Gypsy 83

Bucolic fashions habitually annoy Gypsy Vale as she randomly fluctuates, moving more style to quip to inspiration as concrete dissonance mundanely obscures.

Her friend Clive offers flamboyant accompaniment as they shoot videos and intuitively experiment, their cohesive bond actively facilitating insouciant fun and alternative brokerage. 

One day they learn of an upcoming talent show to be exotically held in New York City, where they've unfortunately never been but would love to energetically check out.

Gypsy's mom couldn't handle the 'burbs and reluctantly moved there years ago, Gypsy hoping to somehow reestablish contact during the voyage although she's still rather angry.

Their road trip adventure spontaneously begins and they soon find themselves travelling state to state, with improvised stops and inconclusive reckonings emergently enabling freeform postures. 

Their keen choice of clothes and elaborate makeup lead to complications as they flourish.

In a world inarticulately composed.

Foolishly observed with dismissive resonance (they run into a lot of flack). 

Good vibes and genuine friendship impressionably motivate in Gypsy 83, as creative sincere individuals find expression through play and fantasy.

Although woe does abound and wherever they go criticisms arise, their inevitable championing of the blasé reverberates dependable amicable rhythms. 

Even amongst their fellow misfits dispiriting vitriol enervatingly erupts, the critical world fraught with intense snobbery which is often more destructive than lowbrow ignorance. 

The Amish hitchhiker adds some flare as they enthusiastically drive along, with complications eventually devastating the inaugural window harmless and playful.

So irritating that so much sadness has to consistently be resiliently overcome, a less vituperative cultural consensus open-mindedly applied leading to less bitterness.

An active life helps the criticisms fade while tenderly engaged in novel exploration.

Tough to believe in a country as dynamic as the U.S.

There aren't more than a handful of chill cities to live in.

Excluding contemporary times. 

*Criterion keyword: lounge.

The Cobbler

The honest excelling hardworking days routinely passing without deviation, vital know-how and requisite skill generating consistent reliable business.

A modest son taking care of the fam after the sudden disappearance of his father, mom resigned yet persistently hopeful that one startling day he'll lovingly return.

The old school neighbourhood traditional and lively characteristically existing as it has for many years, local citizens daring and politically active in the stalwart fight against gentrification.

Things proceed the days pass by difference is found in random conversations, with a wide variety of inquisitive clients who on occasion discuss things at length.

Their shoes as well the various designs some intricate fashions or dependable customs, so many lying about in his shop at the somewhat dull end of a typical day.

Until one day his sewing machine rebelliously decides to stubbornly break down.

Leading him to use an old model from the basement.

With wild unknown imaginary features. 

It's a bit far-fetched this world weary Cobbler although it's still well-suited to the heroic times, not as flashy or bedazzling as Marvel or D.C but so much more appealing in the gentle undertow. 

The protagonist isn't a crazy rich genius with unlimited resources at his or her disposal, nor a gifted scientist creatively experimenting with research grants which lavishly facilitate, he's rather a regular humble Joe who genuinely cares about work and family, and even comes around to loving his neighbourhood and his shop's old school place ensconced within it.

He is uncertain as to how to proceed after accidentally discovering the miraculous tool, and engages in spirited trial and error with comic results before taking things seriously.

Indeed he cleverly takes the unsung side of an elderly resident who wants to keep his apartment, and is able to strategically embrace multi-step planning in complex resilient underground economics.

It's cool to see the little guy stand up and industriously help out the people in his community.

It's more organic, not a $60 dollar cheque.

Strong local initiatives. 

Beyond oligarch power.

Ghostbusters: Afterlife

A family struggles financially and is forced to suddenly relocate, an estranged relative having recently passed but not without having left them his eccentric land.

They make the chaotic move and soon must adjust to small town life, the teenagers somewhat grouchy at first until serendipity inspires motivation.

Curiosity inquisitively roams and there's an abundance of toys on the farm, some of them socioculturally familiar in terms of old school narrative phenoms. 

Mom soon finds herself amorously pursued by her daughter's lackadaisical comic teacher, while her son looks for work at a diner with the happenstance hopes of dating the waitress.

Meanwhile, ye olde particle-accelerator is awkwardly discovered in a secret chamber, and ghosts are spotted nearby who require electronic sequesterization. 

They take the old ghostbuster mobile for a reanimated spin around the sleepy town, leaving quite the mischievous mess as they chase the frenzied febrile phantom.

