Viking

Hypotheses deemed reasonable fluidly facilitate relational replication, as a team is readily assembled which closely matches one sent to Mars.

As the astronauts were being chosen they had to pass a psychological test, during which they could freely respond to a variety of random potentially standardized questions.

Due to the length of the voyage, mission control thought it might be prudent, to duplicate their isolated conditions and place hearty surrogates within similar circumstances.

These volunteers have to take the same psych-evaluations and should their responses match those from a trooper, they'll be given the chance to function as their facsimile on a secluded base back home.

Hence, as drama and challenge coherently test the bona fide in space, their echoes residing on Earth produce the same social situations and generate theories.

Should their Earthen bound drama produce results considered highly applicable, the astronauts themselves can follow their advice and adapt their strategies in focused concordance. 

But what should happen if things become boring or resolute tensions claustrophobically arise?

And are they the only active team, currently reimagining solar schematics?

Imagine NASA with a hundredth the budget still valiantly spearheading courageous initiatives, and as they attempt to recruit concrete fascination, wind up with aggrieved personality (so 21st century).

Thus the mission occasionally lacks prominence in the hearts and minds of the locked-down duplicates, and rather than concentrating on the historical import, nitpicking irregularities steadfastly taunt them (😌).

In terms of a dry lackadaisical critique of bureaucratic function and hands-on theory, Stéphane Lafleur's tremendous Viking industriously lampoons think tanks and committees. 

The results of their disputatious endeavours as preponderantly quizzical as they are performative, needless to say issues endemically complicate throughout the bewildered parallel missions.

Of course space travel and space bureaucracy spiritedly functioning on a shoe string budget, may encounter resonant difficulties as binding conclusions hatch and spawn.

As for the comedic expenditure, the genuine inanity etherealizes throughout, with a structured lack of determinate goals sincerely generating realistic implosion.

Much more clever than relying on a monster to suddenly instigate space shenanigans. 

Keeping the mission in mind.

Great companion for Babysitter.

Top Gun: Maverick

In terms of successful careers, of maintaining an enviable cool for 35 to 40 years, Tom Cruise is practically in a class of his own, only Tom Hanks perhaps as comparable, it's incredible how many solid films they've made in my lifetime.

As far as I know, Cruise has never starred alongside a dog, nor engaged in nonsensical shenanigans, he's been sure and steady throughout most of my life, and in terms of action-adventure, in a league of his own.

Regarding consistency, his films are usually cool with numerous elaborate death-defying sequences, to make so many over such a long span of time is a definitive salute to finesse and professionalism. 

Take Top Gun: Maverick, within there's a new generation of actors one of whom may have a career that rivals his own, and it's his responsibility to guide them on a dangerous highly-specialized mission.

His character's idyllic cool he's been playing by his own rules for impressive decades, in the armed forces no less, that's an outstanding feat.

But can he trust these younger pilots to execute their mission with impeccable precision, as he teaches them what no one else can efficiently transmit through heroic calm and legendary expenditure? 

In the end, no, a way is found for him to take part in the mission itself, an indefatigable challenge to the youth of today to have a Hollywood run as successful as his own (that is just an interpretation and by no means reflects what Tom Cruise actually intended).

I suppose when engaging in extremely precise and resoundingly requisite covert missions, the first run should be trusted to the most gifted personnel, who have passed the unrelenting onslaught of multivariable tests designed to flexibly discover the most loyal and battle worthy.

But there's still what I (and probably many others) call game time instincts, the skills that can only be developed in the field against intense opposition, and a well-rounded spectrum of diverse soldiers and pilots can perhaps ensure greater success under such conditions.

I'm thinking of Saint-Loup's admiration for the bakers and other less aristocratic soldiers in World War I (In Search of Lost Time), and the British pilots who extemporaneously arose during the Battle of Britain to outmaneuver Nazi scum.

Had a wide spectrum of diverse capability not been trusted to exceptionally command (isn't this why the American economy has traditionally functioned so well?), would the haughty Nazis or even Putin's Russians have had greater success on the field of battle?

You can no doubt simulate similar conditions but there's no substitute for direct engagement.

Will anyone ever perform as well for such a long period of time as Mr. Cruise?

I doubt I'll see it again in my lifetime. 

Perennially committed to entertaining through cinema. 

