Frankenstein

Once again, literate compassion for the soulful and tender reanimated beast, stitched together reconstituted to forever cheat vainglorious mortality.

When left alone far off and sheltered his innate world-weary warm-heart shines through, his resplendent inner-beauty impeccably beaming with forthright enriching illuminated humanism.

Such a shame that fleeting appearances mean so so so much in the eyes of so many, when countless wise and spiritual educators proactively rationalize the sheer illusion.

At times, it applies both ways to sights pleasant or disagreeable to the eye, both generally distasteful to tenacious treatises and their orthodox criticisms of aesthetics and disconcertment. 

But acting without concern for the inherent nature of unalterable characteristics, leads to much more pleasant thoughtful dialogue in terms of multivariable individual expression.

Through the mass cultivation of the many the reliance on appearance wholeheartedly fades, and sprightly exclamatory universals collectively diversify through latent whimsy.

Thus the blind inclinations which recklessly lead towards herd classifications, relatively loosen their stubborn prejudices and once again nurture the youthful life.

But Frankenstein's creation is herded and ruthlessly attacked through no fault of his own, and then elaborately made to suffer for having striven to defend himself.

That was what struck me from the novel anyways as I imagine I've mentioned before, the poor isolated creature alone and scared secretly monitoring the woodland family.

Completely unaware of his strength and innocently oblivious to old world hatreds, still faintly hoping to engage in conversation to not have to dwell forsaken in shadow.

That's always been the story for me not the depressing antagonistic aftermath. 

Which The Dodo challenges every day. 

Through the heartwarming preservation of life. 

Fata Morgana

Fascinating to hear so many myths imaginatively delineating nimble creation, so many cultures effectively emphasizing dynastic difference enigmatically sewn.

The age of storytelling enduring for millennia it must have been entertaining to listen to such tales, as they transformed and mutated and diversified throughout the casually passing centuries.

At times it seems as if the divergent narratives were inspired by different beings, and that it was potentially several alternative alien visitors who taught different customs around the world.

Or perhaps not different alien groups but the same group over long periods of time, who changed remarkably on their homeworld amongst intermittent visitations.

I've never understood why different cultures are so fussy about creation myths, and why with the advent of international communication it doesn't seem somewhat silly to insist they're true.

To insist they're incredible stories elaborately crafted to be heard again, even more captivating when compared with one another, makes much more sense in my opinion.

Fata Morgana evocatively presents eclectic images from Algerian deserts, and showcases them stitched together while a narrator recites a creation myth.

The myth isn't overflowing with pizazz and didn't generate that much interest, but the random collection of images and entertaining soundtrack made for cool old school accompaniment (Leonard Cohen).

I remember an old working arrangement where I was tasked with encouraging young ones to read, and I showed up one day with a book of myths which we read together for a short period.

The memory stands out because the child was so dismissive at the time, not just of the myths we were reading but of the existence of creation myths themselves.

He was so scientific, I started laughing, I wasn't expecting to hear so much criticism from someone that young.

But you can't count out the feisty Québecois.

Even when they're Anglo like in this instance! 

Bohemian Rhapsody

Struggling with upheld established traditions, a creative singer songwriter enchants serendipity.

It's not that their guidelines are obtuse or ill-defined, their associated codes and mannerisms just stress him the *&%$ out.

Even if he doesn't respond delinquently.

Not at a loss for words, he soon finds himself loquaciously disposed, and boldly makes known his desire to join a band.

They hit it off, hit the ground running, shake things up, let it all hang loose, every member contributing to their success, critical inquiries fuelling their momentum.

Cohesively.

Indeed, Bohemian Rhapsody excels at presenting Queen the band as they sternly work to synchronously perform and compose.

Focusing heavily on Freddie Mercury's (Rami Malek) life, he still isn't depicted as the band's sole driving force.

They wrote so many unique songs, songs that don't even come close to sounding like anything else, not even Bowie, some experimental bands forgetting that music needs to be appealing in some way (Bowie was very appealing), not Queen, who had a rare gift for balancing the experimental and the commercial which still influences today, let's throw in an operatic section, and later write two of the most stunning jock anthems of all time, undeniable diversity exuberantly exemplifying innovative resolve, the film suggesting it's the product of their union, and that no one ever unilaterally took control.

Mercury even critiques his solo career precisely because the studio musicians he worked with never challenged him with the same bravado he'd taken for granted in Queen (I imagine many studio musicians do challenge the artists they work with, but within the film that point helps cultivate its emphasis on unity).

While the film celebrates Mercury's strong character, the ways in which he enriched peoples lives in alternative ways to those promoted by his upbringing, which he still respected, things become very dark when he embraces his difference, as if the film is indirectly critiquing it.