They have a certain knack for ghostbusting even if trouble ensues enthusiastically however.

Being Egon Spengler's grandchildren!

Without having lost the archaic touch.

I have to admit, this style of filmmaking seemed endearingly familiar, and I found myself wanting to watch the film in one go instead of splitting it up into 2 nights.

It was like that old Ghostbusters magic had been rediscovered by the next generation, and although I don't really recommend making sequels decades later, this one worked well, intergenerationally speaking (still hoping for another with the all female cast). 

Of course ghostbusting can't stray from the horrors of cynical dismissive trajectories, the public school an unfortunate gong show, with no genuine leadership, it was tough to watch (they have good public schools in Canada and Québec [higher taxes]).

And dispiriting, I know it's just a comedy film that makes light of serious realities, and that systemic critiques are wincingly welcome to avoid too much hyper-reactive self-obsession, but teaching is an incredibly difficult job as I've mentioned before several times, another layer of obtuse scrutiny only adds to the associated difficulties (YouTube is making it impossible to get through to some kids). 

I like to watch both comedies and dramas so the uptight cynicism never sets in, instead the tragedy associated with progressive endeavours becomes much more sublime and worthwhile correspondingly.

I think for a lot of people it's generally one or the other however.

Don't sell yourself short, take the well-rounded approach.

Take another look around at what we've achieved. 

The Island of Dr. Moreau

Lost, adrift, on the vast imposing interminable Pacific, rage erupting, thirst infuriating, until rescue emerges, with aloof repose. 

Douglas is taken to an isolated island where he's given time to rest and recuperate, still taken aback when he distressingly notices, that his room's been tightly locked down.

Not one to embrace incoherency, he soon picks the inordinate lock, and begins spying on the strange inhabitants as they experimentally express themselves. 

But lo and cross-breedingly behold, he's rather shocked to invariably find, that the secluded scientists working on the island, have created a colony of industrious mutants.

He tries to expediently escape but finds himself cut off from aquatic crafts, then chaotically immersed in a self-contained world presided over by a distant demagogue. 

It turns out he's applied his genius to the novel creation of a forbidden realm, wherein which beasts must cast off their ways and politely live like civilized humans. 

Unfortunately, order is upheld through the authoritarian dissemination of pain, each hybrid animal arrhythmically attached to a remote control which punishes disobedience. 

For most of the modest citizens the rules aren't particularly hard to follow.

But some question Moreau's civility.

And covet his daunting absolute impetus. 

Ah the perfect world idealistically enrapturing innate truth and justice, perhaps even flourishing here and there at times before newfound tensions and jealousies disrupt things. 

A logical world delectably defining codes of conduct and cerebral sentiments, through which harmony and balance are perennially restored through the judicious elevation of enlivening discipline. 

Alas, illustrious logic and reified reasonability don't prosper unchallenged, and the people lacking control of the spirited unity seek the recodification of the rules and regulations. 

Often trying to make a complicated system too simple (politics), or a simple system too complicated (commerce), while prohibiting the attainment of bountiful resources, the accumulation of which would pacify many.

But not all, the desire for power madly drives the overly ambitious to fits of frenzy.

Moreau's island destroyed and reconstructed every day.

Ingenious creation.

Dispersed manifold.

Spiderhead

The pursuit of manufactured obedience follows the pharmaceutical path, as Spiderhead's solo unattached dismal warden despotically pursues reckless inactivity. 

Unsupervised with serious responsibility he develops several potential new drugs, and tests them on his prison's inmates every decision he makes of his own free will.

Fret not concerned enthused viewer, he wants to keep things friendly and fun, and even strikes up acquaintances with his test subjects while becoming addicted to the drugs himself.

They're far off so far away inimically isolated from spirited criticism, idyllic mad spontaneous digressions only provocatively questioned by one rogue assistant. 

Seeking to make billions on joy and happiness not to mention free form conversation, he still can't dishonour discreet somnambulism with soporific sequestered sedulity. 

Problem: to make sure the obedience drug works he needs to challenge ethical parameters, and see if people will do horrifying things simply because they've been recommended.

Thus, he convinces a test subject to administer his "paranoia" drug to another, but "paranoia" isn't really the right word, it rather encourages excessive terror. 

The subject's driven to suicide after the dose is accidentally augmented. 