Przypadek

Can alternative decisions made in relation to one specific random event produce remarkably different outcomes for an inquisitive mind adapting?

Is it possible that the same person could emphatically respond with melancholic gusto, to diametrically opposed scenarios with shocking dialectic outcomes?

With or without exciting possibility with political support or in the thrilling underground, perhaps with traditional familial responsibilities, could the same person react so divergently?

As if sociopolitical engagement is a mischievous abstract maelstrom, different vessels like practical responses to a constantly shifting incredulous multiplicity.

As if the unexpected the unforeseen consistently introduces unprecedented dilemmas, which reimagine concrete foundations in need of striking transformative flux.

To stay afloat you employ grey flexible conducive relevant bold applications, circuitously dissected by ideological currents simultaneously engaged in the same opaque struggle.

Personal appeal and gracious mentoring provide fleeting cerebral provisions, from one piquant portfolio to the next, subjective instinct objective humour.

Competing forces build dams and levees attempting to limit the Kafkaesque exposure, material movements and spiritual sustenance providing relief within the grand disorder.

Isms and ists market intellectual plumage attempting to bridge variable discreet gaps, consistently haunted by resonant biology (hunger) as they uphold existential preservation. 

The absolutist seeks total control of the entire byzantine aqueous edifice, presuming resulting tsunamic ostentation will one day be followed by mass mellifluity.

The democrat limits the forbidding forces and offers advice for multivariable instances, celebrating fluctuation itself out of sincere respect for public opinion.

Witek (Boguslaw Linda) is immersed within different currents in Kieslowski's Przypadek, immanent ideological commitments compromising noble romantic resolve.

Even the lavish lagooned levitation leads to despondent airborne rupture, every random disparate path linked through chaotic contemporaneity.

Give me a raft or a kayak I suppose, some good bread and a variety of cheese.

A ride hitched on the back of a whale.

Some good books.

A salient film.  

20 Million Miles to Earth

Sometimes the art of decision making puzzles keen observers, as they wonder why a specific course was taken, when so many others could have been adopted.

At others the decisions seem apt, well-attuned to the unexpected circumstances, perhaps lacking in thrilling variety, but still well-suited to the agenda at hand.

Politically speaking, I suppose every decision undergoes polarization, livelihoods earned through creative dissonance, the maintenance of strict partisan argument, stirring the pot, as the saying goes.

But regardless of the critical impact, decisions must be made every day, decision makers confident in their reliability, critics happy to point out their errors.

Blindly following decisions is rather undemocratic, insofar as an inclusive politic innately encourages lively debate, but partisan instincts complicate this principle with redeemable awe, culture flourishing somewhere in between, as artistic analysis entails balance.

In the film under examination, a Terran spaceship returns from Venus, carrying wild extraterrestrial cargo, crash landing in the Mediterranean. 

Local fisherpeeps witness the crash and venture forth to lend a hand, managing to rescue two crew members, before the ship plummets to the bottom of the sea.

International relations swiftly invigorate a quizzical yet receptive dialogue, as the United States explains to the Italian government that one of their crafts has returned from Space.

The coveted alien specimen miraculously washes ashore, and is found shortly thereafter by a village boy, who quickly sells it to a visiting zoologist.

Earth's environment proves hearty for the specimen who expands at a remarkable rate, soon rivalling the size of an elephant, once no bigger than a sprightly squirrel.

After it escapes decisions must be made regarding its potential capture, and what to do with it if it can be held, prevented from inquisitively exploring.

The surviving colonel knows that it's generally harmless within its diminutive form, but it's grown to such a large size, that the local police have become quite worried.

Fortunately, the colonel knows it can be restrained by electrified nets, and is able to nimbly catch it, before the realization of bland destruction.

But where should they take the shackled beastie?, that question remains unanswered.

Until it's decided to bring him or her to Rome.

Locked down for close observation.

Rampaging potential pending.

Why it wasn't left to roam the countryside while feasting on sulphur deposits isn't explained.

The alien's changing proportions reflect conflicting accounts of its natural physiology. 

It's in fact a peaceful beast.

Unaccustomed to grand incarceration. 

Paris Blues

Ram Bowen (Paul Newman) and Eddie Cook (Sidney Poitier) have smoothly settled in Paris, where they work as jazz musicians at a local club most working nights.

