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. 

Hud

Three generations of a ranching family actively live together in the American mid-west, father and son at ethical odds while the observant grandson comes of age.

Gramps (Melvyn Douglas) is an honourable man who takes responsibility for his actions. When it becomes apparent that his herd of cattle might have foot and mouth disease, he doesn't try to sell them for scandalous profits. 

His son Hud (Paul Newman) on the other hand only sees an enormous loss, and would have sold the cattle to his neighbours and spread the problem across the land.

He also cavorts around town with other men's wives out in the open, and routinely gets into fights and drinks too much and has a furious temper.

Thus, two visions of America irascibly compete home on the range, one steady and trusted and true the other only seeking crass self-fulfillment. 

They're consistently at venomous odds and don't freely beat around the bush, it's plenty awkward intergenerationally so, how do you progress in such heated circumstances?

The grandson (Brandon de Wilde) isn't sure what to do both the adults offering disputatious alternatives. 

The next generation of an adventurous country caught between competing undefined dreams. 

I reckon it's generally like this from one unique epoch to the original other, integral factors and intermediary zones cultivating community while self-obsessed visions tar with the same brush.

There isn't much ambiguity here it's clear to me Hud's quite the rapscallion, and there's nothing sublime or misunderstood about his way of life, he's just a first rate self-centred jerk.

There's something to be said for community building for playing a role big or small in such construction, perhaps not requiring mandatory parades or laudatory ubiquity, but still with a general sense of collective well-being (like you find in Québec).

There are thousands of chill roles to play and many aren't that bad if you show up and work, although things can be tricky from time to time, I try to keep quiet, unless my silence offends.

In one scene from Hud grandpappy relates how the munificent cow built so much of their culture, providing material for clothes and other things while also encouraging nourishment.

I immediately thought of the millions of bison who had historically resided on the plains. 

There was a built in network of ranching way back.

What a tragedy, how things unfolded.

*Not the Broncos win on Monday night versus Buffalo. That was amazing. 🏈

Mansfield Park

I imagine Mansfield Park was written when the 19th century's abolitionist movement was rapidly advancing, and the cruel and ruthless practice of slavery was soon to fade into oblivion.

But it hadn't yet as this narrative took shape so some of its characters seem rather outdated, as they lavishly live off the profits of enslavement in luxurious temper and ornate fashion.

Even if the story and its situations seem somewhat ghastly from current perspectives, it's strange to see characters genuinely presented outrageously profiting from the slave trade, I imagine it was daring and even groundbreaking at the revolutionary time, as it ethically shocked the established practice, and brought fresh perspectives to politically bear.

Thus, with the abolitionist movement passionately sermonizing in the background, Jane Austen theorizes Victorian realism, and creates a hypothetical yet possible set of circumstances, wherein which Society struggles with change.

The father, one Thomas Bertram (Harold Pinter), isn't squeamish about his distant holdings, and indeed brutishly profits from their labours, with no qualms or concerns regarding worker well-being.

His oldest son of the same name (James Purefoy) even captures his wickedness in a series of vivid disturbing drawings, which lead to his grand disillusionment, and general disregard for family life.

His younger brother Edmund (Johnny Lee Miller) has never visited their land or enterprises oversees, and has matured in the finest ethical tradition, even if he can't settle upon an occupation.

He grows up with one Fanny Price (France O'Connor) and the two fall in love through books and imagination, but they're both rather unacquainted with their own interests, and eventually find themselves about to marry others.

Even though they live with everything at their fingertips, and want for nothing material throughout their days, Tom and Edmund still detest their father's practices and express their criticisms with virtuous outrage.

It's unsettling to see people living so ostentatiously considering, but within the novel's historical context, perhaps it helped encourage the end of slavery.

Thomas has switched his interests to tobacco in the end and seems to have abandoned profiting from extremist tension, the counsel of a younger generation definitively having influenced his ridged composure.

I was surprised to see a Jane Austen narrative so sophisticatedly concerned with social justice, I had always presumed most of her books concerned marriage, and had no idea they examined broader issues.

Marriage is also of the utmost concern within the farsighted Mansfield Park, but it's regarded as another form of human entrapment, as Edmund and Fanny seek to fall in love.

The story's quite robust however and even though borderline romantic, still undercuts its amorous zeal with cold calculated depictions of poverty.

Still should people like Edmund and Fanny find each other love may flourish boundless and eternal.

I'm not sure how many liberties the filmmakers took with the plot.

But I'd very much like to read Mansfield Park. 

The Rainmaker

Struggling to find anything amidst multitudinous mechanized mayhem, a would-be lawyer strives for steady employment, having already diligently found two potential cases to call his own, he needs a flexible support network, a trusted home away from home (Matt Damon as Rudy Baylor). 

He doesn't have an apartment either but in conversation with a client, secures room and board in her backyard a rather nice place off the beaten track.

He fortunately finds someone to work for but soon a lawsuit comes a' callin', and he's forced to abandon the practise and create a new one of his own.

A resilient legal aid resourcefully assists his fledgling endeavours (Danny DeVito as Deck Shifflet), the two forging a dynamic team harnessing practical and constructive knowledge.

