Come and See

One of the most blunt traumatic films to ever illustrate Nazi World War II horrors, Elem Klimov's Come and See cacophonously presents sheer total war.

Seen through the eyes of a child who dreams of heroically saving his country, the horrifying effects of what he encounters enough to debilitate the strongest man (or woman).

He's left behind after being recruited since his boots fit an older soldier, so he makes the trip back home only to find his family has been slaughtered.

With another orphan he gradually makes the awkward journey to a secret hideaway, where they team up with humble survivors who are desperately struggling to find food.

He then heads out with some brave citizens to find supplies to ease their hunger, but the older individuals are soon shot down and he's eventually captured by the Nazis.

Who then take the citizens of another town and cruelly lock them in a barn.

Which they proceed to light on fire.

The boy narrowly escaping.

There's a visceral haunting grotesque evil effectively showcased in Come and See, which doesn't shy away from directly depicting the inherent terror of unleashed fascism.

As the monsters who wickedly believe they're the master race destroy and devastate, their sick malevolent point of view is thoroughly disputed and castrated.

The film isn't an exaggeration they murdered and butchered unarmed civilians like this, and sent many of the survivors to death camps where they fruitlessly laboured without end.

Such an ideology motivates psychotics who want to viciously and dismally demonstrate, that the openminded collective free world was unfortunately unable to vanquish hatred (it seemed so plausible before the internet).

And just as the Nazis terrorized the Soviet Union Russia currently attacks Ukraine, the victim so obsessed with its once hopeless position that it despicably embraces the oppressor's logic. 

If you want to see the fascist end game watch Come and See in stoic shock, and look on as people who could have been friends are wildly reduced to pestiferous ruin.

It angers up the blood and leaves one more determined than ever.

To embrace the olive branch. 

And stop such things from happening.

Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald

You hear it often enough, or perhaps read it would be more precise, "no one is bigger than the party," no single woman or man is bigger than the political entity to which they belong, present predicaments, as interminable as they seem, tax ephemeral in relation to its longevity, whose preservation remains crisp and paramount, whose agitations are as speculative as they seem foregone.

It's not that the speculations aren't sound or qualified by alluring probabilities, but multidimensional environments, those multifaceted enough to withstand authoritarian attempts to corral them, constantly change, thereby introducing unforeseen characteristics which can modify projected estimates and tarnish reasonable assumptions, some of them as wicked as Rowling's Grindelwald (Johnny Depp) or as progressive as Bernie Sanders, the point being that unless your jurisdiction lacks variety, your best laid plans may resoundingly fluctuate.

If you can't manage the fluctuation.

Politics isn't an individual branch of Esso or a fast food chain, although I wish it was much more boring again after seeing what it's wildly become.

Grindelwald isn't like most populists.

He's respectful and sympathetic and calm and rational, at least when he first meets someone and goes out of his way to woo them.

He's like the populist who catches more flies with honey, likely because he's grown tired of hiring new staff and training people who may quit anyway.

His song's sweet and humble and unassuming and non-confrontational, and it appeals to many of the upset or lost or downtrodden wizards and witches he meets behind the scenes.

As the first Fantastic Beasts film and the Harry Potter novels point out, he's clearly deluded himself into thinking bureaucratic dysfunction should by divinely remedied, and his remarkable power should be the agent which foments healing, the storm he unleashes at the end of Crimes telling another story, although Rowling doesn't shy away from bluntly critiquing stubborn decisions made by ministries emboldened by systemic pride.

Thus, the derelict and the disaffected find the lure of the populists enticing inasmuch as they promise order and utility for those have been objectively cast aside, an order that would be impossible to control even loosely without an efficient bureaucracy, the absence of which would likely cause their followers to dreamily recall bygone days of ill-temperament.

In the aftermath.

You can slowly take down a powerful establishment by gradually downsizing it for 20 years or so, but if you cut it all at once and destroy its infrastructure, the infrastructure your followers rely on to feed themselves and find shelter, their euphoria will quickly turn to disillusion when they realize there's nothing good left to eat.

Which they can afford.

Having a credit card bill that's hard to pay off is different from not being able to buy something.

The Crimes of Grindelwald paints a grim portrait upon which misfits are canvassed.

Newt Scamander (Eddie Redmayne), Tina Goldstein (Katherine Waterston), Queenie Goldstein (Alison Sudol), and Jacob Kowalski (Dan Fogler) persist interdimensionally within, as mad ambition contends with institutional privilege, and distraught lovers merge hopes and regrets.

I was sad when I realized "the greater good" was a double entendre, i.e., you can be altruistic like Spock at the end of Star Trek II, at all times really, which I initially thought was its sole meaning, or you can pursue good for the greater, or transfer all power and privilege to an unaccountable few.