Their reputation's solid and they work hard to maintain it, routine practise honing creativity, regular performance hot damn experiment, the vibrant chill nightlife.

Bowen's interested in musical composition and Cook tries to help him write, consistently generating new ideas inordinate spirited bright material.

Their act's established, they're part of the scene, living the life in grooves composing, when two American tourists show up one night in search of improvised l'amour.

They're on a well-earned two week vacation and didn't know what to readily expect, but Ram and Eddie weren't prepared for them either, and their resonant domestic echo.

Different traditions contend as they converse, as they consider relationships long-lasting, sure and steady conjugal comportment, the cookie cut stuck out in the 'burbs.

It's a lot to give up but there's so much to gain but everything's happening so quickly, and Bowen's the leader of his nimble band and his fellow musicians rely on him heavily.

He looks out for them anyways and tries to steer them away from soulless excess, relying on them like a coach or trainer, who works for the same productive team.

Was that a regular thing in the '60s, the '50s, the '40s, whenever?

Professional musicians working the same club every night and wildly drawing them in?

Does it still happen in Paris and New York or somewhere in Montréal that I'm unaware of?, if not I'd argue something's been lost, something beyond commercial value.

Imagine what you'd create if you worked that hard, what you'd routinely exceptionally come up with, if you never stopped to rest on your laurels, if life was a constant improvised rhythm?

I think old school musicians were more concerned with sounding good than with not sounding bad, but that's just a casual observation that isn't supported by vigorous research (does the absence of working class vitality within artistic spheres lead to a general spirit that's more academic than artistic?).

Imagine there were several exceptional bands that regularly played the same clubs in Montréal, and you could see them any night of the week, and they never gave anything less than outstanding?

Imagine they still played their instruments too and sought to etherealize with mad reckless solos, or jam here and there at times, as the drive of their audience compelled them?

Paris Blues captures a rhythmic lifestyle caught up with domestic and political intrigue, and celebrates musician's lives without focusing intently on the negative.

The negative taunts in every domain and it's great to see a film that celebrates the artistic life.

Relationships tempt and tantalize.

Resolute competing responsibilities.  

*Duke Ellington's music's incredible and there's an amazing scene where Louis Armstrong (Wild Man Moore) stops by to jam.

Dogman

A kind man.

An awkward man.

A shy man.

A loving man.

He loves animals and his daughter and works hard to impress them, grooming dogs throughout the day to earn money for rest and leisure.

He's done well for himself considering his coastal town's depressed jade, and has friends, clients, healthy relations, and respectability.

He gets by and isn't concerned with that much, but at least still keeps track of the score.

But there's a problem.

A huge problem.

A drug abusing violent bull who cheats and robs the whole neighbourhood takes advantage of his kindness (Edoardo Pesce as Simoncino), and due to his habitual timidity, he has trouble refusing his requests.

You can't negotiate with stark abomination.

And have to one day just strictly say "no".

And take the beating, as it inevitably approaches, Matteo Garrone's Dogman presenting one prick of a criminal abyss, jacked up on malevolent testosterone.

And amphetamines.

It's diabolical dispassionate juxtaposition, each favour just a little more ruthless, and even though each demand's grim and shocking, the door's never shut tight with resolve.

Take care of all things. No matter how brutal. Embrace as they bite, provide guidance they'll ignore.

Marcello (Marcello Fonte) likes being with people. It doesn't really matter who. He wants to fit in, play ball, take part, revel. Enjoy a long lunch. Play soccer in the morning.

But he's too friendly to know when to draw lines.

Seems more like the kind of guy who would read stories to sick kids at the hospital, or plant trees and gardens for his community on weekends.

But if such or similar opportunities exist, he has yet to seek them out or find them.

The film sharply blends innocence and contempt with dismal tragic scorn.

It's painful to watch as Marcello agrees, and is left direly scathed and scrounging.

In a community less saturated with toxic masculinity, he likely would have modestly bloomed, or would have had different options available, that may have encouraged less destructive reckonings.

Dogman makes quite the solemn impact, as lost as it is soul searching.

A world devoid of the feminine.

With good intentions pushed far far away.

The Square

Contemporary art clashes with civilization as the repercussions of spontaneous decisions made plague The Square's timid curator.

