Sense and Sensibility

Sufficient evidence gathered hereinafter cordially suggests a blesséd state, was indeed embraced by Mr. Ferrars (Hugh Grant) and Ms. Elinor Dashwood (Emma Thompson) vigorously engaged in holy matrimony. 

Misfortune and finicky finances egregiously attempted to discourteously repudiate, but chance attuned to ethereal endeavour providentially bequeathed ecstatic union.

Regarding Ms. Marianne Dashwood (Kate Winslet), who had been laid low due to flagrant ignominy, and left to harken despondent despair after having shockingly admitted scandal, her path gregariously recultivated through less self-centred earthen pertinence, has been noted as indirectly ebullient at festive times courting celebration.

Somewhat odd to see such import indubitably attached to conjugal digression, the tragic dialectic intermediately adjoining romantic longing and practical accords, the vicious reprobation denying their freeform mutually beneficial cathartic synthesis, morosely encouraging robotic remonstrance as opposed to nuptial nadir. 

Proust had alternative thoughts altogether and dramatically critiqued his sibling's marital fancies, somewhat less enamoured with Victorian reverie even if it ironically permeates his alternative narrative.

Uncanny to envision a stately world wherein which no one works or toils, where the infringing struggles and herculean cynosure are strictly levelled through estate and income.

Not that other social strata don't freely admit grey bumptious bias, perhaps humorous pretensions synthetically compared enigmatically emitting concentric harmonies.

How to delicately enliven such incommensurable audiences without rashly contradicting audacious accords, a close study of one Jack Layton perhaps amenable to a discussion of Foucauldian power relations. 

I must admit, I'm more accustomed to less superstructural arrangements, wherein which a noteworthy cast from sundry domiciles fluently agitate and preposterously proclaim, although I have in fact read this book and clearly understand why so many still read Ms. Austen, there's no doubt she's atemporally gifted, not my style really, but better than most. 

Certainly a world in which the Dashwoods find their Ferrars and Colonels doesn't intuitively provoke inclement entropy, or cosmically upset reverential taste, I wonder what's happening in contemporary literature, as the counter-postmodern reformation blindly struggles. 

I just made that up, I assume that's what's happening anyways.

Focusing on Wabi Sabi myself. 

And the upcoming adventurous summer.

Co-starring Imelda Staunton (Charlotte Palmer), Alan Rickman (The Colonel), and Tom Wilkinson (Mr. Dashwood).

The Mummy

Another supernatural sensation has covetously awoken, the flood, the hurricane, desperately seeking to tyrannically rule a flourishing hyperconnected globe, revelling in metropolitan indignity, suddenly clutched and bare, as unassuming adventurous treasure hunter Nick Morton (Tom Cruise) accidentally reanimates an immortal ancient Egyptian Mummy, whose evil was so vain she was painstakingly entombed a thousand miles away, in what postmodernly became the battlefields of Iraq.

She (Sofia Boutella) calls to him as he rests, claiming he is her "chosen", daring to devotedly adorn his theoretically apocalyptic side, to birth the Egyptian god of death within him (Set), unaware of millennial advances in laissez-faire ambition.

Is he so extraordinarily laid-back and exceptionally unconcerned that he can sublimate omniscience with characteristic North American middle-class composure?

That's so Tom Cruise.

Or will the dark universe univocally assume its rapacious dignity, capriciously toying with a world then driven by its commands?

With reckless authoritarian banality.

That's more of a question for the sequel, I'm jumping ahead a bit, overlooking The Mummy's historical embrace of British and Egyptian antiquity as synthesized and contemporized by the troubled Dr. Jekyll (Russell Crowe), whose jaded yet hopeful thoughts encourage critical extrapolations. 

The film's sort of cool, not a solid competitor for the Iron Man, Captain America, or Avenger series, but still comfortable enough doing its own thing to hold your attention for 107 without blowing your mind.

The classic good-natured blonde versus hellspawn brunette.

A quick look around Dr. Jekyll's laboratory suggests spinoff after spinoff after spinoff.

Adventure to adventure even if you may not like what you find?

The internal struggle which defines or destroys so many conscientious men and women.

Even with the near absurd number of superhero/arch-villain films proliferating at the moment, it would still be nice to see highly dramatic renditions of Dracula and/or Frankenstein released for the Academy's consideration.

Come to think of it, it's the perfect time.

Frankenstein was one of the saddest most touching maddeningly atemporal i.e eternally applicable sociocultural novels I've ever read.

He was a remarkably caring sensitive curious loving soul before his appearance was reviled by others.

Is there a Frankenstein film that has ever brilliantly captured that aspect without simultaneously lusting after monstrous profits?

Fassbender as the doctor?