The ministry may be somewhat obtuse but they maintain a peaceful mildly prosperous status quo.

And you can disagree with them.

It's quite strange, this disagreement that's supposedly so highly valued.

It's like if you disagree with the government you're delegitimized even if it simultaneously seeks profound criticisms.

The key is to not try to make sense of it, or at least not to think you've made sense of it, even if you've written or are writing a book that claims to have made sense of it, because it will never ever make much sense, at least for a very long time.

Keeps things interesting though.

Keeps things real.

Bewildering.

Mysterious.

The Lobster

The Lobster is one of those hilarious dark comedies that makes you feel guilty for laughing throughout and horrible for laughing afterwards.

Messed-up filmscape.

You aren't introduced to its fascist sociopolitical dynamics at first, so it seems like choice is still an option for the participants.

As it unreels, it becomes clear that extremists have held control for some time, and their authoritative micromanaging of human relationships have been fastidiously naturalized.

You hear this in the dialogue, the script, everything boiled down to awkward blunt expressions of confusion and loneliness, adding desperate depth to carnal credulity, the actors involved ironically bringing to life what might seem like decomposing prose with expertly timed inverse uniformity, their tones and gestures staggeringly reanimating, stitched together by the hauntingly observant narration.

Narration doesn't add much to some films, but it's a key component of The Lobster.

I don't want to give too much away, but from what I can tell, in The Lobster's realm you must have a partner and that partner must have the same idiosyncrasy as you (blindness, nosebleeds, ruthlessness, a nice smile).

If you can't find one within a specified time you're transformed into an animal of your choice.

If you escape to the woods to live with the loners you're hunted down like an animal.

It's like Yorgos Lanthimos imagined a world where you could not exist on your own, where you couldn't live without being part of a social order, and then fastened it with brutal punishments for refusing to obey, everyone under constant surveillance, totalitarian forms even encumbering those embodying subversive content (the loners) as they feel compelled to live their bohemian lives with a similar sense of strict gruelling cohesivity.

Mirrors and shadows.

Some of them actually find love which causes excruciating pain, the film consistently presenting interactions doomed to fail that seem so unfamiliar and bleak that the distance produces laughter until something excessively violent happens which isn't funny at all, like a discordant heavy metal xylophone solo broken up by machine gun fire.

The Lobster messes with your head to perhaps suggest that some folks just want to live alone, chill bachelors and bachelorettes, leave them be, let them do their own thing.

Coercively managing the social is the worst.

The expression of every thought.

Love truly blind.

La Danza de la Realidad

Alejandro Jodorowsky revisits his childhood in La Danza de la Realidad, where the imagination selectively sways and protectively converges, inconclusive conflict coordinating innocent essentials, a Stalinesque father (Brontis Jodorowsky) bringing the pain, familial embarrassment and shame aggrandizing his persecution, little Alejandro (Jeremias Herskovits) responding with ardour, confusing projections of the masculine violently suppressing his sense of wonder, various community members avuncularly interacting, his poetic mother (Pamela Flores), nurturing his ability to relate.

Like weirdsville on steroids, the poetic and pugilistic merge to forge one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, as he crafts his first film in over two decades, fantasy fascinatingly swathing, the concrete, cruel, and confiscated.

His mother only sings.

Communism is comedically yet fatalistically skewered.

Superpowers are enlisted to fight fascism.

Between these extremes, individuality speaks up, as the feminine attempts to nest her husband's flight from himself.

Natal helpless inquisitive comedic old-world zealous tragedy permeates the film's practical ideology, as politics and religion challenge a commitment to child-rearing, the application of a big picture cause to a singular immigrant family entices, its contradictions featuring its humanism, creativity conversed as its fulcrum.

Difficult times at points for young Alejandro.

What a survivor.

Captain America: The Winter Soldier

In/directly contextualizing striking pre-emptive phenomenons, Captain America: The Winter Soldier bravely condenses controversial polarities, from which it extracts a democratic essence, sentimentally sublime in its naiveté.

Perhaps beating Transcendence to the punch.

The issue of brilliant Nazi war criminals finding sanctuary in the United States after World War II is acknowledged, diabolical agents of HYDRA having nested themselves within S.H.I.E.L.D, whose limitless technological resources have given them free reign to menace.

They hope to take out millions of enemies in one extremely precise swoop, the ultimate pre-emptive strike, internationally derailing syndications of law and order, egregiously ignoring the global human factor.

The infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D partially vindicates Eric Snowden and Julian Assange as their methods are proactively defended by Natasha Romanoff (Scarlett Johansson).

Radiantly representing today's youth.