But genuine guilt indeed manifests.

With the mass megalomania in jeopardy. 

Here we go again with the pursuit of hegemony unilaterally applied, attempting to accomplish sadistic ends to alarmingly overwhelm free choice and expression.

Odd how so many people spend so much time consuming arts and entertainment, while also cutting down creative synergies, the 1970s and David Bowie were miracles.

The irony let loose in Spiderhead is that independence itself seeks mindless automatons, who'll listen and follow the guidance of whomever no matter what the proactive cost.

Like the dreamy demagogue preaching equality who locks everything down after the revolution, Abnesti proceeds to definitively ensure no one else like him will ever co-exist. 

As others have likely suggested, is it not better to mal/adroitly attune, independent instincts to constructive endeavours to promote diversity and innovation?

Without such inherent expression does decay not metastasize with fetid impersonality, and prevent the development of sundry alternatives from multivariably delineating enchanted metamorphosis? 

Never stop writing poems just because you're convinced someone else is better. 

Keep writing absurdity ad infinitum. 

Who cares if no one else is interested?

Captain America

The President of the United States plans to ecologically prognosticate, by organizing a conference with manifold countries with the goal of banning single use plastics.

But sinister disputative rivals seek the consistency of the status quo, and plan to secretly abduct him and create a surrogate they can control.

Unfortunately, conference security lacks resolute stalwart efficacy, and their plan works with unencumbered ease, U.S. security forces unable to find him thereinafter, the world not erupting with chaotic bewilderment. 

As chance would have it, around the same time, Captain America (Matt Salinger) is found frozen in ice, from which he escapes as it's encouraged to thaw, and then departs for Northern Canada.

50 years have past since he directly challenged Nazi scum, the world having changed remarkably in the democratic intervening years.

He heads out to visit his former love interest who waited for over a decade for him to return, but eventually settled and had a family embracing traditional communal concerns.

The same forces seeking to replace the President with their own despotic pestiferous double, soon find her trusted location and bellicosely proceed to express discontent.

Captain America must avenge them and save the President simultaneously.

Even if he doesn't know his way around (the globe).

And has no vast multivariable network.

It's sad to historically note that many sought the ban of single use plastics long ago, and while we've managed to ban such bags in Canada and Québec, the colossal profusion of said receptacles still abounds.

This old school Captain America rapscallionly radiates coruscating camp, with an heuristic experimental impetus diagnostically deconstructed with improvised invention.

Pioneering nevertheless the same general schematics alternatively applied, something to see for devoted fans which led to multiple meritorious mutations in the narrative.

It's a lot of fun to watch if you like camp with proactive nerve.

Co-starring ye olde Ned Beatty (Sam Kolawetz).

The fantastic blueprints.

In primordial form.

Ski Patrol

A dependable crew gathers once more with the intent of facilitating safety, thoroughly concerned with bucolic camaraderie and old school resilient friendship.

Their trusty leaders are full of welcome as the new sought after season begins, the team strengthening its agile bonds with animate allied airtight adaptations. 

But trouble is brewing upon the slopes as crookedly conjured within the town, a local magnate hoping to acquire the resort's lease from the park authority.

Loveable Pops (Ray Walston) has managed the summits for decades with bold reliability, ship shape and tried and true yet still supportive of unorthodox thinking.

Mr. Maris (Martin Mull) indeed thinks he's soft because he gets along well with his staff, and mistakes trustworthy understanding for misguided glib incompetence. 

He convinces a local ski pro to cruelly engage in duplicitous sabotage, and he scandalously sets about ensuring equipment will no longer function.

Law enforcement is there to note when haywire happenstance hawks holistic, disquietingly keeping swooping track of each maladroit infraction. 

Things look grim distress piles up laidback cohesion flexed in jeopardy.

But age-old time-honoured testaments still transact with tactile turbulence. 

But such a synopsis perhaps exaggerates Ski Patrol's dire inherent conflict, without promoting the rambunctious antics festively erupting with carefree vigour.

The film may contain macromachinations which frenetically fuel financial frolics, but you can also count on extensive celebration un/ceremoniously accumulating.

Every 15 minutes or so an inspired fresh salute to improvisation, passionately serenades le joie de vivre with acrobatic lithe ir/relevancy. 

Never spent too much time myself engaged in alpine amusements, on skis in the winter anyways, didn't really start embracing winter again until recently.