Medical insurance fraud indeed becomes their driving ethical focus, while an extremely distressing spousal abuse case takes up most of Baylor's free time.

They're up against a corporate team who offers them a settlement at the outset, but daring Baylor digs in deep and decides to challenge them in court.

Meanwhile, he's visiting Ms. Riker (Claire Danes) to offer counsel when her husband returns. 

Literally in the fight of his life.

He responds with reciprocal reckoning. 

The direct just how things go realistic hands-on overt narrative, leaving nothing to chance or whimsy everything presented as plain as day.

The latent dream overwhelming at times to simply tell it like it is, with lucid manifest striking composure bravely detailing complex dissonance.

I'd argue you'd have more success with this style or perhaps find a much larger audience, incumbent mystery and bewildering bantha not as appealing from time to time.

With relativity applied however there are manifold layers of concrete communication, one startling stark steady statement taking on several alternative significations.

Thus Dickens or Proust may seem out of touch if you focus intently on John Grisham (which I did in high school [even visiting Oxford, Mississippi {dad wanted to see Faulkner's homestead which was in the area}]), but if you train and practise and up your game you'll learn to harmonize the three.

The Rainmaker presents potential realities with appealing incandescent virtue. 

I loved reading John Grisham in my youth.

Along with ye olde Anne Rice.  

*Also love reading Faulkner.

**Co-starring Mickey Rourke (Bruiser Stone), Danny Glover (Judge Tyrone Kipler), Jon Voight (Leo F. Drummond), Mary Kay Place (Dot Black), Dean Stockwell (Judge Hale), Virginia Madsen (Jackie Lemancyzk), and Roy Scheider (Wilfred). 

Zatôichi rôyaburi (Zatoichi the Outlaw)

Supernaturally gifted with impeccable swordpersonship, a humble sightless outlaw wanders the volatile countryside, in search of incarnate justice virtuously beheld with moral reckoning, convinced of honest trust, and willing to lend a hand.

The ambitious in the village he frequents own a lucrative gambling den, which attracts the hopeful farmers who till the nearby fertile soil.

A bold person of the people peacefully warns them of their folly, once a valiant samurai himself now having embraced age-old non-violence.

Zatôichi (Shintarô Katsu) hears his amicable words freely delivered amidst hardboiled controversy, the local chieftains rather inhospitable regarding farsighted cultural counsel.

Much more sustainable for them to see hard earned wages carefreely lost, in a game they always win, as long as their clients suspect nothing. 

Zatôichi heeds the words of a rival boss who claims respectability, then eliminates his rivals, before heading off to a new town.

Until word reaches his modest ears that his friend's greed outweighs even that of his predecessors. 

The village folk on the brink of losing everything.

Virtue requisite animate sprawl.

The enduring everlasting narrative wherein which the modest thrive, with hopes of less stern reprisals for simply longing for fiscal fortune.

The powers-that-be vouchsafe possibility only at rare evocative intervals, to generate irrepressible interest in interminable decorum.

Yet the ethical still widely promulgate resounding wisdom begetting verve, their sure and steady dependable advice eventually leading to civility.

The desire to gamble remains strong and can't be vanquished with heartfelt speeches, opposing narratives cultivating instinct insisting they represent spiritual clemency.

The women of the village clearly understand the proactive message, and quietly long for zealous endurance and brave determinate consistent yields.

Zatôichi upholds aggrievéd rights and swiftly defends them with holistic levity.

Unsatisfied with inherent vice.

He upstandingly quells unhinged dishonour.  

The Millionairess

An exceptionally talented man of business gains a vast imposing fortune, and only has one adoring daughter after his life comes to an end.

A rather sporting man full of chide and eccentric flourish, conditions must be met to legitimately acquire his colossal resource.

Thus, his flamboyant progeny (Sophia Loren as Epifania) can only marry if rather fortunate, and her prospective husband can turn 500 pounds into 15,000 in just three weeks. She realizes she can fix things and proceeds to do so for a sheath of muscle. 

But he's unable to grin and bear it.

Soon she must find another.

As fate would have it, during a mock-suicide attempt she's saved by an impoverished doctor (Peter Sellers as Dr. Kabir), who's sincerely dedicated to the sick, and has no genuine interest in money.

The habitual "impertinence" soon ignites an inextinguishable flame, she's determined in hot pursuit to become his betrothed alluring patron.

He's a student of the mind and has not interest, nevertheless, but still gives Epifania a challenge which must be definitively met.

Yet in his disinterested haste he generously gives away the 500.

Leaving her to embrace despair.

And impecunious improvisation.

Strange to see a conscientious individual sternly refusing limitless abundance, not that such an occurrence itself is odd, but since there's so much obsession with material these days.

Indeed it seems the more difficult it becomes to astronomically endow oneself, the less ethical concerns emphatically refine an inner voice.

In terms of programming and aesthetic shallows which grossly overlook collective objectives, and blindly uphold vain personal strategies with misperceived monopolistic psychology.

The Millionairess presents an alternative time when respected self-sacrificing age old duty, still made its way to populist markets and produced miraculous effects.

