loathe as I admire, thus I've had to abandon the practise altogether in terms of circumspect affection.

It was the same way with pets when I was a kid, I would try to hug them and they'd bite me.

Relationships must be easy since so many people have them.

It'd be nice to have more money.

But other people have the worst taste in everything! 😜

It's cool to see Orlando isn't fraught with studious indelicacy, and her immortality isn't feared or hated as she travels throughout the centuries. 

Why she doesn't travel to the northern forests of Canada and Québec to make a home remains a mystery, she could have watched the wildlife for 100 years and still have spent another 1,000 shopping.

But she loves her gloomy homeland with all its rain and absent bears, are there any major forests left in Britain?, I heard they recently brought back beavers.

A cool companion piece for Highlander, Orlando proceeds with judicious humour, like an earnest library patron who spends their life enjoying stories.

S/he's living them however which does seem like quite the nuisance.

Role playing, expectations.

Disproportionately fashionable.

After Hours

A strait-laced data analyst embraces his routine (Griffin Dunne as Paul Hackett), predictability the 9 to 5 smoothly flowing trusted and disciplined. 

An imaginative co-worker dreams of something more (Bronson Pinchot as Lloyd), something beyond cold codes and programs, an open-minded journal that promotes diversity.

Paul dismisses the idea even though he likes to read, mundanely ensconced in static cynicism, unconcerned with creativity.

Yet while reading alone in a diner, a single lass takes compassionate interest (Rosanna Arquette as Marcy), and soon they've decided to meet up later, Mr. Hackett moving beyond his narrow confines.

But should he have left inanimate routine inexplicably behind with adventurous longing, to suddenly extend bland limitations past the stilted sure and steady?

How will he react to liaised limbo immersed in scintillating shock, as enigmatic interactions present uncanny striking novelties?

It's as if he's entered Lloyd's journal with blasé editorial intent, the artists suspicious of his lacking spry free-flowing flexibility.

Instinctually composed beyond traditional direction, oddball night owls offer conspicuous fervid nimble characterizations. 

Bourgeois logic remains irrelevant he can't make the adaptations, his hopeless attempts to assert control instigating chaotic tension.

The journal requires inherent variability latent unorthodox unawareness, without patterns pragmatic paradigms smoothly shifting random flux.

The desire to reasonably analyze in search of auspicious thematic cohesion, leaves him synchronistically stranded as he attempts to swiftly improvise.

But the unknown erratic elements adhesively unite through enthused criticism, generating instantaneous aggrieved startling multidisciplinary import.

Perhaps he'll be a manager some day but on this night he has no agency, and must adjust to the ironic insurrection of laidback generally accommodating peeps.

Thus the arrhythmic inconclusive intuitive chill spontaneous tangents, prove that they don't watch cable television or sit back and read the news.

A wondrous lively essential eclective naturally responding with unclassified stamina, finds momentary momentum uncategorized active spiritual flight.

I'm not sure if he's meant to be comic or if he's portrayed in a tragic light.

Which lends the film a bit of mysticism. 

When thinking about it later on. 

With Teri Garr, John Heard, Cheech & Chong, and Catherine O'Hara. 

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.

Werk ohne Autor (Never Look Away)

An artist creates to define then reimagine himself in post-war Germany, extremist ideology having devastated his country.

His countries.

But it's not a psychological film, it doesn't examine Kurt Barnert's (Tom Schilling/Oskar Müller/Cai Cohrs) sadness in agonizing detail, preferring to focus on his development as an artist, and his relationship with Ellie Seeband (Paula Beer).

Differing post-war socioeconomic and sociopolitical realities which each require flexible attitudes regarding the ways in which a jurisdiction manages its resources comment within, as the two make their way, their world more of a complex fluid multifaceted mixture of traditional and unorthodox realizations, the application of such terms depending on one's point of view, than that which proliferates in East Germany after the end of the Second World War.

They're certainly full of life, of spirit, of vigour, of adventure, as Werk ohne Autor (Never Look Away) celebrates creation.