But you get so much more out of the year if you remain active in January through March, and there's still so much to do, if you dress warmly, and come prepared.

It's really amazing what so many athletes get up to in the wintertime, suppose I'm more into snowshoes myself, but wow, the Winter Olympics impress.

As does ye olde Ski Patrol at times with its lack of pretension and freeflowing humour.

Liberating to be shenanigan prone.

When the world isn't so strict and serious. 

Bride of Frankenstein

People continue to misunderstand Frankenstein's (Boris Karloff) harmless peaceful ambitions, and set out to thoroughly destroy him with distraught malevolent intent.

He's somewhat confused by the grandiose distress and realizes he must avoid the village, hiding out in the surrounding forest where he longs for inclusivity. 

Life's life and who's to challenge what lives if it co-exists with equanimity, securing an active balanced role within Earth's multidimensional nexus.

Frankenstein understands this and strives to harmoniously make friends, but fear and aesthetic prejudice lead to inhospitable conflict.

Meanwhile, another scientist takes wholesome pity on the troubled lad (Ernest Thesiger as Dr. Pretorius), and theorizes that traditional heteronormative constructs may lead to acculturation.

He enlists the reluctant aid of Frankenstein's industrious forefather (Colin Clive as Henry Frankenstein), and sets about creating a mate to appease tumultuous chaotic bearings.

Frankenstein seems somewhat relieved by the altruistic acclamation, having only known disarray since having been shockingly brought to life.

But there's no telling what will happen if the experiment's a success.

Conjugal communal courtly cohesion.

But what if she rejects him?

Few sequels disproportionately proceed with such ineffable progressive momentum, enticingly accelerating with riveting resonance immaculately distilled otherworldly genesis.

Few horror films possess such paramount cultural inoculations, as instinctual bellicose folly is disemboweled with airtight empathy.

The classic scenes where Frankenstein meets the visually impaired violinist living alone in the woods, modest heartfelt honest exemplars of innocent curious tame compassion.

The inspired unchecked ebullience emphatically exclaimed through experimentation, as both doctors philosophically articulate bold corporeal determinations.

Will a future filled with androids be relatively harmless as Picard hopes, or will The Terminator's prophetic bedlam come to calamitously pass?

Does the answer lie within this daring tragic Bride of Frankenstein?

Can animate life for mercy's sake . . .

Also apply to friendly robots?

Thunder Force

The preponderance of superheroic heuristics imaginatively captivating multigenerational audiences, has perhaps left the less scholastically oriented behind in its cultivation of characteristic exception, not to critique the academically inclined, such ambitions are no doubt admirable and praiseworthy, and they'd just cause an uproar every day if there weren't brainy jobs out there awaiting them (love my jobs!), driving people crazy at Wendy's or the Gap, as they struggle within practical boundaries, but a democracy is not solely inhabited by studious ambitions alone, and hands-on tacticians deserve more representation in intergalactic narratives, like representatives from the workforce sitting on executive boards, in order to avoid a surfeit of theoretical impracticality (I am not indirectly critiquing the Liberal's most recent generous beneficial budget which I imagine they made in consultation with their grassroots). 

Captain America has played such a role well in many a Marvel film, his humble origins a sharp contrast to Thor or Tony Stark's, but he still lacks the contentious unconcern humorously invigorated by Thunder Force's Lydia Berman (Melissa McCarthy), who's nimble burger & fries lack of pretension leads to endearing syntheses of experimental know-how.

She's teamed up with a brilliant researcher whose parents were murdered by miscreants, the immodest destructive sociopaths who were mutated and given superpowers by cosmic radiation. 

Emily Stanton (Octavia Spencer) has devoted her life to stopping them by trying to find a way to give superpowers to anyone, through experimental research, childhood friend Lydia accidentally interrupting her experiment on the eve of their high school reunion, taking the transformative medication herself.

Once started the process can't be halted without ruining years of dedicated research, a lengthy arduous treatment program ensuing complete with intricate training exercises. 

Lydia is given super strength while Ms. Stanton uploads invisibility, the two eventually heading to the streets to fight crime, where they swiftly encounter the Crab (Jason Bateman). 

He works for the would be mayor who's currently running a duplicitous campaign (Bobby Cannavale), an authoritative miscreant himself who's promising to emphatically thwart them.

Melissa McCarthy brings raw uncompromised grit and tenacity to the superheroic domain, providing wild unscripted alternative impulse to prescribed elitist reckoning.