Queen and his family and his eventual life partner (Aaron McCusker) and his first wife (Lucy Boynton) were no doubt essential features of his life, but I wonder if he was as lost as they grew apart as Bohemian Rhapsody suggests?

I'm not trying to say he should have partied as hard as he did, I'm not promoting wild lifelong partying, I'm just pointing out that the film becomes very dark as Mercury's alternative lifestyle becomes the focus, and I imagine he likely made many supportive friends when he came out, many of whom were likely also there to support him.

And were his bandmates as angelic as depicted within?

Outstanding musicians who redefined pop music and understood that music was their career nevertheless, Bohemian Rhapsody pays tribute to their indelible impact while celebrating loyalty and composition.

Many cool cat shots too.

Hardly anyone seems to age in the film, like pop music is a fountain of youth.

Although hairstyles and outfits do change.

La Bolduc

During tough economic times, a soulful voice emerges, writing hit pop singles like butter on toast, performing with a voice that streams as it schmoozes, transforming birch and bustle into jive and pith and pluck, abreast with no time to think about it, writin' it all down, exhaling rhythm with raw crisp feeling, instinctually creating carefree nimble blooms.

A different time characterized by traditional roles and religious sentiment, the resourceful Mary Travers-Bolduc (Debbie Lynch-White) didn't set out to become a musician.

She stayed home to raise a family while her husband worked, nurturing several children with scant means at her disposal, the strength of their bonds helping them through tough times, love flourishing amidst economic hardship as a result of unnerving trials.

They tried moving to the States, had to get groceries on credit, there wasn't much/any time for rest, and laws prevented women from voting or working.

Yet Mme. Travers-Bolduc suddenly found herself with a huge disposable income after her songs caught fire and she turned into a star.

Her sympathetic producer clarified a loophole which enabled her to hold on to her earnings, and her foolish husband, overcome by his reduced position in their household, and a lack of work, unfortunately turned to drink instead of celebrating their good fortune.

Their example highlights a peculiar feature of religion.

If God is monitoring the world (doubtful), and a woman suddenly finds herself enriched within a patriarchal cultural construction, isn't it God's will that that woman should be enriched, and isn't he or she saying that women should be able to work and support themselves just as reliably as men?

If a patriarchal conception dominates sociopolitical life and derives its authority from earthly conceptions of God, when a woman is successful within such a system isn't God trying to say that there's something wrong with strict patriarchal religious conceptions?

Does God's will only apply to men?

Rubbish.

Québec isn't like that anymore, and its current composition functions as an example for jurisdictions looking to redefine themselves after periods of restrictive patriarchal obsessions.

Mary Travers represents a strong female voice excelling within a male dominated society, even if she succumbed later in life to the logic she had been bombarded with since birth, and prevented her talented daughter (Laurence Deschênes and Rose-Marie Perreault as Denise Bolduc) from following her dreams.

After having experienced massive head trauma.

Baby Driver

Split-second ingenious unassailable guiltless reflexes, instinctively classifying delicate improvisation, piquant extemporization, serpentine spontaneity, the driver, driving the getaway vehicle, atavistic awareness vigilantly circulating extractions, an unprecedented impresario envisioned in wild heartlands brake swerve accelerate, coordinate chaos with implicit clandestine credulity, pulsating pumping propulsive paved impertinence, irreducibly reacting, to unpredictable explosive larceny.

Mad skills.

Variably exercised.

Character driven.

Edgar Wright's Baby Driver's hilariously character driven, with Ansel Elgort (Baby), Lily James (Debora), Bats (Jamie Foxx), Buddy (Jon Hamm), Darling (Eiza González), Joseph (CJ Jones), Griff (Jon Bernthal), and Doc (Kevin Spacey) each chauffeuring full-throttle eccentricities that make said characters their own.

The well-thought-out creatively choreographed romantically comedic yet harrowingly hardboiled script (Wright) supplies them with ample maneuverability.

In fact I'd argue this is Wright's best film.

There are two notable oppositions within that reflect different intellectual styles.

Baby and Doc's youthful and aged conversations provide the film with an executive frame as they reticently interact, Doc's nephew Samm (Brogan Hall) brilliantly expanding one of their sequences, while Bats and Buddy concurrently represent clever tenacious earnest hard work, as they durably discuss various subjects between jobs.

Nice to see Jamie Foxx rockin' it again.

Doc heartbreakingly embraces romance in the end, risking everything to aid young Baby and Debora as they wildly set off to matriculate on the run.

I've been focusing on the criminal nature of the film but it's also a warmblooded romance.