Eddie Redmayne as Frankenstein?

Un homme à la hauteur (Up for Love)

Instantaneous infatuation, irreducible desire, a cell phone forgotten, a cell phone returned, diminutive size coaxing plaudits and spurns, but this little man has true rapture at stake, and callous dismissals don't exacerbate, her love lies a pleading in tense social fashions, observations of others conscripting her passions, but perhaps love indeed will outwit prejudice, and two trusty love birds will clashin' outfit.

Marrow.

Bequeathed in leisure roam.

Lol!

An architectural man with a soul enriched by secular seraphim courts an ethereal beauty while redesigning an opera house.

She's enamoured but his size leads others to stultify their secretions.

Caught between thriving abundance and lowly bigotry, Diane Duchȇne (Virginie Efira) must decide where she stands.

 Alexandre (Jean Dujardin) has been there before and knows all to well the follies of love pending.

Not this time?

Laurent Tirard's Un homme à la hauteur (Up for Love) examines the best and worst of the social to serendipitously purolate illustrations of fettered romance.

As a thoughtful reflection on love flourishing as it's surrounded by stupidity, Un homme à la hauteur works, but the mechanics, the scenes and sequences required to sturdily uphold its positive vision, lack stamina, and at times the film seems like it's more concerned with awkwardly depicting Alexandre as a little person than crafting long lasting memorable situations.

Well, I am remembering a lot of the film right now, but because it's cheesy, not striking.

I suppose its blend of the superlative and the shallow claustrophobically stifles as it seeks to astoundingly uplift.

Some people are like that though, it doesn't shy away from enervating realities, but if Diane had dealt with these realities with more strength Clos la Coutale they would have been less enervating themselves.

Although the transformative aspect might have been lost as well, along with its corresponding polished grit/redemption (better to have a character succumb them overcome or simply strum?).

Aegis reciprocated mellotron.

So so.

Brooklyn

The down home, the perspicacious, the loving, the transformative, a new life in Brooklyn awaits modest Eilis (Saoirse Ronan) as she leaves her hometown in Ireland in search of difference abroad, job prospects and alternative acquaintances expanding her conscientious integrity, homesickness and tedium challenging her burgeoning resolve.

It's a feel good tale, moving along at a brisk pace, Eilis's self-sacrifices endearing her to those she meets, who respond by opening doors which she resoundingly walks through.

There's character development but it's sparse and fixated, every aspect of the script calculated to polish stock responses, the polish heartwarmingly uplifting and consistent nevertheless, as every chance interaction collocates constitutional blooms.

A straight shooter, consummately conflicted when she returns home for a funeral, an idyllic pastoral future suddenly materializing, chanting out between worlds, delicately torn asunder.

If Brooklyn's momentum had occasionally paused, swayed, reflected, something more profound could have perhaps been stated, a visceral dimension arising from the resultant contemplations, a judicious milky way transcendentalizing urban and rural.

It's not concerned with such interstellar abstractions however, and competently accomplishes what it sets out to do, a straightforward yet enticing examination of goodwill, restricted yet nimble, acquiesced to trouble making.

This style of filmmaking makes the accomplishment of hard fought goals seem far too easy by reducing devastating complexities to a collection of brief highly saturated moonbeams.

Still, it's nice to see positive films that mildly if not naively celebrate change in flux.

Like roses or a box of chocolates.

Maple syrup.

Caramel.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Monumental shifting shocks born on the strings of unexplored imaginary rifts, celestial seasoning, rhizomatic reveries, driven by the emergence of an affective resonance, accelerated paramount experiential zeitgeists, their heights represented by the pursuit of the elusive snow leopard within the Himalayas, upon which Walter Mitty (Ben Stiller) meets the legendary Sean O'Connell (Sean Penn), whose carefree incomparable precision counters Ted Hendricks's (Adam Scott) callous downsizing, impromptu communal exercise, a spirited abounding break.

This is more than just a journey of discovery.

It's a sudden apprehensive full-throttle embarkation, synthesizing the subjective, the romantic, the practical, and the abstract in a hesitantly audacious leap of faith in oneself, the amorous tenacious logic of risk, a quasi-archivist in search of a lost record, love, adventure.

The excursion assists in the development of his eHarmony profile.

Individualistic styles contrast corporate bottom-lines through the art of naturalistic photographic bewilderment, patiently awaiting the arrival of a highly sought after enigmatic boon, having meticulously yet not fastidiously set-up the shot, while remaining somewhat aloof, interruptions noted but welcome, the evidence secondary to the ensconcement, a mature modest chime hallowing the apprenticeship of bliss.

And freedom.

For a windswept mellow-set Béla Flecked rougir.

Loved the discussion of Bowie's Space Oddity.