The square itself is a beautifully conceived space wherein which those who enter should feel free to honestly engage with one another.

Crafted according to egalitarian guidelines, it promotes goodwill and kindhearted understanding.

The supersaturated sensation prone advertisers tasked to promote it can't think of a complementary way to proceed, however, their resultant ad generating the critical controversy they seek, but, nevertheless, it's unceremoniously steeped in just bitter outrage.

By bellicosely blending explosive guilt with tender innocence, the ad reflects mainstream media obsessions with death and violence, the ways in which news outlets focus intently on the abominable in order to generate higher ratings, the unsuspecting public perhaps functioning like the innocent child blown to bits within.

But recognizing such a purpose and detaching it from its grotesque depiction, as it's applied to a subject of the public sphere (a museum), isn't exactly something you can expect from all and sundry, since they're more likely to see an explosion killing a young child within a zone dedicated to peace, and wonder why someone chose such a disastrous advertising method.

Here, intellectual pasteurization confronts working realities wherein which it's reduced to sheer idiocy in a matter of viral nanoseconds, accumulating high ratings meanwhile.

This happens elsewhere in the film too.

Not the ratings.

Explanations making things much much worse.

Means and ends.

The Square brilliantly comments on detached postmodern peculiarities, the universal accessibility immediately granted by YouTube and Facebook seeing old world sociopolitical boundaries disappear in radiant flux.

But the film's also concerned with hapless Christian (Claes Bang), who has a good heart but is somewhat of a fool, who tries to live according to the square's ethics but doesn't really get it, and consistently generates fury as he tries to take part and must eventually defend his poorly thought out decisions.

Being a public figure responsible for promoting a cultural institution, he has to constantly answer questions that don't follow an adoring script, with discursive agility and multifaceted ease, but he often can't formulate the simplest of sympathetic responses, can't flexibly b(l)end with inherent political realities.

Christian's ineptitude is chaotically brought to life both publicly and privately after one of his performance exhibits goes psycho at a formal dinner (the embodiment of disenfranchisement playing a role it naturally wouldn't if elites didn't reflexively assume its rage [or a role played by the disenfranchised who wrongly assume the elites assume they're malevolent {best to take each action on a case by case basis/plus watch the ending of The Dark Knight\}]) and his oblivious attempts to get his stolen wallet back cause trouble for a young immigrant boy (Elijandro Edouard).

This review just looks at a small cross-section of what's reflected upon in The Square and offers hasty interpretations.

An international extravaganza that not so subtly uses contemporary psycho comedy to question paths the arts are following, and the constitution required to manage the synthesis of everything, it interrogates the act of questioning with dry satirical responses, and leaves one man floundering while he assumes existential parlay.

Vivacious vortexts.

Decay in bloom.

Anthropoid

Penetrating im/pounding extremes, every micromovement scrutinized, every act commanding pressure, evasion, occupying hostility, bestial barbarous butcher, the Czechoslovakian resistance responds with succinct furtive gravity, a clandestine mission necessitating collective stealth, probable reprisals hauntingly staggering, the goal inter/nationally paramount, assassinate Reinhard Heydrich, and deliver a devastating blow to Nazi Germany.

Expedient precision.

Resilient nerve.

Sean Ellis's Anthropoid is a serious war film.

In fact it's the best war film I've seen in years.

There aren't any chummy exaggerated shenanigans, no consistent bombastic explosions, the soldiers barely have any resources, they're organized but years of grotesque repercussions have left them divided, there's a complicated objective requiring superhuman strength but its subjects are realistically afraid and hesitant, which inculcates sage humanity, cool heads still prevailing to keep things discreet enough to avoid despotic detection, ordinary people making extraordinary sacrifices like the recruits described by Saint-Loup, almost every character given a crucial role, courageous exceptional multifaceted desperation, like they really are fighting a war, and proceeding with requisite solemnity.

Heads kept level even as love's warm embrace lightens the tension, loss still generating overwhelming emotion, kindred spirits who would have otherwise been at play.

Goals motivating ubiquitously.

The different ages of the characters are written remarkably well.

Imperfect markspersonship.

Horrifying punishments.

Maturity comes of age.

Poise.

Eye in the Sky

Speculation.

Strategic planning.

Cold calculation.

The human factor.