If someone chooses to make art that corresponds to a specific philosophy, and that choice corresponds to his or her creative gifts, I see nothing wrong with that, as long as they don't try to make everyone else do the same thing.

That's how I understand social democracy.

It creates an open space wherein everyone can create whatever they want, as long as they don't force others to create what they prefer in their own free time.

Who would want to see reality reflected everywhere?

It's a compelling vital crucial discipline to be sure, but so are fantasy and science-fiction, romantic comedy and fictional drama.

If one art form is given leverage over all the others, it does the arts themselves a great disservice, and the solemnity of its ethos risks transforming into farce, if not chaos, or oblivion.

I think Netflix gets this.

I hope so, anyways.

There's so much more to be written about this film than what I've shared here.

It presents its demons without dwelling on them, belittling tyranny in the face of inspiration.

Isn't it so much easier to love?

And isn't life more worth living if so much of it remains unpredictable?

Carefree.

Outside of work.

Beyond race or creed or ethnicity?

Beyond violence?

*I've written about the affirmation of life in this review. This does not mean that I am supporting the pro-life movement. I support a woman's right to choose and should she choose to have an abortion I support her decision. However, when a child is born I support her or his right to grow up in safety in a culture where equal opportunity exists. And for them to enjoy the lives they live. Free from war and tyranny.

Vox Lux

Brady Corbet's Vox Lux wildly envisions tumultuous reasonability clad in disputatious aggrieved apotheosis facilitating chaotic calm.

Beware what transpires within, for it's a most uninhibited tale, executively brandishing dysfunction, perilously prophesizing unimpaired.

Like all stories, it begins, a school in a small town no less, where a distraught child assaults his classmates and takes many innocent lives.

It's appalling that lawmakers aren't taking measures to prevent such atrocities, especially after so many brave American young adults have appealed for political conviction.

So many years after Bowling for Columbine, these shootings still take place with horrifying regularity.

Mass school shootings or mass shootings of any kind are so obviously not acceptable and arming teachers to stop them is sheer utter madness, total insanity, extreme irresponsibility, just nuts, such events don't simply happen, they're the product of blind mismanagement, and legal steps should have been taken to prevent them many many many years ago.

Celeste (Natalie Portman/Raffey Cassidy) survives the shooting at her school and writes a song to express her grief, a song which capture's a grieving nation's attention, superstardom awaiting thereafter.

But with superstardom comes unexpected pressure, Vox Lux necessitating improvisation as the unanticipated interrogatively fluxes.

How to diplomatically respond?

When even her most humble words provoke sensation?

It's unhinged and perplexing and preposterous and disorienting when you think about it afterwards, Vox Lux's argumentative acrobatics and substance abuse fuelled rhetoric leaving a byzantine trail of grandiose unorthodoxy in their wake, realities so disconnected and otherworldly it's like they orbit the heart of an imperial pulsar, which radiates untethered brilliance partout, and neglects consequence with refrained spry spectacle.

Yet it's so real, the film seems so plausible, so concrete, so distinct, passionately yet prohibitively brought to life by Natalie Portman and Jude Law (The Manager), like a down to earth fairy tale that's as ludicrous as it is homemade, like a supernatural cookie cutter incarnated in mortal shade.

Bafflingly improbable yet so irrefutably sincere, Vox Lux resonates with raw animation as if a misfit god has awoken from eternal slumber, and what a performance she gives in the end, this former child star who's been nurtured by shock and scandal.

Exhilaratingly conjuring.

In visceral artistic balm.

Approach Vox Lux with caution.

Outstanding alternative mind*&%^ cinema.

Mary Poppins Returns

Fitting that Mary Poppins (Emily Blunt) should return in an age where access to independent art has expanded exponentially.

The options everyone has to express him or herself locally/regionally/nationally/globally, free of charge, have perhaps clouded the master narrative's unconscious lucidity, and made alternative forms of peaceful expression more readily agreeable.

