Gabrielle

As love's vitalistic harmonies musically surge, ecstatically flourishing for the curious young couple, condescending and encouraging conceptions cut-off and receive their rapturous transmissions, best interests taking shape in both evaluations, the scurrilous and the sanctified, amorously pressured.

To imagine that someone would attempt to prevent something as beautiful as Gabrielle (Gabrielle Marion-Rivard) and Martin's (Alexandre Landry) feelings for one another from joyously entrancing is beyond me, as if love is solely reserved for the prescient and the punctual, rather than for anyone caught up in its (initial) emancipating embrace.

Louise Archambault's Gabrielle does visually and pensively craft several scenes which explore the dangers facing Gabrielle should she choose to live on her own, practically and remorsefully nuancing their breadths, while nurturing her bold explorations.

Better to seek than to writhe.

Love's highly impractical anyways, regularly striking at inopportune moments, to which the application of hindsight can strive to sear logic, and succour an empirical spirituality.

Gabrielle and Martin cogently access their mutually supportive luminescent crunch, the unfortunately partially transgressive aspect of their unity only serving to further strengthen their resolve.

The film's progressively cautious competing rationalities motivate a conjugal oscillation, an illustrative illumination, stabilized through bliss.

Unfinished Song

Routine.

Rock solid routine.

Never changing, never yielding, always the same cantankerous affect, unless he's spending time with his loving devoted wife Marion (Vanessa Redgrave), which is what he does most of the time.

Who sings in a choir.

But when she's diagnosed with terminal cancer and her health begins to rapidly deteriorate, Arthur (Terence Stamp) must simultaneously bat heads with both a crushing sense of helplessness, crippling emotional dynamite, and his rather morose relationship with his only son, James (Christopher Eccleston).

And yes, this guy's a prick.

A loveable curmudgeon he is not, Unfinished Song's script blandly interring a characterless ice age, locked in a cage, a glacial, barricade.

Only the power of music can regenerate his hearty husbandry afterwards, and the film's best feature, the jovial, ebullient, non-traditional choir, lead by the young adventurous Elizabeth (Gemma Arterton) with whom Arthur strikes up a somewhat creepy friendship, is positioned to enable some serious, sultry, soul-searching, sentimental metallurgy, reclamatingly extracting a diamond.

Still, Unfinished Song's no As Good as it Gets, too tame and barren to compete with James L. Brooks's noteworthy creation, not that it isn't worth a viewing, for its modest yet surly depiction of marriage, family and friendship.

Bit of a tearjerker.