Baby owes Doc a large sum of money that he's been slowly paying off for some time.

He meets Debora at the diner where his deceased mom used to work and they hit it off, young adult love at its most endearing, hesitantly tender and shyly enthusiastic.

Since he engages in illicit activities quite frequently, however, the nogoodniks eventually terrorize their sanctuary, especially after they craft plans to escape, which unconsciously precipitate embroiled maturations.

Excellent film that's patiently yet boisterously detailed, the dedicated caregiving, the musical artistry, the Mike Myers gag, the paradoxical sense of coerced altruism, the relaxed quiet dignity, the wanton perplexed angst.

Realistic reverberations.

Sweet sweet summertime.

Breezy.

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).

La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Fur)

Ceremoniously shifting from breaking wave to breaking wave, cast adrift to buoyantly submerge, the surf submissively dominating, an exacting cyclical shock, one young playwright, fascinated by insubordination, jostling the erotically profane, is interrupted, is, slowly, commodified, undeniably secure in his misplacements, subdued emphatic gusts, assured of their tidal pertinence, to enact the derailment of triumph.

On its own terms.

Ambiguity/ambivalence beguilingly solemnizes the dialectic, the exchange, a protracted piecemeal purge, sensuously persuasive, overpoweringly contained.

As the page turns.

A reading.

Precision.

Opportunity.

Mesmerizing mythical lambasted seduction generously vouchsafes its domineering obsequiousness, in Roman Polanski's crippling La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Furs), existentialism be damned, fiesta.

My favourite filmic adaptation of a play with a small cast and minimal setting is Sidney Lumet's Long Day's Journey into Night, but La Vénus à la fourrure now firmly occupies second place in my thoughts, due to Emmanuelle Seigner and Mathieu Amalric's powerful performances.

Opulently humble.

The ending was a surprise since it makes a definitive suggestion, although ambiguity remains, only a vestige however.

I would have faded with him tied to the cactus.

There must have been passionate arguments here.

Perhaps the definitive suggestion makes for a stronger ending.

I admit to being a sucker for critical controversy.

Not that there isn't plenty of critical controversy in the film.

You could argue that it's about the aesthetics of critical controversies themselves.

The whole night through.

Transformers: Age of Extinction

Humanity has forsaken and betrayed the Autobots in the latest Transformers sequel, forcing them to strategically dissimulate in order to avoid detection.

An intergalactic jailer by the name of Lockdown (Mark Ryan) seeks to imprison Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen), punishing him for disobeying his creators, uniformly inhibiting his hard-fought freedom fighting.

Megatron's brain has been harvested and the technological secrets residing within have led brilliant scientist Joshua Joyce (Stanley Tucci) to believe that the power of the Transformer can be governed by Homo sapiens.

A new generation of Transformer is therefore created, to be used as military drones, the Autobots having become obsolete.

Fortunately a feisty independent struggling inventor has discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Prime, and he remembers the sacrifices he made, improvisationally fighting by his side.

Scolding his young daughter all the while.

The resulting combat, wherein the American individual boldly teams up with the abandoned to challenge the forces of oppression, is ingeniously summed up in the film's best scene, which sees Mr. Joyce cowering in a Hong Kong elevator, a momentary respite, from the cataclysmic confrontations.

Anyone notice the apartment complexes in Hong Kong?

Wow.

The act of creation unites the converging storylines, along with issues of operational control, to thematically cap the series's 4th instalment.

Convincingly hypothesizing a new set of sociotechnological indicators, while economically aligning them for the film's terrestrial inhabitants, earning a living subconsciously contends with manufacturing a soul, to experimentally produce a sensationally revelled playing field.

Because Age of Extinction is so long, the introduction of the Dinobots seems somewhat tacked-on.

However, the introduction of the Dinobots, is, awesome.

The President doesn't make an appearance and I'm betting when he or she does it turns out to be one of the members of Dark of the Moon's most disputatious romantic couplings.

Their presence was missing from Age of Extinction.

But the anticipation is something to look forward to.

Jodorowsky's Dune

A filmmaker possessing the highest possible artistic intentions, for whom film is a sub/conscious pyrotechnic visceral emulsion, wildly jettisoning extracted reified ideological peaks, capable of concretely delineating multilaterally deconstructive minutia, their testaments clasping your hands and mine, distinct explosive intraoperative trysts, persuasive incipient confounding strips, Alejandro Jodorowsky almost made Dune, and his crushing curtailment still resonates to this day.

The cast and crew he assembled would have possibly been the coolest ever.