Notably animal videos.

Plus everything's accessible from a magical little device that fits in your pocket and is connected to the world at large.

True, because of this device you can be tracked by who knows who wherever you go, and you may be missing out on a lot of cool real world phenomena if you never lift your head up, but it's also like a cool informative instructive multifaceted tricorder, and if you like brainy stuff too, trust me, there's more than one app for that.

Mary Poppins Returns takes place in the pre-technological era, however, yet still provides fascinating insights into how creative people used to entertain.

Poetic or artistic inspiration isn't limited to the night sky or raccoon encounters you know, it's everywhere you look everywhere you go, as Poppins and Jack (Lin-Manuel Miranda) illuminate, and if you don't forget to observe whatever it is you happen to be caught up in, as you did when you were younger, you can turn a bowl discovered at a thrift shop into Ulysses, or a pinecone into Lost in Translation.

And you can share your observations on Instagram or Twitter or other forms of social media usually without having to make much of an effort.

Like the whole world's gone Barbapapa.

Nevertheless, I was worried when I heard they were making a new Mary Poppins film because the first one was universally adored by so so many, and it's always risky to make a sequel to such cynosures, even 54 years later, unless you dig in quite deep and draft exceptionally well crafted flumes.

Which is what Rob Marshall and his crew have fortunately done.

Mary Poppins Returns is phenomenal, a total must see, even if you don't have children, a celebration of creative minds and the positive effects of imagination, which also critiques zealous desires to foreclose, and lauds the symphonic harmonies of robust labour.

I may actually buy a copy.

Lin-Manuel Miranda and Emily Blunt are outstanding.

It collectively unites song and dance in a coruscating choreographed multidimensional cascading cloudburst, sensually exporting remarkably vivid exceptions while suggesting it's what anyone can do.

Just gotta keep those eyes open.

Draw a parallel.

Infuse.

Juggle.

At Eternity's Gate

Light streaming through the window, dreamy reckoning, exotic pause, patient nimble expression sparrow soaring eyes adoring, vortex, texture, blends, illuminated unconscious spiritually orchestrated canvas, brush strokes, supernatural brevity denoted enchantingly, floral vigour, spellbound charm, relaxed contemplative feeling, emotion, embrasure, less concerned with exacting aesthetics, less enamoured with splayed bedazzle, shyly swaddling landscapes in waves, in vivid undulating coy windswept waves.

Unaccustomed to traditional lifestyles, he struggles to say the right thing.

Unaware of what he's done, he rests for brief periods at times.

It can be very dark, how you have to think to understand what drives some people, sometimes, not everyone by any means, but some people care about such meaningless things, and seem to find motivation through ill-willed spite.

At times.

Many people don't fit roles that suggest they should act a specific way.

Many people which advocate for these roles don't fit them well either.

The roles exist to avoid confusion, I suppose, although I imagine broadening them, expanding them to include more spice, more variability, would make both spice and variability seem just as natural as rigid structure, and communities would correspondingly benefit from the increased diversity, teaching those whom it frightens to have no fear, regardless of whether or not everyone liked the same things.

Vincent van Gogh's (Willem Dafoe) actions are out of line at times and he doesn't realize it. But the violence he encounters doesn't teach him anything, in fact only makes things much much worse.

In the film.

His style, like intuitive observations of incorporeal intangible invisible imperceptible resonances, carefully balancing the sincere and the awkward with realistically composed imagination, perhaps mistaken for humorous representatives of inarticulate blooms in his time, clearly synthesizing wonder with amazement through recourse to the mundane to me, tasks hesitant poetic lucidity, the unobserved omnipresent joys that pass unnoticed as one ages, as dismissals of innocence replace innate fascinations, they never did with Vincent van Gogh, and, according to the two films I've seen about him, he remained unassuming till the end.

Perhaps touched, ingenious, perspicacious, naive, he had a vision anyways and worked hard to clarify it, as if he could never quite realize what it was, but sought to enliven it nonetheless.

