The Wife

The world's rather oddly constructed, some of its pretensions anyways, the idea that female writers can't sell their work for instance, which I imagine was much more prevalent 50 years ago, Foucauldian analysis pending.

The world certainly seems like a much more open place for men, and when you think of the thousands of psychological, financial, political, and ethical barriers preventing women from expressing themselves, the gross injustice of it all makes you wonder why people who are supposed to be fearless are so utterly afraid of a little femininity?

Women make good storytellers, are capable of doing anything men can do really, and cultural codes that prevent them from selling their work under their own name therefore don't make much sense, especially since they have so many compelling stories to share.

Longer explanation in a book some day.

I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by women, I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by men, I didn't realize you were supposed to prefer the one that matched your gender when I was really young, and was severely reprimanded, still am I suppose, but since I live in a theoretically free country I should be free to pick and choose who I like, even in my forties, as long as they aren't spreading hate intended to curtail freedoms, and I don't see it as a feminine and masculine artistic continuum, but rather one composed of stories I like and others which I don't.

I'm much more forgiving with films.

If I wrote about music or books I imagine people would criticize me for being too harsh instead of enjoying what I do.

In The Wife we find a literary married couple who's been given the Nobel Prize for literature even though only one of them is being recognized.

Wife Joan Castleman's (Glenn Close) painstaking imaginative endeavours are hailed for their genius, and husband Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce) is given all the credit.

He's a bit of a brute, living a life of freedom and ease that's absolutely dependent on his wife's devotion, and rather than reciprocating her heartfelt sacrifice he consumes countless luxuries and never stops womanizing.

The golden ticket.

You'd think that if you had the golden ticket you wouldn't openly mock its charitable foundations or colonize its endemic struggle.

You'd think you'd respect it at least, especially if its purchase had nothing to do with you.

Value it.

Not the case though in The Wife, as Joe recklessly gorges at the trough (things become more complicated as a mischievous biographer [Christian Slater as Nathaniel Bone] inquisitively stirs things up).

The film examines a fed up spouse's desire to be recognized for her brilliance in a patriarchal world prone to overlook essential feminine contributions.

It's quite direct for a movie focused on award winning literature, although the point it makes shines more brightly since it isn't buried beneath sundry literary filmic devices.

The unacknowledged heroine, the burly bumptious brute.

Like he had no leg to stand on so he went out and bought stilts.

He doesn't even consider sharing it.

After so so many years.

Big Eyes

Isolated freedom, revelling in its independence yet struggling with domestic determinants, a husband left behind, another guaranteeing affluence, the domain of patriarchy, one gender controlling, uplifting as it suffocates, a deal is begrudgingly struck, the wife possessing talent, the husband seductive salespersonship, his greed stretching beyond the limits of the financial, his oppression, firm and resolute.

Lies.

Nothing but lies.

Desperate for the prestige yet unable to qualify its conviction.

In terms of actually creating his own texts.

Margaret Keane (Amy Adams) produces them regularly, changing and growing over time, a specific insight blossoming in the bower, dedicated, talented, active.

Walter Keane (Christoph Waltz) sells them as his own.

The critical art versus kitsch continuum actualizes the scene as recognition leads to expansion, as opportunity pluralizes the popular.

Do what you do well I say.

If Margaret had wanted to stay in the background, the situation would have been perfect, a fortune made, the strengths of both partners flourishing, a pool, a house, mutual agreement, not bad, if it's agreed upon beforehand, and artfully managed with subtle praiseworthy comments here and there, in various conversations, socially constructing a contradictory narrative, intriguing in its gentile playfulness, if time changes the nature of the agreement, and credit need be applied where credit's due.

No such agreements.

No such amendments.

Don't freak when the critics don't like you.

There are myriad critics, myriad points of view, myriad methodologies, myriad revelations, extract relevant insights that can help you grow from those who aren't malicious, pretend like it's all nonsense, onwards.

This is where liking sports comes in handy.

In the NFL, you can be one of the greatest players of all time, but you'll still be torn up if you have a bad game, you can't let it get to you, the opposition's fierce, prepare for the next game, let it go, let it go.

Walter turns out to be incorrigible, trying to take all the credit for his wife's work, but she embodies true integrity, leaves the luxury behind, and starts from scratch again.

I liked the film and was impressed that Tim Burton wasn't directing another remake.

I think he still has another Beetlejuice within, I watched it again recently, I love that film.

Like Margaret's work, Big Eyes is accessible and witty, charmingly plucking its heartstrings, multidimensionally navigating cultural tributaries.

Nice to see Jon Polito (Enrico Banducci).

And Mr. Terence Stamp (John Canaday).

Nadja

Pleasantly awkward ridiculous dialogue effectively normalized and elegantly delivered, in scene after scene, as if an electromagnetic butterfly is quietly lamenting its misshapen cocoon, delicately fluttering from one petal to the next, breathing in the air, analyzing the moisture, multiple seductive themes variegating its flight, the wind's benevolent seniority quaintly clarifying its path, Michael Almereyda's Nadja revitalizes Bram Stoker's Dracula through sheer complacence and subterranean muses, voluptuously illustrated, magnanimously debated, by a multidisciplinary soundtrack, a haunting, viscidly structured purpose, a metamorphosis incarnated, a resurrection infuriated, mesmerizing, juicy tidbits lusciously lounging within your consciousness, united, shattered, synthesized, compartmentalized, with no particular goal, no definite objective, besides a sister's love for her brother, a husband's undying devotion, a nurse's attentive care, and a hardwired eccentric romantic. Like Nathalie Parentau's paintings, Nadja's subjects are surreal, affectionate, verbose, and dynamic, uttering convulsive resurgent facts, determining sundry, fervid pronouncements, observing dreamlike, rustic reverberations, and organic, felicitous statements. Immediate and everlasting, it gently settles in the underbrush, and shivers.