That voice which obsesses about disabling degrees of practicality was non-existent, pure unabashed committed expansive insurgence, unconcerned with what actually takes place in the novel which he hadn't even read before embracing it as his next project, motivated by perceived interpretive fortuitous pacts, the universe having opened-up and provided him with chance integral reprieved constituents, like an intergalactic curvaceous onslaught, or the ultimate Proustian daydream.

The Blueberry.

Not that his dreams weren't practical, if anything, they represented the apotheosis of practicality, a spiritual conception of teamwork seeking superlative aesthetic collegial partnerships who were to be given hands-off inspirational direction, united in their pursuit of memorializing a trance, abstraction, attraction, refraction.

Jodorowsky's son Brontis trained intensively for 2 years with a martial arts master to prepare to play Paul Atreides.

Salvadore Dalí may have made 100,000 a minute to play Shaddam Corrino IV.

Orson Welles could have gorged himself ad infinitum.

I don't want to say too much about the film, it's better if you see Jodorowsky and companions explain it themselves, the Dan O'Bannon recording fitting perfectly.

Possibly the most influential film never made, transisting semantic transcendence.

Jodorowsky envisioned a groundbreaking universal consciousness expanding waking delirium.

Too much for one film alone, its manifold parts have arguably become greater than those initially conceived.

Still like aspects of David Lynch's version.

2 Days in New York

The artistic, political, familial, conjugal, critical, social, quizzical, spiritual, sexual and psychological creatively intermingle in Julie Delpy's 2 Days in New York, wherein free-spirits lackadaisically/audaciously/petulantly/mendaciously contend with both the pretentious and the vituperative, in the pursuit of playing a specific role.

These roles themselves, when abstracted, transformed into symbols, placed within a fluctuating in/determinate semantic matrix, in/determinate depending upon the rhetorical convictions of the urges to clarify (and the resultant multi/bi/lateral counter-clarifications), fluctuating inasmuch as difference guarantees the establishment of multiple points of view (many of which temporally fluctuate within themselves [unless you write this kind of thing]), can produce multilateral takes which nurture an inclusive body politic wherein manifold outlooks survey their surroundings, i.e., Web 2.0.

The film itself isn't really my style but I appreciate the dynamic complexity within which it's exoterically expressed.

Employing the spice mélange.

Magnifica Presenza (Magnificent Presence)

Radiating an offbeat, gentle, luminescent reflexivity, Magnifica Presenza's Pietro Pontechievello (Elio Germano) works in a bakery while striving to become an actor.  

After renting a house, he's visited by the ghosts of a theatre troupe (Compangia Appollonio) who worked for the resistance and were betrayed by their feature during World War II.

They strike up a friendship and their influence ameliorates his performance while imbuing his social interactions with experimental antiquated idiosyncrasies.

Awkwardly yet humanistically elevating while humorously tenderizing an artist's ambitions, subtly suggesting that blending the contemporary with the historical can lead to a broader understanding of one's self, or the surmounting of socio-cultural barriers (the stigma of homosexuality) more suited to a different time (within the film's temporal boundaries the stigma of homosexuality isn't prominent), and simultaneously warning against and romanticizing the internalization of the cult of the hero, Magnifica Presenza lovingly offers a clinical diagnosis of loneliness alongside a curative aid.

Boundlessly allusive and reticently merry.

In the mind's eye.

Hugo

Time requires maintenance. Each ticking tock must be delicately managed in order to ensure punctual consistency and historical longevity. This is no easy task, and cataclysmic events can disrupt its narrative flow, as can the resurrection of the unforeseen, the one terrorizing established norms and constructs in the maniacal hopes of strengthening their resolve (the masters of war), the other invigorating traditional forms with revitalized content which in turn can redesign them if the insertion of difference is compelling enough to transmit a reconstituted concrete variability (inception) while (eventually) finding a receptive influential audience (innovative exoteric visionaries). Time will continue to pass regardless but its acknowledgement and associated terms of reference (habitual action X producing results D reinforced by the creation of pattern H) will need a cultural catalyst, from which things can begin anew.

We see both sides of this matrix at work in Martin Scorsese's exceptional new film Hugo, which examines the relationship between an orphan and an elderly toymaker. The orphan Hugo (Asa Butterfield) lives in the walls of a Parisian train station where he diligently keeps its various clocks running on time. From these walls, he eyes George Méliès's (Ben Kingsley) toyshop in the hopes of obtaining parts which will help him fix an automaton which was acquired by his father (Jude Law) before his untimely death. Inspector Gustav (Sacha Baron Cohen) monitors the station's passageways with a strong desire to uphold law and order (and send orphans to the orphanage). Monsieur Labisse (Christopher Lee) operates a dusty bookshop from which he encourages a love of lifelong learning.

