Melvin and Howard

Bewildering serendipitous authenticity remains a curious cultural phenomenon, as applied to stratified stereoscopic intersections which theoretically shouldn't muck everything up.

The level-playing field aside, I suppose if an important highly coveted legal document appears out of the blue, and the individual in related question hardly knew its eccentric author, whether or not it is indeed genuine becomes a pressing question, certainly if one man was worth hundreds of millions and the other struggling to get by.

But could it not be more sincerely American that a billionaire would leave millions to someone he hardly knew, due to the poetic nature of the declaration of independence in which every man (and woman) is created equal?

Thus, is that one random encounter which seems to have been divinely orchestrated, wherein which ignorance leads to conviviality and a general lack of uptight pretension, more valuable than a lifetime of stilted sycophancy as applied to thriving life, the retiring uncanny person in question desperately in search of lauded novelty?

Sounds classically American to me at least according to the films and television shows I used to watch, which seemed to cohesively suggest brother and sisterhood were warmly welcome.

When you consider that if Melvin (Paul Le Mat) had received such news in Britain he would have been swiftly and shockingly shot down, for having had the nerve to claim vigorous industry even though he lacked tact or title, it makes his lack of success in the states all the more depressing even if his attitude is honest and realistic, who knows, perhaps I'm way off base and such a development would have found more support 'cross the pond.

I suppose it depends on how various forces are aligned and how those alignments mutate as the phenomenon progresses, various alternative symphonic synergies culturally clashing ethically and politically. 

Consistent outcomes at times disillusioning still outmanoeuvred by integral hope.

Fatalistic reasoning's rather off-putting.

And generally contradicted through proactive study.

American Movie

The raw driven thrill of inspired independent film, chaotically coordinated lackadaisic laidback limbers.

Years of patient agile sure and steady accumulation, slowly taking fluid shape as patches pageants come to life ⛄.

Funding somewhat murky frenetic favours downcast debt, so much time having passed that latent doubts distract distend.

But undaunted brave creative will survives extends shoots forth, engaging adamant mutation festive fertile flexibility. 

Friends and family in support in varying degrees throughout the years, some prone to blunt dismissals, others grateful to take part.

No other option integrated multifarious febrile fortunes, indeterminate orchestration lively ritualistic passion.

I wish more people took the time to actively create in such a way, although there's certainly no shortage of homemade videos on the net.

But Coven's different it's a homemade film which genuinely applies individualistic techniques, to uncompromising storytelling free from marketed motivations.

Not that they weren't hoping to sell some copies and earn a little scratch, but they're not trying to fit a trend or join a movement or full-on capitalize. 

Its nascent steps like underground logistics reasonable existential acumen, confident enriching local community maestro marrowed mirth in motion.

Why not film the entire process year after year keep the camera rolling?, simultaneous narratives taking shape embossed emergence metamatriculation. 

No holding back compelling honesty bold and unconcerned developments, within which resides emancipation from so much scripted routine life.

With many friends and even more critics Mr. Borchardt pursues his grassroots vision, dealin' with a family of his own and difficult work at a nearby cemetery. 

And practically no income for years, sundry setbacks, animate tension, disapproval.

The will to strive on forth.

Incomparable stalwart artist.

A monumental cultural achievement to have so much room for so much variation.

Constitutional cross-purposes.

Irreconcilably rapt.

*Happy Thanksgiving!

Das große Museum (The Great Museum)

Times change, tastes, values, preferences, the integrity of the historical, timeless traditional structural dialogues, infused with contemporary stakes, striking artistic aggregates, emboldened through the maintenance of legacies.

Jockeying for position.

The decisions, the finances, the personnel, Johannes Holzhausen's Das große Museum (The Great Museum) blending various aspects of the Kunsthistorisches's management, its daily operations, linoleum, labour, preservation, advertising, executive inputs, some of which I would have found ridiculous if I didn't find myself having similar thoughts from time to time, through toil, mango, to converse, to generate dialogues with distinct publics, discourses of origins architecturally articulated, the thought, the detail, the work, meticulously cultivated to instruct and impress, with so many objects to enrich and tantalize, aesthetics of merit and truth bask in transitory permanence.

Intellectually gifted.

Delicately crafted.

The film illuminates a broad compelling practical yet highly abstract organism, budgeting its lucrative life blood with issues of power and control, while capturing moments of leisure and play, as a transformation strides and breathes.