It's like mass collaboration has been disingenuously disdained, and too much of an individualistic bias is creating a lack of faith in public institutions. 

Healthcare and education remain the backbone of a multivariable cultural thrust.

With millions of people developing interactive loci.

Structurally stable.

Resiliently sound. 

With Alastair Sim (Sagamore). 

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.  

The Year of Living Dangerously

Arriving within the tantalizing unknown with no contacts and resolute viability, working within unfamiliar parameters exhilarating recourse refined animation.

The ambiguous reflexes of the bold indeterminate fluidly encouraging resilient jazz rhythms, inordinate pluck and lithe tenacity generate immersion beyond expression.

Mr. Hamilton (Mel Gibson) finds himself far from Australia working his first assignment as a foreign correspondent, with no contacts and a relative lack of sympathy locking down conducive facilitated succession. 

Fortunately compassionate reason curiously materializes from the opaque outset, and an integrated ethicist possessing spry fluencies lends a hand and quizzical quarter (Linda Hunt as Billy Kwan). 

Hamilton is able at least to write about something after the interviews he cleverly conducts, but he's arrived at a pivotal moment in local history wherein which intriguing narratives harrowingly instigate.

By no means shy, he pursues the lead with undaunted gripping paramount resolve. 

Risking both life and flourishing love interest (Sigourney Weaver as Jill Bryant). 

To discover impeccable headlines. 

Tough to say where the cynosure harkens with the most consequent influential reckoning, if it's not Montréal, New York, or Denver, it's slipped past my residual wanderings.

Why one location would ever be so prominent in a multifaceted international continuum?, makes less sense to me than the lateral alternative expanding networks exponential variability.

But if you like where you're living it certainly seems as if it embodies practical universalization, especially if such considerations concern it in the least and it could care less about generalized pertinence. 

At times it seems it would be wonderful to simply stay on the island forever.

If you didn't know people elsewhere.

Or have thrilling engagements at times beyond borders.

That sense is captured in The Year of Living Dangerously which makes its environs seem cataclysmically irresistible, as so many films set in specific locations do, future research compelling forthcoming.

The enticing poise of the unfamiliar subtly celebrated like vital novelty.

I finally saw this film.

Linda Hunt doesn't disappoint. 

The Social Dilemma

From time to time, I've written about how much I love my cellphone, and that's certainly the case, it's a remarkable tool that simplifies so many things and makes life so much much easier.

For social media, I like to play games and post the odd article or picture on Facebook (or Twitter or Instagram). I post articles from reputable sources that abide by codes of conduct to share information I find relevant to the outside world. I don't update my profile status too often because my daily life's just not that interesting, or perhaps it's because I tend to annoy people, or don't have much to say.

Social media apps seemed like wonderful tools when I started using them, they facilitate the sharing of information and let you see what your friends are interested in. They let you express yourself creatively in a variety of different ways that make for a robust compelling caricature that celebrates the active life. Further, the tools are available to everyone so elites don't have a monopoly on shaping public opinion. If used in accordance with ethical guidelines the situation seems rather chill and democratic. But as Jeff Orlowski's The Social Dilemma suggests, the pursuit of logic and reason is seriously off course.

The documentary presents individuals who worked for companies like Google or Facebook and asks them to share their thoughts about their legacies, or the impact their tools have had upon the world at large. And according to the statistics they present, things have taken a turn for the worse.

For instance, they claim that fake news spreads 6 times as fast as news shared from legitimate sources, or that fake news reaches a much wider audience than that crafted by professionals adhering to ethical standards.

The line between comic criticisms of daily newscasts (The Onion) and flagrant disingenuous lies seems to have disappeared entirely as people vainly seek popularity.

If fake news spreads at a much faster pace it makes less sense to tell the truth if you want to be popular, and millions of people are aware of this, and expressing themselves thusly.

Considering that billions of people use social media, it's like the telephone game's gone galactic, as has an unsettling mistrust of professionals who separate fact from fiction.

I think it's important to speculate or theorize or comment or observe, but you need to present your ideas as possibilities, not facts, as you democratically engage with the outside world.

A lot of people don't seem to be able to tell the difference or would simply prefer to bask in sensation, and with the billions of people who access social media every day, the situation's potentially catastrophic.

Suicide rates have simultaneously expanded at an alarming speed and people are spending much less time socializing offline.

Hate is spreading as well and little is being done about it.

I was surprised recently when I attended a campfire at a cousin's where a number of youths showed up. And didn't sit around chatting with one another, but rather spent the entire evening on their phones (I figured cyberspatial obsessions would have less sway in the country).

The doc paints a grim picture of how polarized things are becoming and how the willingness to find consensus is rapidly fading. I suppose building bridges is at a low ebb. But I can't help it, that's what I do.

Even if the stories I share don't spread as quickly as lies, I'll still continue to share them. People need to fight rampant misinformation. And embrace holistic hug power.

As they suggest in The Social Dilemma, it's clear that there has to be some kind of change. There's no going back to the '80s, but there needs to be some sense of social media responsibility.