Like freelance writers doing their own thing or independent filmmakers authentically crafting, Lydia pursues justice with democratic intrigue while coming to terms with her unexpected powers.

There are a lot of funny moments and a memorable date night with McCarthy and Bateman, an extended scene that goes beyond so many neat and tidy encounters ("This is a trigger environment for me" 😂).

As for creating super soldiers I'll never forget Jacob's Ladder, or that episode of The X-Files, or pesky Khan or steroids in general.

Isn't eliminating poverty preferable to creating genetically enhanced warriors?

Doesn't a multidisciplinary sustainable economy also fight poverty and boredom?

Onward

I hope everyone's safe during these stressful times. I'll probably be focusing on movie rentals for the next couple of weeks but I did see a couple of films before things intensified.

Pixar's Onward presents a world wherein which fantasy has been replaced by modern convenience, elves and unicorns and cyclopses living suburban domestic lives, the thrill of questing overwhelmed by scientific adaptation, latent strengths subconsciously shimmering, unplanned adventure accounted for otherwise.

Two brothers playfully reckon within the alternative conception, one shy and focused on school, the other wild and reckless and daring.

Their mom (Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Laurel Lightfoot) has boldly raised them alone, since shortly after the birth of her second son, but she's found a new partner who helps out (Mel Rodriguez as Colt Bronco), the two forging a caretaking fluency.

Which is suddenly tested and challenged on Ian Lightfoot's (Tom Holland) 16th birthday, after he receives a gift left to him by his generous dad, a staff no less of wizarding renown, complete with a spell channelling reincarnation.

The elder Barley (Chris Pratt) seeks to wield its resiliency, for he's in touch with bygone days of yore, but he lacks verified authenticity, his spirit still ye olde die hard.

He's impressed when Ian the younger accidentally generates vision, but his sights fall short of reanimate goals, a quest necessitated sparked thereafter, the two departing with accents fateful.

And to hasten their destined good fortune, old school clues still commercially abound, a path purposefully and piquantly pinpointed, through cloaked coaxing postmodern realms.

Not this blog.

A puzzle at a Manticore's (Octavia Spencer) family restaurant.

The Manticore soon following in hot pursuit.

Accompanied by one concerned mom.

An imaginative synthesis of disparate epochs awaits in Onward's fraternal reels, as uncertain raw ambitions clash with preplanned determinate yields.

Reminiscent of long lost considerations concerning the cost of extant classics, their prices incongruously reflecting their contents, their value oft overlooked, disregarded.

Yet these classics still hold precious astral ascensions beheld by generations long passed, their texts emitting contemporary resonance distilled like essential tranquility.

Onward perhaps doesn't reach such a level but it still reverberates with atemporal antiquity, focused on vigorous concentrate, bizarro bewitching indiscretions.

Perhaps something's been lost in recent centuries as technology's progressed exponentially, as appliances ease once ubiquitous burdens, as knowledge globally and internationally expands.

But you can still find that primordial spirit should you have the will to seek it, as simple as a trip to Parc Jean-Drapeau, or restaurants chosen at random.

There are many ways to fill your life with unfiltered excitement, classic art, walks in the woods, and good food just the tip of the iceberg.

But we've more or less lost some ways that used to be quite destructive too, such as global conflict and fast spreading diseases.

So remember to proceed with caution.

In case you don't like what you find.

I'm looking at you coronavirus.

I support strong measures to prevent it from spreading.

The medical personnel who have to fight it are risking their lives.

Ford v Ferrari

I could never get into car racing.

No matter what the track.

I watched a car race once one afternoon when I was 10 years old or so, while two brothers started brawling for some reason, and after 5 minutes or so it generally lost its appeal, I'm afraid I never had the desire to watch one again, cold storage, dusted away.

I like films however, so if a film about car racing is nominated for best picture at the Oscars I figured there must be something to it, something that transcends the actual racing itself, and perhaps highlights a point or two I never would have taken into account if I hadn't seen it, although I did respect car racing meanwhile, it's just something I could never get into.

Into watching.

It sounds fun, like it'd be something fun to do, not watch.

The film does a great job of demonstrating how much thought goes into winning such races, the coveted expertise possessed by precious few aficionados, who take the time to actively pursue their passion without thinking much about reward, the love of the game drives them, and it's impressive how much they know.

