Birth

Genuine love illuminatingly transcends routine day-to-day orthodox trajectories, ingeniously transmitting ethereal dispatches with sincere wholesome munificent dignity. 

But alas, the blesséd union is cruelly and inhumanely torn asunder, as envious death jealously rises then indelicately vanishes with one tortured soul.

Time passes and the surviving member is once again pursued by an old sweetheart, who waited patiently year after year and never gave up after considerable rejection.

A date is set they are to be married friends and family traditionally applaud, but one unexpected mischievous guest suddenly shows up with spiritual discourse.

He claims that he's the bride's enamoured ex-husband and that he's still wholeheartedly in love, the reincarnated reanimated spirit lithe and active within a 10 yr. old.

He's initially dismissed for unfairly toying with mournful feelings and morose emotions, and disrupting an upcoming marriage with zealous uncouth disparaging diatribes.

But he knows so much so many intimate details that were only shared between husband and wife.

Has the spirit world brought their moribund marriage back to life?

Or is the euphoria immaterial and inconclusive?

Somewhat absurd yet still innocent and tender you see the trusting lovelight altruistically shining through, as the bewildered ex-wife falls again for her husband with grave awkward grace and solemn credulity.

Even though he's only 10 and won't be fit to wed for another decade or so, she still considers the traditional role she once dutifully played with authentic temperance. 

I felt bad for the hopeful new husband who waited so long to fulfill his desire, true love and the fates egregiously mocking his steadfast and true uncorrupted fidelity. 

To wait so long and have your wedding annulled after a child shows up claiming to be your bride's ex-husband, would have been a shock too much to bear as furiously related one embarrassing evening.

The contemporary nature of the film sombrely scored with classical melodies, gives it a haunting stern humble edge wherein which you might find reincarnated frequencies. 

The characters are also wealthy (or bourgeois or struggling) enough to take such things seriously without qualm or misgiving.

To resplendently fall for true love everlasting.

Through immortal time.

In eternal disregard. 

Rosaline

Agile independence forthrightly attuned to romantic longing, haplessly falls for a gifted poet intuitively enamoured with fiery discipline. 

Her father desperately seeks someone for her to wed at the same time however, arranged marriages still diplomatically sought at that time in Europe and elsewhere.

Rosaline chooses to marry for love and pines obsessively for the legendary Romeo, not making things easy for him at times, yet still compulsively coveting his distinct verse.

A potential suitor arrives one day whom her father objectively approves of, and they head out in his seductive boat to challenge the sea with nautical bravado.

The suitor tries his best to valiantly please her but is wholeheartedly forsaken, her heart belonging to ye olde Romeo who has thus far requited her advances. 

Rain suddenly descends in torrential buckets thereby delaying their return home, an enchanting masquerade ball ethereally awaiting that includes the coveted Shakespearian in attendance.

Rosaline indeed arrives too late but not after her cousin Juliet has been formerly introduced. 

Romeo having fallen for her indivisibly. 

Encouraging bitter fury enraged!

Love seeing comedic reimaginings of classic tales continuously told, with new characters and emboldened situations absurdly redefining stray narrative elements.

Romeo doesn't mean to be a cad he just accidentally finds himself playing the role, his honest unattached unbetrothed feelings awkwardly lamented throughout the movie. 

Patient Dario steals the show with his courageous resolve and humble cunning, embracing Rosaline's chaotic feelings with resourceful energy and lithe accommodation. 

How Romeo could have overlooked her immaculate bearing inherently overflowing with genuine artistry, her very existence each elegant breath a slow motion incarnate natural wonder.

Alas, in that natural possession of what many desire to stunningly diversify, the majority find her too incredible to risk their cherished sanity through bold proposal. 

I thought the film was for the young ones but mom assures me it was far too mature.

Alternative takes, imposing reanimation.

If you're still interested in that kind of thing. 

Great Expectations

In ritual exile dismally fastened to permanently unaltered expressive decay, immutably unable to passively nurture piecemeal envisaged newfound exclamation. 

Abandoned on her festive wedding day while guests and relatives awkwardly attended, the resultant scourge cacophonous and shrill so ubiquitously disquieting she never recovered. 