I don't know if there's much of a difference, democratically speaking, between someone without much education sharing a theory, or an academic publishing an argument, but the academic usually indicates that they may be incorrect, or at least suggests they're engaging in high end speculation. 

It's a compelling continuum where no one's correct but peeps aren't necessarily mistaken either. 

Social media is similar.

But it needs to highlight it's engaging in speculation, or find reputable sources to back up its claims.

If millions of people just make stuff up and then cite each other regularly without proof or argument as if they aren't engaging in speculation, then the world suffers from excessive stupidity.

Enter conscious free-flowing surrealism. 

The doc shares much more information than that (available on Netflix).

Antigone

Tragedy strikes an immigrant family as their eldest son (Hakim Brahimi as Étéocle) is shot down while protesting his brother's arrest.

His brother (Rawad El-Zein as Polynice) sees what has taken place and responds with violence, adding assaulting a police officer to his crimes, which may lead to his deportation.

Their family bonds are tight and strong, and his sister Antigone (Nahéma Ricci) has a plan, to secure his dauntless release, even if it means she'll have to do time.

Her plan's a success, he escapes, she's arrested, and she settles in at the juvenile detention centre.

Where her brave actions are swiftly called out, in consideration of her brother's transgressions.

She's determined, dedicated, feisty, immutable, her conscience uprightly resolved.

Her partner (Antoine Desrochers as Hémon) fights for her integral freedom.

Stirring up quite the intense media frenzy.

No easy answers in this one.

The classic compelling mind*&%#.

Ethical issues abound as hearts clash in Sophie Deraspe's Antigone, a brilliant reimagining of the play, creatively and controversially brought to life, through the art of aggrieved contemplation.

Antigone's somewhat well-integrated.

She even won a scholarly prize.

She's by the book, constructive, rational, no-nonsense, the film critically absolved by her defiant reserve.

It's puzzling that she takes such risks for a career ne'er-do-well, yet provocative inasmuch as she avails.

The film intermittently interrupts the action with clever feverish pop-cultural analyzes, energetically presenting high octane observations, situating the narrative in the world at large, a broader multicultural context, that expands as the trial gets underway.

It's a convincing drama that excels at realistically depicting youthful and aged antagonisms, clearly in touch with the alternative views, and the ways in which peeps struggle to understand them.

Although Antigone's youthful rebellion ironically upholds old patriarchal schools, a cunning syntheses on behalf of Deraspe, who boldly articulates so many sharp distinctions, without seeming sentimental or preachy.

I'd argue Antigone upholds a great Québecois tradition of crafting rebellious films which make you think, like Mommy, Vic + Flo ont vu un ours, Quand l'amour se creuse un trou, or 1er amour, a unique style that's totally its own, that asks hard questions that have no answer.

But it's in trying to answer them that these films imaginatively assert themselves, as life presents impenetrable codes, as disconcerting as they are enlivening, basking in comprehensive intrigue.

There's no frosty sugar coating.

Just reality, action, dilemmas, mistakes.

Life.

Active living.

Insert The Matrix.

Bewilder.

Dead Ringers

Symbiotically existing in enriched systemic ecology, unwavering strict calisthenic sophistication, enraptured cozy charismatic extroversion, hesitant timid imaginative reserve, it's nice to share things, to openly bond with your closest friends, to have someone who listens intently, no matter what, with supportive perceptive inquisitive professionalism, inflating recourse to the sensual, with compelling jocose trust.

But from a rigid analysis of the potent data provided, it's clear they've never fallen in love, nor entertained the influence of an other, nor experimented outside of work.

Fraternal camaraderie bromantically heeled and coalesced, a love interest offers escape, from nothing other than endemic exclusion.

And as one twin rises, the other falls apart, the two still irrevocably united, as jealousy struts and strays.

Dark reckonings hark the one, as wild recreation threatens everything he's worked for, the other firmly relying on his research, and their unyielding warm fidelity.

If only he hadn't introduced temptation.

If only they'd persisted in nascent womb.

Dead Ringers bluntly interrogates duality, as purest electrosynthesis meets dialectical destruction.

Infusing interstellar heights with nebulous oblivion, it diagnostically conceives a tragic provocation.

The blend of successful starstruck elegance and distraught candid mayhem produces an unsettling effect, purest material Cronenberg, even as he approaches the lofty mainstream.

I actually skipped this one years ago when I was eagerly renting his early films, because I was worried it'd be too bourgeois, like he'd done something John Waters or John Carpenter would never do, for which I could find no categorical compulsion.

I remained deathly afraid.

But the result's nothing too scary, although it's quite different from Scanners or Videodrome, it's like Cronenberg's trying to do something more traditional (a drama) but still can't restrain himself, so it unreels like a high brow slightly grotesque farce, that's descended into chaos by the end.

Would have been cool if they had found partners at the same time, or had pursued l'amour less sophomorically.

Cohesive reflexive unity.

Extensively engrained.

Socioculturally cocooned.

Still not enough Jeremy Irons (Beverly and Elliot Mantle).

Don't wait an extra 15 years.