Honestly, seeing a company that was as big as Ford at the time take on a much smaller company that was going out of business (Ferrari) didn't appeal to me much, it's like the company that already has everything backed up by unlimited resources competing against a devout artist, who's passionately spent everything in the pursuit of something breathtaking and unique.

It's super American.

I didn't care for that aspect of the story much, but since Ford had the reputation for making less specialized cars and wanted to prove they could do something unique, I appreciated the improbability of the challenge, which would have seemed more profound without the wealth.

The incredible wealth.

But the team Ford assembles isn't rich, it's composed of hands on struggling independent artists who thoroughly understand their craft, and the film excels as they bat heads with bland executives, whose knowledge is much more concerned with spectacle (they think more about what to do if they've won as opposed to how to actually go about winning).

For some domains, a large bureaucracy functions well, ensuring the delivery of various services for vastly different markets, the inherent intricacies and size of which require multiple levels of thought, positions occupied by workers familiar with the terrain, and the flexibility to calmly deal with manifold contingencies.

If you're trying to win a race, however, if you're doing something highly specific for an individualistic set of circumstances, and there aren't multiple levels of thought, there are just a couple of highly skilled professionals who have the knowledge to get the job done, who in fact know what they're doing, and are making the most relevant observations, like Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon) and Ken Miles (Christian Bale) in Ford v Ferrari, then, as Carroll and Ken mention in the film, the bureaucracy can get in the way, and make simple decisions that need to be made absurdly complex, the absurd complexities making the practical goal unachievable, keep it simple, keep it practical and hands on.

If you want to do something bureaucracy can be frustrating because you have to wait so long for approval to do the simplest things.

Not so much in politics where it's important to think about the impacts of what you're doing.

But if you like the bureaucratic ebb and flow, I suppose the argument itself is somewhat compelling.

The film is somewhat direct and easy to follow, no nonsense is the phrase writers employ in writing such a narrative I imagine, everything has a traditional relevant point, and it presents a thoughtful situation full of risk, trial, error, reward.

It's the kind of light film pretending to be tough that makes a positive impact, if you don't think about it too much, if you just sit back and take it in.

It would have been cool if the impact the experimental nature of race car driving makes on domestic automobile manufacture had been briefly explored.

And it hadn't been so massive, so Goliath.

A generalized examination of a complex phenomenon.

Nice to see Jon Bernthal (Lee Iacocca) with a larger role.

Under the Silver Lake

Bored, drifting, idle, amenable, overwhelmed by absolutely nothing, sought after and welcome everywhere, not awkward or creepy or uptight or dismissive, never really sayin' much, never that sure of what you mean or are trying to say, searching for something without knowledge or method yet providing fresh insights into that which you seek, no matter what you try, no matter where you go, the subject of your investigation closely tied to what you've been watching on tv, your favourite video games, the women who love you, your raw unfiltered instinct, solutions to random conspiracy theories discovered along the way, carefree choice deterministically diagnosed, skunk stink bears no repercussions, as if you are, undeniably, L.A's stablest, most heroic bro.

You have everything you need without working.

You're desired everywhere.

You achieve your goals without thinking.

No matter what, you succeed.

Your goals aren't lofty, you're just looking for the blonde who used to swim in your apartment's pool before she suddenly disappeared, but intertwined with your humble slightly pervy objectives are those sought by men and women throughout human history, as if you've accidentally substantialized grasped sociohistorical meaninglessness.

In unsung purest Dada.

It's like you're in a library and you randomly choose different books from diverse sections to prove a thesis you didn't know existed prior to waking up hungover.

Like every innuendo you ever speculated upon bore cohesive communal fruit which was as succulent as it was crowd pleasing.

Like you were at the centre of manifold concentric circles the alignment of which generated personalized interstellar phenomenon harnessed inclusively, just for you.

The kind of narrative which demands its director includes his or her middle name.

Random synergies chaotically cultivated ask, "what's Under the Silver Lake?", in David Robert Mitchell's latest film.

It's film noiry.

It's coming of age.

It's David Lynchy.

It's a bit nutso.

Still, if you're wondering if you can fall for another hapless protagonist who accomplishes much more during his miraculous quest than his ends ever intended, you'll likely enjoy it as much as I did, indubitably, by all means.

Essential undergrad viewing.

Well suited to late August.