But moderate remonstrance still boldly illuminated less morose pastures actively within, and a young jaunty lass was delicately instructed in the elegant ways of her former bearing.

But to be locked up away all alone with no one to play with throughout the day, lugubriously distressed the forsaken madame who freely set about discovering a friend.

The fortunate boy unaccustomed to sympathy and even less so to ceremonious eccentricity, fluidly fluctuated and instinctively managed to become a friendly playmate as time passed by.

The woebegone heiress still ideally immoveable as the young spirits mischievously opulently swayed, her house remaining lost atemporally defiant not one slight alteration since her wedding day.

No doubt an obsessive reaction stubbornly derelict and obtusely overwhelmed, still somewhat romantic in the execution of so much superfluous ornery extremity. 

She encourages the young girl to be cruel and even states she's free to break the lad's heart, an organ he'd no doubt freely part with should she see fit to impulsively crush it.

But wickedness aside they generally get on and playfully refuse to acrimoniously delegate, Miss Havisham in turn sinisterly supportive of their innocent fanciful nigh endeavours.

The house still doesn't alter and nothing is changed within, the lighthearted youthful imaginative symmetries still widely unable to facilitate thaw.

Even as they age and inevitably drift very far apart joy remains tightly bound, Pip still in love as he always has been, Estella still generally dismissive and bored. 

Miss Havisham still seems to like Pip even if she doesn't mind Estella's curt dismissals, and in the heavenly abridged yet stunning David Lean film she seems somewhat out of touch with her habitual irritation.

Imagine how much more could have indeed been creatively accomplished.

With a series of intricate films.

Challenging discursive conviviality.

Echo à Delta

A loving family convivially engaged routinely embraces lighthearted mischief, as the weeks fly by and the seasons change their open-minded dedication blooms and burgeons.

Two brothers not far apart in age have made several friends in the verdant bower, biking ensemble from home base to fort to local business to mysterious grotto.

They're close and the curious younger instinctively relies on their frequent discourse, the elder affably accommodating the resultant pair a tenacious tandem.

Aliens engender fascination as they astrologically consider the heavens, with dynamic multi-faceted individuals in gleeful possession of agile technology.

Said fascination doesn't go too far, but does lead them outside one evening, where they boldly attempt to make first contact upon a shed in a frightening rainstorm.

Hours later, the bewildered Echo confoundedly awakes in a nearby hospital, only to be told that his brother has disappeared and that he's lucky to be seated on solid ground.

As the days pass he becomes increasingly more and more exhaustively convinced, that his brother was abducted by aliens and that one day soon he'll suddenly return.

People entertain and wilfully assist as he continues the search for his missing bro.

The adults worried yet rationally uncertain how to impersonally yet endearingly proceed.

It's not as sad if you fall for the quest the uninhibited search for the missing brother, seen through the eyes of a caring young one tenderly obsessed with otherworldly potential.

Conspiracies enchant, the Men in Black must have egregiously influenced psychologists and parents, and painstakingly hid the distressing truth with extraterrestrial distressing hypocrisy. 

Non-traditional role models unsure of themselves efficaciously emerge (with Dickensian gusto), while upbeat friends lithely aid the search with friendly worthwhile upbeat slipstream.

He misses his buddy so much it's eventually tragic and tearfully driven.

Confused youth.

Unyielding capacity.

Doggonit daydreams.

Swathen willow.

Café de flore

Devoted love painstaking parenting newfound nuptials holistic heartbreak, the omnipresent ahistorical interdimensional august flow.

A separation immersive pain prolonged predicaments distressed feelings, dreaming that they'll get back together, even though he's (Kevin Parent as Antoine) found a new partner (Evelyne Brochu as Rose). 

They got together when they were young magnetic maelstrom adolescent l'amour, embracing age old romantic uproar delicately designated bold true love.

But habitual trials enervating ennui and too much alcohol led to crisis, opaque sustained imparted uncertainty, confused inanimate starling stasis.

Meanwhile, in the 1960s, a husband leaves his loving wife, after learning their child is differently abled, an act of headstrong blunt barbarity.