The key to the relationship between these plot threads and the film's subconscious depiction of America's current identity lies in the Winter Soldier (Sebastian Stan) himself, who has no identity, who was revived to serve HYDRA and serve HYDRA alone, the memory of who he once was having been shattered into oblivion.

He is recognized by Captain America (Chris Evans), however, who is also having identity issues, yet he remembers why America (and Canada) fought during the second World War, thereby earning the trust of Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson).

Like Thor: The Dark World, Winter Soldier struggles to find itself during its first 40 minutes or so, although in this case such disappointments fit perfectly.

It's important to remember that when great actors aren't performing at the top of their game, it's okay to ask them to do additional takes.

I don't know how you'd go about doing this.

Just don't go Godard on them (see Richard Brody's Everything is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard).

What follows is a thrilling politicized retrocrazed rush, Steve Rodgers outshining Themistocles, another captivating Marvel film, oh what a world what a world.

The Book Thief

A struggling family adopts a young girl (Sophie Nélisse as Liesel) in pre-World War II Germany as the fascists's political agenda rapidly spreads throughout the country.

Ideological indoctrination confuses intelligent youth who can't understand its narrow-minded discipline.

The focus is on the good Germans, the ones who were simply trying to make ends meet during difficult economic times and were forced to come up with survival strategies ad hoc as repugnant discourses gained social traction, followed by war.

The Book Thief unreels from a child's point of view and the film is primarily geared towards children.

I'm used to finding more depth in children's films, meaning that they're sometimes more engaging for adults, but that's not necessarily a criticism, insofar as the kids in the audience were likely fully engaged, and it was made for children.

Still, it accentuates the senses of fear and helplessness conscientious citizens feel when trying to express themselves within oppressive environments dominated by violence, but in an oddly inconspicuous way that leaves the impression that nothing could possibly go seriously wrong, even while war breaks out and the hunted desperately seek shelter.

This explains Death's (Roger Allam) avuncular yet cumbersome narration.

The importance of reading is at the forefront, an individual's desire to expand her mind contrasted with what happens when highly fanatical aggressive groups who never had any desire to expand theirs suddenly control the military.

Nazi Germany was responsible for destroying Europe in the first half of the 20th century, but, according to practically every article I read about the European Union, they're currently saving Europe from total financial disaster, playing a much stronger role than either France or Britain, no doubt due to the strength of the good Germans depicted in The Book Thief, their environmental concerns, and resolute calm.

Viewing The Book Thief in this way helps to detach unconscious direct correlations between Germany and Nazism, which, after you've seen around 100 World War II films and read many books on the subject, is an unconscious direct correlation that's tough not to make (like Mexico and drug cartels [more {some?} American films with Mexican characters who aren't labourers or members of a drug cartel would be nice]).

These correlations can then be replaced by less volatile caricatures, as Germany's contemporary status suggests it deserves.

Thus, when you think of Germany, try not to immediately think, Nazis, a period of their history that more or less ended in 1945, but think, getting rid of nuclear power, focusing on green technologies, economy remains strong even after the integration of East Germany, saving the European Union, fiscal responsibility, which are aspects of what's happening now.

Not so easy to do, I know.

But I've done it. So I know that it is possible.

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire

Having won the previous year's Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) and Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson) return to District 12 to attempt to resume their normal lives.

Trauma terrifyingly affects them both as haunting memories short-circuit various pastimes.

President Snow's (Donald Sutherland) fascist ideology continues to crush workers throughout the Districts but Katniss and Peeta have given them something to believe in.

That belief steadily intensifies throughout the progress of a mandatory nationwide tour during which they must demonstrate their loyalty.

But fascist kings stack fascist decks, not really even a deck, and an unforeseen revised savage sewer augustly swells, threatening to tether the people's momentum, to a coerced, despotic, desolate, plain.

Upon which obedience is the only option.

There's a lot happening in The Hunger Games: Catching Fire.

Katniss and Peeta's aforementioned trauma adds depth to Haymitch's (Woody Harrelson) character, justifying his excessive drinking.

Rob Ford is not Haymitch. Rob Ford is being legitimately criticized for drinking and driving and smoking crack cocaine. These are things responsible Mayors don't do. These are things responsible people don't do regardless of occupation.

You almost feel bad for Effie Trinket (Elizabeth Banks) as she makes the best of an abysmal situation by seeming to genuinely care about teamwork.

As one of the participants dies during the Hunger Games's Quarter Quell, the sun rises, thereby symbolizing that there is only freedom in death when living under extreme forms of government.

Protests at the highest level do nothing to dissuade Snow's executive, similar mechanisms existing in Canada before Baldwin and Lafontaine introduced Responsible Government.

Katniss's formidable resolve resplendently radiates as if her just constitution was forged by Barton Street Steel.