The film's a carefully crafted thoughtful investigation of Van Gogh the artist, rich with performances from great actors, the dialogue perhaps too lofty and condensed at times but poignant and revealing at others, Julian Schnabel presenting his own artistic gifts most prominently perhaps when nothing's being said at all.

A gifted filmmaker.

A wonderful film.

Call Me By Your Name

Lazy Summer days, cozy calisthenic concurrences, adventurous insights, carefree study, inspiring intuitions, definitive imprecision, consequent variability, frozen yogurt waffle cones, shinnicked bones, furtive independence, sensual stealth, unpasteurized promenades, thematic quests, impassioned evanescence, vespertine incandescence, echoing undulations, lunar embarkations, fireside simplicity, hidden roasted treasures.

Randomly sought after.

Improvised replays.

Some work to be done perhaps but certainly not right away, not today or this week, this hour, outlines drawn on the sweltering haze, remembered then forgotten, aeronautically cosigned.

At some point.

Envisaged, aggregated.

Legends of the Fall.

Amour.

Attach romance to the above and meaninglessly embrace the omniscience characteristic of the terrestrially divine, the mortal, insofar as you've become half of Inception's whole, and denied yourself through recourse to another.

Floating around, receding.

Call Me By Your Name cherishes love in Summer with the fleeting devotion of hesitant curious maturity.

Patiently sculpted with blossoming freespirited amicability, the easy going free flowing compassion sans conflict that I was hoping to find in Sleeping Giant, cultural differences praised without exaggeration, tranquil friendships, experiments, rests, excursions, it supplely romanticizes neither one nor the other, sensitively creating with the poignancy of unclassified commitment, it adores without seducing, and delicately tempers fair play.

The tenderest, sweetest, bravest, most sober and intelligent love story I've seen in years, as if love wasn't something controversial, wasn't concerned with ownership, loss, or time.

Scientific artistry.

Ethical understanding.

Phantom Thread

A life meticulously lived according to exacting criteria, quotidian asseverations infused with unacknowledged ritualistic admiration, everyone within his artistic sphere delicately catering to these blessed immutable prescriptions, his childish fastidious sophistication ethereally incarnating elegant cherished widely sought after constellations, dresses, among which starstruck architectures and promulgations and orchestrations and voyages are covetously imagined by both fiancée and unknown suitor, accolades, repute, and standing cultivating a dangerous self-worth carefully checked by his adoring sister, discipline jarring the uninitiated, romantic interests unable to penetrate exclusive resolve.

For a lengthy period of time.

While resting in the country, he meets and falls for a girl of a different kind, one less prone to statically accepting the intricate rules and regulations that permeate every aspect of his art, a beautiful freespirited contradictory ingenue, less in awe of his brilliance than infuriated by his ingratitude.

How does one establish themselves as a lasting integral prominent feature within his unchanging excessively refined obsessions?

Impassion the persnickety?

Without impacting his work?

Phantom Thread illuminates a haunting patience rarely seduced by American cinema.

In possession of an aesthetic often found in great European films, it's as if Paul Thomas Anderson is determined young Alma (Vicky Krieps), and Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) unimpressionable Eurocentric film critics.

As if the purest imagination is that which never takes part but always considers what would happen if it did, yet doesn't lambaste others for stepping forward, and then one day finds itself basking in the sauntering wake of a highly strung affected talented unabashed American manifestation, a model of its own creation, I wonder how Phantom Thread's being received in Germany, France, Spain, or the Netherlands, is it embracing applause due to its inherent sensitivities, or consternation regarding its atypical innocence?

How many graceful subtle provocative American films are there which examine the eccentricities of someone without any athletic aspirations, literally or figuratively, argumentatively?

Furtively enveloping strife bespoken?

Unhesitant concerning aspirations?

Indicative of early Winter.