In terms of mischievously yet respectfully examining the inner workings of a museum's perpetual motion, Holzhausen succeeds, but the sense of refined innocent yet aloofly didactic exuberance transports it to another level, Das große Museum wisely reflecting its subject matter.

You don't have to like museums to love this film.

There's also a tie covered in bears.

Ekstra

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

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

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

The cigarette burn improvisation.

A tasteless product placement.

The insertion of an automobile.

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

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

On the fly.

L'Écume des jours (Mood Indigo)

Assembly lines randomly recite a literary legion of improvisationalists who immediately harness their impressions ensemble with the goal of creating a tale of romantic note.

As the awareness of being written gesticulates limitless extraneous sensual amenities suddenly enlighten, becoming subjects of study or being callously yet festively disregarded, foreshadowing the genesis of love's interest.

The amenities coalesce with a practical and ingenious array of irresistible logical displacements whose metaphoric merits urbanely defy any sense of symmetrical cohesion.

What a world, what a world.

A tragic plot does take shape however whose voluminous sorrows, intricately and in/tangibly elaborated upon and refined, bear witness to the indoctrination of the real, whose vice-like grip expedites decay, within.

It's pointless to say that L'Écume des jours (Mood Indigo) should have been more surreal due to its experimental necessarily incoherent design, since its residual plot provides enough relational factors to make its aesthetic accessible, truly as a subject of beauty, and, if I'm not mistaken, Michel Gondry's saying that a minimum layer of consistency and logic enables radical indulgence to support its erratic spontaneity, although the internal despondency was disquieting as the film progressed.

Don't think I'll ever think of indigo again without thinking about this film, or stop searching in vain for a neat pianocktail.

Terraces in the afternoon.

Nothing but time.

Frances Ha

Mismatched integrities and harmonious discrepancies awkwardly balance Noah Baumbach's Frances Ha, infuriating yet emancipating missteps and miscues deftly choreographing the undatable's sprightly adaptation to bourgeois vignettes, which catalyze her own artistic vertices.

Forwards, backwards, backwards to move forwards, the other way around, friendships, apprenticeships, the rent.

A comment on commentary, budgets and bivouacs and biology belittling and embowering a transient sense of permanency.

Should one possess an exhaustive knowledge of French prior to reading Proust in order to fully appreciate his crystalline stylistic calaesthetic?

That's best case, but credit should be given to Terence Kilmartin, Andreas Mayor, and D. J. Enright for creating such an accessible English access point in the meantime, incomparably brilliant acts of translation, a poetic compliment to the gen(i)us of both languages.

Just sayin'!

Frances Ha buoyantly yet frantically dissolves convivial points of reference to magnify a being-in-becoming, a fluctuating, stable intransigist.

Dinner with the successful can be that painful.

Good food though.

Yum.

The Descendants

An Hawaiian lawyer's textbook life is adulterously disrupted after his wife has a boating accident rendering her comatose and their eldest daughter reveals the secrets of her infidelities. Her coma forces him to take an active role in the rearing of their two daughters to whom he has remained patriarchally aloof for most of their lives. His family is incredibly wealthy however his relatives have squandered most of their fortune and hope to sell off 25,000 acres of coastal land holdings in order to continue to support their lavish lifestyles. He is the sole trustee of the family trust which controls the land and has the final say in how it is managed.

Alexander Payne's The Descendants follows him closely as he gets to know his children, seeks to meet his wife's love interest, and decides what to do with his family's inheritance. As much of an exploration of shock as it is an examination of improvisation, the knowledge Matt King (George Clooney) relies upon to ensure his success in the legal realm finds itself curiously deconstructed when confronted with that of the domestic.

As he struggles to comprehend.

Acknowledging that the cookie-cutter approach to living has its share of unforeseen non-transmissible calisthenics, he still finds a means through which to visualize permanence. Less a reflection on the self-absorbed behaviour that results in partners seeking attention elsewhere than a thorough elevation of frugality, void of risk, The Descendants offers scene upon scene of pristine Hawaiian imagery without making them seem beautiful.

Not turning 25,000 acres of coastal land into a resort because you believe some wilderness areas should be protected from commercial development for future generations would be beautiful. Not turning 25,000 acres of coastal land into a resort because you believe its permanence represents your smug superiority is not beautiful.