But she's resilient determined and willing to help her son live a normal life, and daringly proceeds with enriched vigour soulfully strengthened through motherly love.

As grieving Carol (Hélène Florent) seeks a spiritualist to shake things up surveyed and spooky, she becomes aware of the mother's struggles (Vanessa Paradis as Jacqueline), as if she's reliving a former life, the shock encouraging disconsolation. 

Impounding grief entropically emblemizes static autosuggestive dissonance, but good friends and heraldic compassion ease the burden heal the wound.

Jean-Marc Vallée possessed great gifts for sharing intimate gentle thoughts, and through his innate joyous wonder crafted amorous lucidity.

A mom surprises her son (Marin Gerrier as Laurent) with chase or adoringly awaits his seaborne vessel, a psychologist (Michel Laperrière) knows just what to say without really saying anything at all.

A couple may have broken up but they still focus on past love, on the enchanting thoughts that brought them together, the world they amicably constructed.

Café de flore bounces back through time sympathetically blending thought and emotion, as they relate to relationships and family, like a passionate active mind.

Controversial questions are raised at times and give no definitive answers, freeform lifelong social exploration innocently contesting the blasé life.

Some people have trouble letting go and heal more sincerely with kind reflection, Café de flore's thoughtful evocative testament fomenting mutual post-conjugal health.

It's nice to see characters who try to focus on the positive.

Diversification, discovery, peace. 

What a filmmaker.

What a life!

The Starling

No telling how the shock of unexpectedly losing someone will short-circuit, but there's no doubt it's an awful experience requiring patience, understanding, and compassion.

In The Starling, a loving husband is thoroughly overcome with grief (Chris O'Dowd as Jack Maynard), after his baby daughter doesn't wake up, a beautiful gift whom he adored.

He's so overwhelmingly grief-stricken that he checks into a local hospital, where caring sympathetic professionals try their best to ease his pain.

His wife remains at home and continues to work while slowly convalescing, visiting her husband once a week and bringing treats for each encounter (Melissa McCarthy as Lilly Maynard).

But since he doesn't progress and remains sadly lost in a deep depression, she struggles to optimistically adjust, especially when he no longer wants to see her.

It's recommended she seek therapy too, guidance from a former psychiatrist working as a vet (Kevin Kline as Dr. Larry Fine), with whom she strikes up a begrudging friendship, like a therapeutic odd couple.

Meanwhile, she cleans her yard and a resident starling starts to pester her.

She responds with uptight disdain.

Then feels guilty for her hasty actions. 

The Starling doesn't shy away from emphasizing sincere distress, and related waves upon waves of anguish as the Maynards come together. 

But it also praises the painstaking sacrifices spouses make while married at times, providing an amicable unassuming exemplar of devout enduring flexible partnerships. 

So many conflicting emotions difficult to comprehend since they're new and sad, add a steady routine on top of them, and there's bound to be a lot of confusion.

Lilly honestly reacts with genuine innocence as she freely adapts, with classic aggrieved McCarthian carnage, somewhat mollified for sombre subject matter.

As Lilly tries to poison the starling, human/animal relations are oddly characterized, she also hits it with a rock later on, the vet fortunate enough to save it.

After that everything's great for the starling and it seems as if she's welcome in the yard.

This is how people who don't understand human/animal relationships write about them (perhaps like Lindsay Bluth-Fünke). 

I sincerely hope that I'm not missing something. 

Dragonfly

Do voices from supernatural realms at times attempt to communicate with the terrestrially composed, is there something to be said for uncanny spiritual instincts without resorting to coincidence or mental illness, as Tom Shadyac's Dragonfly directly hypothesizes?

A lot of the time it seems like mumbo jumbo that can't be clarified or reasonably explained, even if it's supposed to exist beyond rationality and therefore isn't logically disposed. 

It's foolish to take the irrational seriously since believing in ghosts or the like can lead to folly, although it's fun to imagine they might exist while leaning towards the generally improbable. 

One trick is to consider the possibility of keeping an open yet skeptical mind, while always immediately denying its logical potential if someone starts asking for more than 10$.