The Shape of Water

An ancient unfathomed independent environmental consciousness is captured and brought back to the United States, in chains, clandestine military operations responsible for its incarceration, it actively expresses its discontent oceanically, stuck within a container in a back room of a forgotten corridor in a decrepit building, wondering why a similar species would proceed so callously, when so much more could be learned under respectful mutual examination?

Others humanistically understand this point, immediately recognizing the unjustness of the circumstances, and unaccustomed to viewing such sincere pain and suffering, decide it's time to uncharacteristically encourage sneaky boat-rocking initiatives.

Introspectively speaking, it's really the brainchild of a lone sweet cleaning person who discovers the aquahumanoid (Doug Jones) throughout the course of her daily labours, tries to make friends, and eventually realizes she cares enough to save him.

With a little help from the ethically inclined.

Her heartstrung horizons.

Symphonically submerged.

Guillermo del Toro's The Shape of Water might not be the best film I've seen this year, but that doesn't mean it isn't my favourite.

It's still incredibly good, and thought provokingly entertains while crossing comedic, dramatic, romantic and sci-fi streams, the resultant energy discharge composed of purest raw loving artistic soul, the delicately distracted uniting to outwit a nuclear family man, in possession of everything people are supposed to desire, accept for his personal accompanying douche baggage.

The film's so well nuanced.

And casted (Robin D. Cook).

So many spoilers.

I have to mention these things.

There's just too much cool in one film.

Like characters from Ghost World decided to take on the army, there's a struggling painter who's lost his cash cow (Richard Jenkins as Giles), a conscientious Russian spy who's more scientist than commie, more concerned with promoting life than objectifying ideals (Michael Stuhlbarg as Dr. Robert Hoffstetler), a splendiferous local cinema that can't find an audience, Michael Shannon (Richard Strickland), Octavia Spencer (Zelda Fuller), multiple cats, pie slices to go, a potent critique of exclusive diners, amorous eggs hardboiled, hilarity ensues as positive thinking bemuses, even the douchiest character makes a reasonable plea for sympathy (he's used to lampoon by-any-means-necessary so well), dialogue heartwarmingly places the "human" back in "humanistic", Nigel Bennett (Mihalkov) seriously impresses in Russian, fellow Canadian actor David Hewlett (Fleming) burnishes the brash bumble, prim cold war ridiculousness with a taste for culinary excess, a bit of gore here and there, Hamilton Ontario's city hall plus the CFL Hall of Fame, methinks, good people given a chance to do something good which they overcome rational fears to do, a sense that everyone loved working on the film, yet didn't let the good times detrimentally effect their performances.

With the incomparable Sally Hawkins (Elisa Esposito) tenderly stealing the show; she has an endearing knack for showing up in the simply awesome.

The plot elements and cool criticisms and situations aren't just a smattering of amazing either, del Toro brilliantly blends them together into a startlingly clever narrative that keeps you acrobatically positioned to appreciate virtuous leaps and bounds, that seem to be vivaciously drawing you into a fantastic day in your life, during which you make a remarkable difference, during which you are the change.

Looking past racially motivated sensation.

Discourses of the huggable.

Like perennial blossoming unassailable fountains of youth.

Spontaneous trips to candy stores.

Artistically crafted vegan ice cream.

Loving Vincent

Choosing an occupation isn't so easy for some, not easy at all for many, and can be a source of frustration for those who don't have much desire to do anything, for the majority of their lives, even if they develop expensive tastes for automobiles, or, perhaps, exotic vacation destinations.

Social evaluations of job titles and financial motivations can be disheartening as well, especially if that which you never wanted to do earns less money than something else which someone else never wanted to do, when situated within the context of various cultural mating rituals.

But some make the decision to follow their hearts despite dismissive pretensions or a reliable income, and apply themselves vigorously to something they love doing, much to the dismay of people who never really loved or had any desire to do anything, it's a strange social phenomenon that can discombobulate if considered logically.

The disenchantingly bizarro.

Competing discourses of maturity.