A peaceful Kenyan family who loathes yet fears extremists lives day to day in a militarized zone, embracing their loving routine while terrorists plot suicide attacks in the compound next door.

The British military has waited years to either capture or eliminate these fanatics and is ready to strike but requires direct authorization.

At the perfect moment, extraordinarily complicated and dangerous steps having been taken to ensure legalistic legitimacy, the adorable daughter (Aisha Takow as Alia Mo'Allim) of the family begins to sell bread within the proposed airstrike's targeted area.

Eye in the Sky hierarchically examines the politics and ethics of proceeding with the mission, humanistically stylizing the decision making process at executive, legal, operational, and civilian levels, internationally evaluating torrents and tributaries to disputatiously justify the repercussions of its actions, debate clad in detonation, textbook points on cue.

Interrogating the greater good.

The crucial unknown.

Millions have likely been spent leading up to the moment and preventing suicide attacks which will result in dozens of casualties seems like the logical decision.

But the peaceful family, if their daughter is killed, may then turn to extremism, convincing friends and relatives to join in the call.

I'm surprised this point wasn't mentioned in the dialogue which otherwise intellectually explores several hypothetical perspectives.

Conditionally, there are too many variables to confidently predict certain outcomes, and it is known that the terrorists are preparing to launch suicide attacks, and that dozens of deaths are more serious than one.

Painstaking steps are taken to ensure the girl's survival and a brave clever conscientious objection is even made by the soldier responsible for launching the strike.

Colonel Katherine Powell (Helen Mirren), eager to terminate her target, eventually takes matters into her own hands and lies about the girl's survival odds in order to secure the right to annihilate.

The audience is left to decide whether or not she made the correct decision.

The concluding moments, reminiscent of speeches made by Jean-Luc Picard, suggest director Gavin Hood thinks she did not.

War laid bare.

Unforeseen probabilities.

Possibility obscured.

Eye in the Sky rationally supports opposing viewpoints with argumentative clarity yet is somewhat too neat and tidy and at points I thought I was watching television.

It still boils down incredibly complex structures and their inherent departmental checks and balances to an accessible narrative replete with critical controversies.

Open-ended investigations.

Well thought out yet too polished at times, Eye in the Sky materializes the imaginary components integral to the ethics of fighting the war on terror, to lament both conscience and innocence, while statistically analyzing bursts of compassion.

Pleasantly lacking in sensation.

Loved the Alan Rickman (Lieutenant General Frank Benson).

The Martian

Accidentally left behind and isolated on planet Mars, Mark Watney (Matt Damon) digs in deep in order to robustly flourish against overwhelming interplanetary odds, his team rapidly travelling back to Earth, unaware, that he still lives.

Contact is soon made with NASA headquarters yet bureaucratic dillydallying prevents him from communicating with his unsuspecting teammates.

Forced to survive, he employs his botanical ingenuity to boldly cultivate nutritious potato crops, while strategic planning contemplates his rescue back home.

The odds are grim that he'll ever return alive.

Yet trash talk and contentious humour ensure his independence is universally dispersed.

Spatial tenacity.

Temporal quid pro quo.

The Martian, juxtaposing the intense public relations of executive decision making with the humble orchestrations of an astronaut tilling barren countryside, indoors, mathematical inclusivity, scientific parchment, necessitated artistic leisure, perplexing public speaking, it strictly operates within established timelines to generate a complicated sense of extraordinary repartee by directly laying it down without overlooking conflict or relaxation.

Within this dynamic frame collegiality heartwarms and action accelerates whether it be physical exclamations or tense cerebral intersects.

Shaking hands and deliberating, the script's tight and the direction excites, from multiple starstrikes, with collective and individual decision making, infinitesimally precise calculations, and plenty, plenty, of disco.

Not bad.

A Most Violent Year

Patience, hard work, and skill, transferrable knowledge calmly and efficiently presented, threats, competitive thefts assaulting bottom lines, disrupting morale and distribution, fermenting internal disputes, fear and uncertainty corrupting the working day, factions, a lawsuit, thugs, insert stoicism, by the books, leadership, an impenetrable reliance on a sense of fair play cultivated through years of shrewd progressive expansion relied upon during its darkest yet most definitive hour, revenue streams collapsing, worst case options relied upon, an unwavering commitment to the law, like Michael Corleone, if he had started from scractch.