L'Insulte

Politicians spreading hate to prey upon the weaknesses of their flocks, to turn their latent prejudices into jingoistic warlike ambitions, to transform tolerant markets into breeding grounds for death and destruction, to gain power for themselves which they will share with no one, perniciously pervert and corrupt the religious and/or secular principles they exploit to gain recognition, then bask in luxurious splendour while lives are lost and communities torn apart, after their viewpoints become codes of conduct, and harmless repartee starts invoking wanton bloodshed.

A mechanic falls for the volatile rhetoric of a Lebanese demagogue in Ziad Doueiri's L'Insulte, and proceeds to express himself contemptuously thereafter.

But the Palestinian man whom he targets isn't willing to let things slide, and immediately comes a' knockin' to assert his sincere displeasure.

He's ignored, tensions escalate, his boss, a levelheaded kind hearted understanding person, asks him to apologize for the way in which he retaliated, he agrees, only to have his people vitriolically criticized as he prepares to do so, a genocidal comment that inflames his passions, and leaves his provocateur on the ground with two broken ribs.

As they wait for their day in court, both men are reasonably counselled, and even though Yasser (Kamel El Basha) has a legitimate defence, he refuses to air grievances when eventually pressed by the judge.

He's an ethical person whom the world keeps beating down.

He won't sit back and take it, but he won't rat out his adversaries either.

Complicated film.

Multicultural dilemmas.

Their dispute makes headlines and soon the appeal is a national sensation, ethnocentric hatreds refuelled by each carefully calculated examination, a recent civil war still haunting collective memories, only the truly wicked hoping to see them reanimated once more.

L'Insulte shows how misguided individual actions can have horrendous cultural repercussions if hatred is left to pontificate unchallenged while those who profit from its dissemination publicly promote its virulence.

Tony (Adel Karam) and Yasser can't stand the spectacle. It's one of the film's best aspects. They detest the ways in which their simple disagreement becomes a demented political powder keg.

They slowly learn to understand, and as they tacitly agree to tolerate one another, both as people and as people who have suffered greatly, the film's deep multifaceted layers become more respectfully binding (revolutionaries turned civil servants, diaspora discourses, a child is born, workplace health and safety . . .).

Myriad characters offer brief challenging insights that condense manifold local, regional, national, and international personal and communal ethicopolitical viewpoints into a compelling heartfelt cerebral narrativization.

An argument that could have just been quietly settled.

If they had listened to their wives.

And ignored mad extremists.

A Quiet Passion

You forget about the thunderous lambasted dissatisfied offended vengeful austerity of artistic realms at times, quite different from the sporting world, as noted by others, overtly liberal yet savagely obsessed with youth and purity, pedantic pastures pirouetting and periodizing, wherein which people, many of whom can neither dribble nor throw a ball, act like severe generals intent on asininely disparaging anyone they can't seduce with their discursive charms, suckling the silver spoon with seditious sentiment, exceptionally accomplished yet insanely jealous, having created an odious convoy of fictional evaluations (principles) which they adhere to as if they're the essence of assiduity, as if they've asseverated a house of cards, the foundations of which they earnestly value like divine truths.

I made a crucial error upon engaging.

In my youth, I thought there would be a warm and friendly community wherein which one would feel free to express themselves in order to advance and learn, these were, after all, the people who couldn't catch or throw, and always wanted to play soccer (which they were terrible at), only to discover inherent habitual derisive reflexes often haunting otherwise cheerful discussions, reflexes which made beers with the jocks seem less cumbersome, even if I didn't get it and usually felt out of place with them.

It was disillusioning to find cruel pretensions backed up by limitless disdain uttered by people who weren't even that good yet had worked their way into a steady state of affairs, or would do anything they could to inanely disseminate their mediocrity.

I was too nice.

There was absolutely no chance for me.

They still do it. I still think I'm having a casual conversation only to find everything I've said without necessarily meaning any of it, just small talk, thrown back in my face behind the scenes with displeasure.

Terence Davies's A Quiet Passion made me think of those days as Emily Dickinson (Emma Bell/Cynthia Nixon) writes while martially pondering ethics.

Extremely gifted, passionate, verbose, and strict, she logically finds ways to justify her viewpoints while writing sweetly flowing unmatched poetry.

The title of the film is odd considering how often Dickinson disputes with so many, by no means a shrinking violet, more like a rigorous grizzly defending poetic cubs.

Her sister's (Rose Williams/Jennifer Ehle as Vinnie Dickinson) sympathetic and understanding, she diplomatically mediates between Emily and brother Austin (Benjamin Wainwright/Duncan Duff) as they become more estranged through argumentative age.

I loved the scenes where there was hardly any dialogue, when different family members have their portraits painted for instance, or when the family is depicted quietly relaxing one evening in the same 19th century room, long before the noisy rise of electronic interests.

It's like you're there.

At peace.

At contemplative leisure.

A different time, when religion and marriage still played a powerful role in many people's lives, marriage still being rather popular I suppose, Ms. Dickinson resolutely cultivating alternative paths for herself and others along which she independently strides.

The writing in the film displays remarkable talent at times, especially as Emily ages, but at others a lack of editorial finesse is plainly evident.

The words are out of control.