It's not like this with everyone, but in Loving Vincent a tragic account of exclusivity explains why the brilliant painter Vincent van Gogh (Robert Gulaczyk) was unable to feel at peace throughout his professional life.

He spent years painstakingly developing an original style that was only moderately celebrated during his lifetime (he only sold one painting for instance), and never really felt as if he fit in.

Cast out from his hometown, judged peculiar by his parents, unsuccessful with traditional occupations, a depression set in which was soothed by constant work.

Loving Vincent celebrates that work in one of the most beautiful films I've seen.

Perhaps the most beautiful, I've never seen anything like it before.

Like a distant graceful star consciously transmitted its sympathetic and understanding warmhearted radiance to the brushstrokes of dozens of gifted artists, and left them capably distilling sweetly flowing raw solar energy with the tender care of loving parents who seek to bless their children's youth and adolescence with the utmost imaginative uncompromising love and sacrifice, and simultaneously, through an act of synthetic genius, fluidly articulated the starstruck luminescent incandescent joyful orchestrations of the children as well, thereby exemplifying freespirited innocence and wonder, like an enchanting and carefree perpetual Christmas morn, Loving Vincent harnesses gregarious gifts and shares them with modest intent bewilderment, delicately crafting an image of a curious soul, who was tragically misunderstood if not overlooked by dull considerations of propriety.

I'm sure Loving Vincent will view well on a television screen, but it's so worth checking out in theatres.

To say that it should be seen in theatres wouldn't be fitting, however, due to the laissez-faire chill style of the lauded humble subject in question.

I agree with the postmaster (Chris O'Dowd), animals really can know your heart at first sight, but you have to be willing to know theirs too in order to notice.

It's like they intuitively sense love, good, evil.

More than 100 artists came together to craft Loving Vincent's unique oil paint animation.

Quality and quantity immersed in effervescent equilibrium, it's like collective conscious soul, cinematically reified, by acrobatic admirers.

What a painter.

What a calling.

What an artist.

His conflicted infinities, ingeniously underscored.

His extant outputs, kaleidoscopically exceeding.

L'Avventura

An artistic heritage so vast and imposing its contemporary admirers can't help but compose themselves with awe.

Quotidian cheek materialistically tethered exchanging observations with speculative mobilization possessing unimaginative magnetism (wry jealousy).

Small towns with no work wherein which the male inhabitants collectively contemplate aesthetics casually passing by.

Playful luxury illusively inconvenienced slumbers with impoverished free speech which differentiates not between beauty and brutality, a life spent with no feminine contact (it's odd when people seek answers and the answers are brutal and you try not to respond but they demand that answer, and if you respond they despise you even more than they would have if you had said nothing, and then treat you brutally).

A culture laments the disappearance of a siren whose mischievous independent preference for theoretical possibility created a sensation which his desire dismissively ignored.

Patriarchically philandering, L'Avventura presents a bored successful man to whom the most sought after precious women helplessly swoon, his innocent unattached habitual eloquence effortlessly ensnaring them within psychological shackles composed of forgiveness, sympathy, contempt, and guilt.

Apart from his betrothed who can't be found.

Culturally inclined, bucolic and urban socioeconomics multifacetedly engender amorous situations which fleetingly comment on relationships and/or conjugal commitment inasmuch as they carnivalesquely sexualize poverty and privilege.

The subject of so many wild comedies intellectually transformed into a literary matriculately meandering exposé, undesirable men imagining they're exceptionally endowed with unqualifiable gravitational irreducibility, which the opposite sex is irresistibly drawn towards, ethically as irresponsible as sadism, politically, masochistically responsive.

L'Avventura gets away with it, cloaking its victorious Lothario in voluminous vulnerable versatility, surrounding his endeavours with enough différence to democratically deconstruct any paradigmatic impulse, wildly commenting with realistic fascination, embroiling and staking with convectional subterfuge, brilliant inspired indulgence or bold calculated virtuosity?, metanarrative expression expressly exalting, cinematic sophistication, love, adventure.