The Darkest Hour

A routine business trip to Moscow to sell software which knows how to party, itself fraught with duplicitous peril, is intergalactically interrupted in Chris Gorak's The Darkest Hour, as colonialist extraterrestrials electronically invade.

The entire freaking planet.

Gorging themselves on humanity's energy and power, yet invisible to homo sapien eyes, and protected by impenetrable shielding, Earth is globally gutted in a matter of hours, and our heroes thrust back into an unforgiving dark age.

Nevertheless, good fortune enables them to slowly piece together what has incredibly come to pass, as they juke and gesticulate their way from one improvised shelter to another.

Other survivors are encountered along the way, and from what little knowledge they possess as a whole, they're able to slowly strategize, synergize, swerve, and shock, mounting what little resistance they can, as they desperately seek submerged self-sustaining agency.

To bask in extant logic.

Even if there's nowhere to hide.

Allegorical applications of The Darkest Hour vigorously outdistancing the film itself, one wonders about these chaotic representations and what they indeed substantiate?

We know that once there was a will to party.

We know that energy has been ignominiously expropriated.

Those responsible can neither be seen nor detected.

And are in possession of vastly superior technology.

Yet within the underground alternative methods are ingeniously designed to expose the avarice worldwide.

Therefore, it seems that The Darkest Hour, in 2011, lacklustre and threadbare though it may presently be, was claiming that mad übercapitalists in possession of armies and courts of law were fed up with the leisure activities of the frisky masses, and diabolically dictated that their artistic energies would be direly transformed into concrete labour, with Dickensian dismissals and authoritarian shares, the last remnants of the bourgeoisie left to courageously extend the light, as darkness descended, and individuality soullessly evaporated.

Other interpretations might be more apt.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Escalating like a tepid uninspired frantic boil, the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles film never hesitates to nunchaku an identity of its own.

Formulaic without circumventing its conventions, accelerated at the expense of conscious depth, maudlin where it could have been instructive, taking its love of cheese pizza, far, far to far, it's kind of cool if you grew up with the characters, like a sand duned mediocrity, or going to a beach where you can't swim, but its secrets are revealed much too quickly, leaving no room for theories or suppositions, just blatant banal facts.

Perhaps I'm being too hard on the film.

It's obviously made for children under the age of 10.

Like a preparatory film designed to familiarize pre-adolescent audiences with the filmic structures they'll comprehend more elastically as their parents allow them to see films like The Avengers.

But, if I'm not mistaken, this same age group likely saw The Avengers, and were likely therefore prepared in advance for something with more depth, something with more than just a funny elevator scene.

April's (Megan Fox) a strong character, so is Vernon (Will Arnett), their interactions driving the narrative for viewing parents, Vernon's troubles time-honoured and tragic, April's pursuits, dedicated and commendable.

But still, I mean, wouldn't an 8-year-old know that her attempts to sell a tale about humanoid vigilante turtles to her boss without indisputable evidence would quickly be characterized as narcotic induced quackery, even if they're noble in their ingenuous search for the truth?

I suppose they would identify with April as their parents regularly dismiss the truths uncovered during their own sleuthful explorations.

I don't know.

L'Écume des jours (Mood Indigo)

Assembly lines randomly recite a literary legion of improvisationalists who immediately harness their impressions ensemble with the goal of creating a tale of romantic note.

As the awareness of being written gesticulates limitless extraneous sensual amenities suddenly enlighten, becoming subjects of study or being callously yet festively disregarded, foreshadowing the genesis of love's interest.

The amenities coalesce with a practical and ingenious array of irresistible logical displacements whose metaphoric merits urbanely defy any sense of symmetrical cohesion.

What a world, what a world.

A tragic plot does take shape however whose voluminous sorrows, intricately and in/tangibly elaborated upon and refined, bear witness to the indoctrination of the real, whose vice-like grip expedites decay, within.

It's pointless to say that L'Écume des jours (Mood Indigo) should have been more surreal due to its experimental necessarily incoherent design, since its residual plot provides enough relational factors to make its aesthetic accessible, truly as a subject of beauty, and, if I'm not mistaken, Michel Gondry's saying that a minimum layer of consistency and logic enables radical indulgence to support its erratic spontaneity, although the internal despondency was disquieting as the film progressed.

Don't think I'll ever think of indigo again without thinking about this film, or stop searching in vain for a neat pianocktail.

Terraces in the afternoon.

Nothing but time.