Its confident blend of the quirky and the serious made me think it was Canadian. 

English Canadian.

Alone in Berlin

A husband and wife, conscientious citizens who watched in silent horror as their culture madly lit jingoistic imperialist flames, once more, as their neighbours and compatriots became communally intoxicated with the blind xenophobic ambition of institutionalized megalomania (Trump?), politically isolated yet industrially integrated, morosely aware of the overwhelming tyrannical dogmas that have consumed their beloved Germany, quietly protest by writing critiques of Hitler's government on postcards and leaving them in public places throughout Nazi Berlin, their messages blunt and to the point, boldly castigating a movement that reduced their country to ash.

Long past the age when passionate inexperience habitually motivates romantic rebellious protest, for those lacking inexhaustible wealth, their logical engagement soberly revitalizes their youthful commitment, tenderly captured by director Vincent Perez with tender aged compassion.

A civil bureaucracy (a police force) believing it can independently operate outside Nazi jurisdiction is assigned their case, the intelligent objective inspector soon castrated by totalitarianism.

Individualized governments require general violence to rule.

General violence inherently encourages revolution.

Until such a time as cooler heads prevail.

And different cultures forge diverse unions.

Alone in Berlin modestly visualizes proactive labour in action, as it takes social democratic steps to subvert authoritarian cruelty, using intellect to promote sustainable security as opposed to sensationalized sanity (fascist psychiatry), capturing active conjugal middle-aged bliss meanwhile, as well as constabulary sympathy and inspired materialism.

If that scene didn't break your heart you've stiffened your lip too rigidly.

I wonder if the film would have been stronger if other protestors from Berlin had played secondary roles, the Quangels (Emma Thompson and Brendan Gleeson) still isolated but part of a bigger picture?

It's a very patient film that excels at slowly and soberly building tension and character (note how the wedded dialogue becomes lengthier as the film unreels), however, in order to reflect realistic independent engagement, a simplified upright form harmoniously working with diverse mature content, lessening its multilateral impact to focus its robust character.

Too many distractions may have spoiled it.

Light yet hard and penetrating, it humbly captures aspects of resistance that many more complicated narratives fail to realize.

Sincere.

The Founder

The idea was to make a lot of money.

A lot of money.

He'd been at it for decades and had secured a modest living but still sought that vast immaculate neverending revenue stream, a potentially permanent enriching strike to help him bask in abundance and stretch-out bemused, selling milkshake machines meanwhile as he drifted thoughtfully from state to state, never ceasing even in decade number 6, nimble and agile, eyes open wide.

Catatonics.

Suddenly it was right there in front of him, the idea, the market, a tantalizing prospect replete with multidimensional opportunities for everyone involved, but his shortsighted eventual partners lacked his commercially expansionist vision, clutching their original take too tightly with static dismissive unshakeable vanilla.

Dubious discrediting. 

If Ray Kroc (Michael Keaton) was about to go national and create wealth for sundry individuals seeking greener pastures it made sense that he couldn't be shackled by ideas which crushed his bottom line.

Turmoil.

John Lee Hancock's The Founder asks whether or not he was a warm generous individual intent on seeing others prosper or a cold calculating self-obsessed insatiable prick.

I would argue that he tried to work within the codes established by partners Dick (Nick Offerman) and Mac MacDonald (John Carroll Lynch) but as his impact on the business gradually transformed it from burger joint into national sensation, he slowly gained more clout, which enabled him to wisely challenge the principles of his hastily signed contract.

Dick and Mac did nothing to expand the business and consistently blocked reasonable attempts to increase revenues not just for themselves, but for the hundreds of people who worked for Kroc's franchises.

According to the film, Kroc was finding jobs for earnest people looking for a break and as McDonald's expanded from one location to dozens nationwide new ideas were bound to challenge the design of the original concept.

But Dick and Mac didn't support Kroc, at all, they couldn't grasp this aspect of the business, and he in fact chose the good of the many as opposed to the few, and therefore wasn't being monstrous when he hostilely took over.

Still, always take the 1%.

His analysis of the name McDonald's within the film adds a cerebral characteristic to a chain whose intellectual merits are not often highly regarded.

Ensuring that the animals who are eventually sold at McDonald's restaurants live comfortable lives beforehand and that hard-working employees are capable of earning enough income to support themselves does make a big difference to me as an occasional client, however, even if it means less profits.

McDonald's has taken steps to clean-up its supply chain in recent years, a potential reality which is quite impressive.

During a crazy 60 hour work week two years ago, I even stopped in for lunch and spent 20 dollars. 

That's a lot of McDonald's.

It may have been awesome.

Apart from all this, the film's good too, an accessible thought-provoking examination of a phenomenon I loved in my youth, which held my attention the whole way through thanks to its strong argumentative character driven paralysis. 

McSolid.

Driven, direct, frank, and bold, it never rests on its laurels, cleverly introduces new characters, and breaks things down with energetic distinction.

Make those burgers more healthy.

And it's crazy win win. 