A crucial moment during which the expediencies of her predicament neurotically test her herculean will exemplifies this in/dependence (beautifully dependent on championing the rights of the helpless).

Trust becomes a critical factor.

The parts which necessitate action don't focus on the violence but rather the obstructions of the civilized combatants.

The film depicts what it could be like to live somewhere where 1% of the population hold 99% of the wealth and there isn't a democratic system in place guaranteeing fundamental freedoms.

Where one size fits all.

Should probably read the books too.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I

Know then that Harry Potter is back once more in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I, wherein he battles death eaters and fascists and feelings all the while coming of age. Most of the regular cast is also back for a scene or two and since the book has been cut in two even more depth than that found in The Order of the Phoenix is presented. Which doesn't mean many of the scenes aren't still curt and melodramatic full of noises and exclamations the kitschy insertion of which is supposed to tap into our preprogrammed dispositions and produce one of a variety of emotional responses. Short and to the point most of the time, yet supposedly exceptional due to the hype and reputations of the cast, the scene where Harry dances with Hermione still adds a nice touch. It's not that I didn't like the film, I certainly did. It's just as entertaining as any of the others, in fact, even more so, because it strays from the typical Hogwarts-and-they're-a-year-older-now format. It's just very rushed. A couple more extended scenes like that where Harry dances with Hermione would have been worth their weight in transitionary gold, or galleons, or something (why did they even include the Dursley's?). I'd really like to see an auteur like Werner Herzog or David Lynch take an aspect of one of these novels and transfer it to another setting within which its character is reconstituted yet traditionalized in order to provide it with more artistic depth. Or perhaps one of them could simply direct the Battle of Hogwarts. Could you imagine how amazing it would be if David Lynch directed the Battle of Hogwarts?

It would be amazing.

Sherlock Holmes

Enjoyed Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes. Within, Holmes (Robert Downey Jr.) and Watson (Jude Law) are much more human than some of their previous imaginings, Holmes eagerly pit fighting and Watson trying to avoid gambling compulsively. Don't know what pit fighting and compulsive gambling have to do with being more human, but they certainly weren't borderline ideal. They are tasked with capturing the resurrected Lord Blackwood (Mark Strong) who is attempting to 'cleanse' Britain's parliament in order to bring about a new world order. Professor Moriarty monitors the situation closely with the assistance of Holmes's former love interest, Irene Adler (Rachel McAdams). And the conventional Inspector Lestrade (Eddie Marsan) rounds out the cast, providing institutional relief, beguiled brooding, and unexpected assistance.

The plot's complex if not a bit over the top and the intellectual action is constant. Holmes comes across as a scatterbrained aloof eccentric who acutely, succinctly, and charismatically solves every presented problem. The dynamic between Holmes and Watson is playfully professional, Holmes trying hard not to hold back, Watson unafraid to physically express his discontent. Adler adds an additional layer of brainiacness whose sultry suppositions intensify the film's sensitivity. And Lord Blackwood's a creepy, maniacal, lunatic, whose particular brand of insanity is rationally and reasonably displayed. A definite treat for both its brains and brawn, Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes will likely enjoy a prominent position in the Holmesian canon.

Gamer

Brian Taylor and Mark Neveldine's Gamer synthesizes reality television and online gaming in a sadistic salute to mendicant masochism. Computer genius Ken Castle (Michael C. Hall [Six Feet under]) has created two billion dollar programs: Society and Slayers. Prime time participants have had nanites inserted into their brains in order to enable a third party to control their actions with hypersensitive virtual controllers. In Society, such participants live out the carnal fantasies of their masters for the benefit of their adoring public. In Slayers, death row inmates are given the chance to avoid the electric chair/ if they can survive 30 rounds of a bellicose bloodbath orchestrated within a simulated war zone. Running man Kable's (Gerard Butler) almost free, his controller Simon (Logan Lerman) a world renowned celebrity. But has Kable been framed by Castle for a crime he didn't commit and will an underground band of hackers be able to reunite him with his wife (and Society star) Angie (Amber Valletta), just in time for them to rescue their daughter?

It's all just a matter of time, depending on the ratings.

Gamer's a bit cheesily melodramatic and predictable but it's also entertaining and well executed (including a cameo from Star Trek's John De Lancie). It competently examines the age-old appetites versus intellect dynamic by creating a world where people ravenously devour realistic fantasies at the expense of the impoverished individuals forced to willingly yield their pride, while simultaneously championing methods of destabilizing this dominant discourse. There's also a scene which is so revolting that it ruined waffles for me (a sign of great directing). Taylor and Neveldine painstakingly point out that there are things that remain popular even though they're humiliating and that working class dignity is something for which people must fight. Their portrayal of the future resonates in the present and stands as a prominent warning against fascist social slayers.