Time was disrupted within Hugo's narrative by the introduction of film making to the Parisian artistic scene. Infatuated with the medium, a magician builds his own camera in order to share the dreamscapes of his imaginings. Having cultivated an audience, he continues to create profusely thereby compartmentalizing various tenants of his vision. But World War I annihilates many markets successfully established in France and beyond, and in its aftermath his audience fails to rematerialize and his films must be sold and melted down.

Time passes and due to the serendipitous reverberations of two curious youths an historical echo increases its volume. Hugo and his friend Isabelle (Chloë Grace Moretz) discover a mystery whose clues lead them to volumes housed in a local library. From these volumes, clues transform into probabilities and an unconscious cultural qualifier approaches remanifestation. An automaton whose ability to produce felicitous active images is brought back to life through the ingenuity of friendship, and returned to its creator.

And an innovative exoteric visionary's legacy is recognized and celebrated, having been resurrected from the ashes of the masters of war. One of time's great disruptions is rediscovered and catalogued in order to ensure its historical longevity.

Tree of Life

Smoothly flowing gently falling slightly billowing lightly floating metaphors, a series of remembered events stitched together through fluid dreamlike sequences, delineating foundations, from which identities are constructed. A father, a mother, a family, a routine. A strict routine, a strict father, a housewife, a code. Mr. O'Brien (Brad Pitt) unwaveringly sticks to his code whereby his rule is absolute and his every whim, non-negotiable. His wife acquiesces, his children grow, he arrives at work on time, tithes week-in, week-out. A subjective interpretation of a governing structure attempts to supply youth with a disciplined set of ground rules from which a reasonable degree of economic stability can be confidently expected, through the years. No discussion, no questions, just stilted secure repetitious order blindly and diligently recreating itself, again. There's a lot of depth to the scenes in this film and Malick poetically intertwines manifold transitions with incredibly versatile images which in themselves create a byzantine subtext whose hydra-like character challenges the narrative's status quo.

But I don't think it's meant to do this, it seemed more like Malick was supplying as much beauty as he possibly could to suburbia, to a conservative way of life, using a surrealist form to structure his traditional content, with instinct guiding the positioning of his imagery as opposed to planning, whereby Tree of Life develops a naturally secretive grace, as it bids farewell to one dramatization of the North American middle-class.

On the one hand, it elevates patriarchal dispositions to a cantankerously coy precipice, taking content that has been recycled ad nauseum and demonstrating that it can continuously be insightfully replenished if you're willing to put in a little time and effort.

On the other, it eclipses sundry previous manifestations of this particular vision to the point where it seems possible that it's trying to put an end to this storyline once and for all, playing the ultimate winning hand, the graceful capitalist end-game.

Don't mean to be applauding Tree of Life too much. I found the seemingly random quotes which accompany much of the imagery to be irritating (especially since they're supposed to have some sort of ethereal quality) and was happy to comfortably rest my eyes here and there, as Mr. O'Brien and his children had yet another coming of age moment.

It would be a great film to study more closely and definitely leaves the door open for multiple critical accounts which can be situated within various intellectual markets in order to facilitate conceptions of particular ethical viewpoints from which the effects of diverse cultural phenomena can be momentarily diagnosed.

Naturally graceful, or a graceful nature, either way Tree of Life has me examining this dialectic, and has, for me anyway, instilled it with a remarkable life force that I'll find difficult to ignore for some time to come.

This is where film can be different from reading yet just as powerful. In a book like In Search of Lost Time you come across these dialectics constantly to the point where you've been bombarded with so many you suffer from intellectual overload. Sometimes it's nice to take one and use it as a general frame in order to study its vicissitudes specifically, and so on.

Paranoid Park

Gus van Sant's Paranoid Park examines the process of creative writing. Within, we enter Alex's (Gabe Nevins) dreamland wherein the boundaries between reality and fiction fluctuate, oscillating within a non-linear structure that closely resembles a skateboarding park. Paranoid is really well crafted and the only component that truncates its performance is inherent in its form. A form which, mischievously enough, has found a way to blame the viewer for their own boredom. Within the film's content, we enter Alex's mind as he tries to write a story. We are then challenged to fill in the details of the story ourselves, as the sustained close-ups and long, drawn out pauses suggest (or the scenes where the music frequently changes). Hence, if you cannot create your own story to fit between the frames, you will likely find this feature dull, for which you only have your dull imagination to blame. Within this frame, van Sant has managed to actively represent what it means to engage in creative writing, criticism, painting, thereby providing his viewers with a split-second crash course in imagination, a masterful display of formative genius.