Law and order.

Concealment.

As Abel Morales's (Oscar Isaac) business expands, his competitors employ desperate tactics, their livelihoods threatened, pathological pyrosthetics.

A Most Violent Year resists the urge to fight back.

It keeps a level head.

Distinguishing itself from other films in the genre.

It was odd watching it, I kept waiting for the eruption, the countermeasures, the explosion of pent up rage, disastrous regimens of revenge.

But its aesthetic honours goodwill as opposed to vindication, composure rather than frenzy, its blueprints shackling threats of reprisal, steady assured confidence, in the methods that have ensured success.

It's like the feeling you get when you work hard for something, enjoy the rewards, stay true to a vision, accept professional challenges, and continue to modestly achieve.

Like graduating from high school or being promoted.

Staying in business for decades.

Thoughtful innovations.

Bird People

This one's sneaky.

About halfway through, as Gary (Josh Charles) decides to abandon his responsibilities, I was thinking, "okay, this would make a much better novel, I need to know what this character is thinking, why is he acting this way, apart from the panic attack, more detail, more psychology, without said value-added information, this film's becoming desolate, I have no reason to sympathize with him, no reason, to care."

I thought the film was awful but there were signs that director Pascale Ferran wanted me to think this, a number of shots, including one of Audrey (Anaïs Demoustier) standing by a window, which seemed like extraordinarily well captured moments of unconcerned bubble-gum bliss, like ads for soap or candy bars but exceptionally well done, bearing artistic imprints, working with the content, their exceptional qualities tenderly embracing the beautiful, finding art in lives where banalities pervade, revelations, serendipities, flowing with the material while subtly standing out, making a statement without suggesting anything, banality dematerialized, the life hidden within surfacing, rejoicing.

Then there's this, what?, are writers Ferran and Guillaume Bréaud on acid?, switch, which seems ridiculous and totally out of place at first, but then, as the subsequent action progresses, it's like this is incredibly beautiful, so much fun to watch, to take part in, logic and preparation be damned this is one of the coolest surprises I've seen in a film in years, joyous while remaining vigilant (there's a cat), so glad I didn't walk out, you can see why it's playing at Cinéma EXCƎNTRIS.

Patient, delicate, exploratory, curious, a continuation of the voyeuristic theme that doesn't seem intrusive or flighty.

It's a very cheeky film yet illuminatingly subtle, Ferran playing with her audience, setting it free from predictable preconditioned patterns of observation, tempting it to embrace something new, a soothing transformative catalystic swoon, the art of mesmerizing, discourses of the beautiful.

The Skeleton Twins

Crippling depressions cope with mundane predictability as a brother and sister are reunited after an attempted suicide in Craig Johnson's The Skeleton Twins, mundane predicability in regards to the lives their leading, not in relation to the film, which is a sensitive reflective chill occasionally brash comment on the applicability of predetermined roles, the individuals who play them (wife, husband, actor, . . .), the results of their interactions, and the coming together of kindred spirits.

The sister, Maggie (Kristen Wiig), is married to a boring yet supportive excessively positive husband (Luke Wilson as Lance) who provides her with stability but strongly lacks an exhilarating thrill factor, which she finds with other men while taking different courses after work.

The brother, Milo (Bill Hader), has been struggling to find acting work in LA, and after drinking too much one night, decides to take his own life.

They meet up for the first time in 10 years shortly thereafter and Milo then decides to return to his hometown in upstate New York to live with Maggie while he recuperates.

They're both somewhat bipolar, and suicidal, so when they're getting along, we're treated to witty caustic unconcerned distracted deadpan takes on living, and when things break down, things often breaking down after something great happens, things turn ugly, vindictive and spiteful, each trying to play a parental role as the other screws up, historical controversies complicating things further.

Neither has had much guidance that has helped over the years, and both crave regular adventurous stimuli to transcend routine frustrations.

It's well-acted, well-written, and the best comedic drama I've seen since Stand Up Guys.

I don't think I've ever seen two former Saturday Night Live actors perform so well in a film this low key and striking.

They convincingly struggle with issues of life and death in a relatable way complete with thoughtful advice which isn't over the top or endearingly ridiculous.

Wilson's great too.

Casting by Avy Kaufman.