Christine

Pressurized self-motivation, dedicated drive, ambient adrenaline, Queen of the hive, a game changing carnal recalibration generating sensational scoops frustrates ethically inclined televisual journalist Christine Chubbuck (Rebecca Hall) as she eagerly seeks a new position in Baltimore, but Sarasota, Florida, lacks the raucous remonstrances more rigidly regaled in urban playgrounds, so she must exotically elucidate paltry empirical sums.

Without losing her soul.

But even when attempting to asininely unravel, she still showcases alternative angles, which intelligently promote distinguished depth, yet can't spin and stoke the sought after sleaze.

Interrogatively.

Tragic.

Forlorn and suppressing.

In any decade.

A principled well-rounded bipolar session, Antonio Campos's Christine juxtaposes the innocent with the expedient to maximize discontent.

Patiently waiting for years for the chance to broadcast intellectually, a perfect candidate for 60 Minutes or W5, perhaps, The Nature of Things, Christine can't slow down and has trouble playing ball if she's not constantly making game winning plays while also refereeing stark nubile antics.

More of an author than a reporter, she can't dish out the basest instincts, play on the team, and wants the chance to nationally unwind, but can't sludge her way through the grotesque steamy privilege.

Give a little, get a little, but even when she gives it's not what they've got, not what they want, sincere stupidity, she cannot fake it.

The film's full of strong characters who are each given plenty of screentime to express their opposing viewpoints.

It's not as focused on Christine as the title suggests, her manager Michael (Tracy Letts) clearly sharing his contradictory ideas, occasionally using locker room terms that specialists may find offensive.

You get used to it.

I even listen when people say, "that's sick," these days.

Christine obviously can't work within small boxes and would have excelled if she'd established herself in broadly disseminated artistic journals or art house films.

At the same time, she had an audience, an adoring audience, which unfortunately wasn't enough.

The film's set in the '70s, production design by Scott Kuzio, long before YouTube and the net, and even if the ending should be taken out of context, according to thoughts I've heard shared by prominent journalists recently, it's still a shame she couldn't handle losing, couldn't double down and diversify.

Bluntly speaking.

It drags a bit.

The Nice Guys

I'm thinking there was a time when you wouldn't write a script where teenagers attend parties hosted by the porn industry and wind up having sexually explicit conversations while innocently searching for clues.

It's so daring . . . the novelty . . .

Maybe not.

I've never seen anything like this before anyways, presented like you're ordering a coffee or making a dinner reservation, just kind of chucked in there, like Bukowski got hold of Dora the Explorer and decided to attach mismatched detectives.

A United States Department of Justice official (Kim Basinger as Judith Kutner) wants to cause trouble for the porn industry so her daughter defiantly stars in an adult film.

Mom then hires thugs to kill her.

Prurient pageantry?

Not without my freedom!

I shouldn't critique a film solely because of its inappropriate salacious propensities, I guess, trying to play ball here, but The Nice Guys does flop consistently throughout, beginning slowly, never really generating any momentum, and then falling far short of a thrilling climax.

There's no chemistry between Russell Crowe (Jackson Healy) and Ryan Gosling (Holland March) who struggle to enliven the gravelly script and appear quite awkward in their attempts to do so.

They look for Kutner's daughter (Margaret Qualley as Amelia) and occasionally exploit some insightful sleuthing, but it's blind luck that obliviously moves everything forward and makes the film seem cheap and easy.

Healy's marriage is also introduced as a theme and then forgotten.

No one stands out besides March's daughter (Angourie Rice as Holly) and after seeing how the film uses her character you feel disgusted even mentioning that she's part of the film.

But if you like staggered not-so-well-thought-out jokes and critiques of ethical engagements which champion porno you may like the The Nice Guys notwithstanding.

How did Keith David (Older Guy) end up in this?

Wrenching.

Hell or High Water

Economic perfidy harvests Grapes of Wrath in David Mackenzie's Hell or High Water, a strikingly cold yet tender look at Texan socioeconomics.

Enchiladas.

Like films that portray Mexico as something other than a violent haven for international drug trafficking, Hell or High Water presents an alternative Texan portrait that cuts through stereotypes and humanistically offers a compelling down-to-earth confrontation.

It could have been a typical cops and robbers stomp but as brothers Toby (Chris Pine) and Tanner Howard (Ben Foster) hold-up banks for small untraceable sums to pay off a scandalous debt, and lawpersons Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges) and Alberto Parker (Gil Birmingham) track them, the situations both pairs face add vital brazen relatable characteristics, multilaterally bustin' through the line, with non-negotiable cranked ethical consequences.

The awestrike.

Comanche.

What don't you want?

Inflamed ranching.

Don't rob a goddamn bank in our town.

The brothers forge a classic younger introverted older extroverted tandem, the introvert planning their activities, the extro ensuring they're executed.

Law and order is applied by a traditional pairing as well, the more experienced wiser officer consistently outwitting his go-getting partner, but Alberto is Aboriginal and has several thoughtful points to eventually shoot back regarding the ironic Indigenous state of impoverished regular Joe Americans.

Their relationship investigates the controversial nature of racist remarks exchanged between friendly co-workers.

Marcus consistently makes light of Alberto's Aboriginal heritage, and you can see that Alberto's pissed, but as time passes you also see that Marcus genuinely cares for him, especially when he starts to fight back, that Marcus isn't a heartless crude bigot, rather, he's an intelligent man who just expresses himself callously from time to time to controversially yet shortsightedly lighten the mood.

It's off-the-record professional reality.

Marcus insults Alberto because he doesn't fight back to get him to fight back because they live in a culture where many exchange insults rather than pleasantries without frequently chaotically bloodbathing (fighting back with superiors can still often lead to penalties if they can dish it but can't take it).

There's working to change cultural codes, and having to deal with them in order to eventually change them.

If you can't get into a position of authority where you have the power to instigate such changes by example, and if the people currently occupying such positions ain't changin' jackfuck, nothing's going to change, you have to frustratingly deal at points, or wait for them to die, even if it's conscientiously revolting.

Remember the distinction in the film though, Marcus is highly intelligent, does care, and is friends with Alberto.

He's not establishing death camps or refusing to hire specific ethnicities or races.

When racist or ethnocentric remarks are uttered they do often come from a spiteful place, and telling the difference between a Marcus and a Hitler isn't always so easy to do.

Hell or High Water isn't as cheesy as all this, it's wild and bold and bitchin' and swift, blustering as it caresses, surgically diagnosing endemic cultural ailments.

It's like an affluent way of life disappeared and was replaced with sweet fuck all.

Toby still lays low in the end after giving his kids the miraculous golden ticket.

Self-sacrificing.

May have been hasty in writing that Hell or High Water cuts through Texan stereotypes.

Perhaps stating that it takes those stereotypes and situates them within concrete contexts to narratively theorize why they exist and where they come from makes more sense.

Envisioned facts, fictional justification.

Honesty.

Excellent film.

Cinematographer Giles Nuttgens has an eye for natural beauty.

Deep.

Café Society

Maybe, some more thought could have been put into Café Society.

Perhaps Woody Allen should take some time off, regroup, refresh, relax, recalibrate.

It's possibly a classic exemplar of hubris, of a feeling of invincibility.

You can tell the script is shrewdly written with a diverse variety of characters set up in micro and macro familial oppositions, but it's still sort of superficial, depth is lacking, like reputation rather than intellect is guiding each energetic expression.

The script is more like a first draft than a polished masterpiece.

The elements that might have been transformed into something Oscar worthy are there but it's like Allen forgot to spruce things up, so that rather than vigorously devouring a hearty multidimensional thought provoking eccentricity, parts of his audience are stuck with the stock, and remain famished as the closing credits role.

I think he liked writing this one.

The characters don't really develop apart from Bobby (Jesse Eisenberg) and just predictably interact with one another blandly as the film prattles on.

Casting off hubris to enlighten modesty which slowly and painfully crystallizes as the barrage of counterarguments inquisitively adjudicate checks such tendencies.

Or not, maybe he's just on a bit of a losing streak, he has made 46 films, they can't all be Annie Hall or Midnight in Paris.

Some of them are bound to be not so great.

Although, ahem!, In Search of Lost Time rarely errs, Proust having possessed that inextinguishable everlasting implausibility that hardly ever accepted anything less than pure genius, and he proceeded the entire time as if he was a witless fool.

Wes Anderson?

Alejandro González Iñárritu?

Solid cinematography (Vittorio Storaro) and Kristen Stewart (Vonnie) impresses.

The narration could have been left out or seriously cut back.

The music's too Woody Allen.

It's worse the second time.

Who am I to critique Woody Allen?, doubt I could consistently come up with wonderful films year after year, decade after decade, 46 of them so far, that's freakin' nutso.

I fast incarcerated.

Neighbours 2: Sorority Rising

Ambience.

New beginnings.

The Radner family continues to shed light on erroneous child rearing trials, practices, reflexively adapting to unpredictable circumstances with cohesive charm and salacious whimsy.

But another flock of rambunctious young adults is intent on wantonly expressing themselves next door, a blossoming sorority playing by their own rules to un/consciously break new emancipatory ground, unconcerned with the fact that Mac (Seth Rogen) and Kelly (Rose Byrne) are trying to sell their home, convivially coached by arch rival Teddy Sanders (Zac Efron).

Who's let go shortly thereafter.

Conflicted and forlorn, finding solace on the opposing team.

The result is a rushed collection of combative criticisms, relationship constructs, implausible rationalizations, and bold active dreams, dreams clashing as they seek definitive realization, the film heavy on good intentions, light on aerobic integrations.

Sloppy sequel.

On the one hand, there's a progressive element which depicts young women trying to succeed by asserting themselves using non-traditional means (that's cool), unfortunately relying on a man to start things up, on the other there's the typical sophomoric approach that utilizes tried and true marketable probabilities to sell the film, although sex isn't one of the main selling points.

The opposition doesn't blend well.

Like reading the newspaper on the toilet, Neighbours 2: Sorority Rising doesn't really progress even if moving forward's built into the narrative and it never slows down to encourage reflection, conflicting lifestyles producing some laughs, but still lacking the lubricants that irritably fuelled the original.

Even if it's a carbon copy.

Efron steals the show.