I saw many an episode of America's Most Wanted as a lad where true believers were cheated out of tens of thousands, and it seemed like such a depressing waste considering the trusting hearts who took a faithful leap. 

I hate to see the innocent cheated especially when they're gentle and kind. Why people who prey on their humble instincts can't find something more constructive to do is beyond me.

Those humble instincts have persisted nevertheless after a century or so of scientific advancement, advancements that have found evidenced based factual reasons to validate so many practical truths.

As science proves more and more practical theories you would think religious belief would become more and more obsolete, but it still persists with resounding tenacity in many jurisdictions still spiritually composed.

It's like there's an innate drive residing in many to believe in the supernatural regardless of fact, and even if such a drive seems improbable, yet can still sometimes be fun, in the interests of democratic community, methinks it's best not to dismiss it.

Of course I tend to operate within a communal domain where there's mutual respect for opposing viewpoints, and improbability doesn't have the upper hand and isn't creating laws to dismiss science or pandemics accordingly.

I like to hear people tell stories so I'll listen as they narrate away, it's incredible the things some people say, the force of their convictions at times unsettling.

Just proving and dismissing everything with science can be incredibly boring too. Life needs a bit of excitement now and then that only werebears and vampires (etc.) can provide.

As long as you don't believe werebears and vampires are real and can find a practical metaphorical application for them.

Thus rationalizing fantasy.

To tell even more incredible stories.

With planned obsolescence and conflicting authenticities so much discourse sounds absurd (especially as you age).

But what's life without absurdity?

As long as it doesn't cost too much.

Nattvardsgästerna (Winter Light)

I suppose when you're happy doing your own thing and you've generally created spiritually enriching films, according to improvised guidelines which imaginatively mutated over time, it may at some point occur to you to direct the saddest most despondent film ever conceived, to make a distressing point cloaked in sheer austere lugubrity. 

Pushing things past the strictly solemn to approach rarefied uncompromised misery, Ingmar Bergman's Nattvardsgästerna (Winter Light) distills utter complete hopelessness. 

It's unfortunate to shyly say that the lack of hope is derived from honesty, from a pressurized irreconcilable desire to share one's thoughts with imposing candour. 

Does such a truthful need reflect genuine social lucidity, inasmuch as the ability to freely express oneself is oft admired and sincerely celebrated?

Is the sharing of doubts and misgivings not encouraged by different cultures, to avoid pent up obtuse hardheartedness followed by shocking emotional explosions?

In Nattvardsgästerna, the individual under examination occupies a prominent position however, and people look to him for strength in difficult times of spiritual stress.

When he makes his own lack of faith apparent and expresses it with candid levity, the results are completely disastrous for his diminutive humble flock.

He attempts to ease troubled minds by modestly employing frank concern, but misjudges tortured temperaments who were seeking guidance not familiarity. 

The cultivation of ideals thus receives distraught import, through morose unrestrained melancholia blindly abandoning its lofty discourse.

It's an extreme example sheltered in woebegone obfuscation, utilizing provocative misjudgment to comment upon mortality.

If you could approach every social interaction like a French judge interpreting the Civil Code, socially, not judicially, each interaction adapted to specific circumstances, then perhaps through lauded perspicuity you could efficiently prescribe communal medication (one case at a time).

Populism has wildly challenged the establishment of wise decision making however, through realistic democratic loopholes which instinctually bewilder.

Those occupying positions of power must proceed confidently nevertheless.

As alternative rationalities clash and codify.

A bleak film.

Disposed noblesse. 

The Rhythm Section

Lost and alone overwhelmed by grief, a former A-list student struggles aimlessly to get by, no will, no drive, no purpose, no quarter, moribundly drifting through the years, until a Samaritan arrives.

He's familiar with her case and seeks to facilitate just closure, and at least has the means at his disposal to provide temporary soulful relief.

Coordinates and probabilities, nothing definitive, eager to learn, never having accepted the official account explaining what caused a fatal accident.

Soon her leads dry up though and she's back on the road researching further, eventually finding an ex-secret service agent, who still takes the time to work in the field.

He agrees to train her resolutely, her resolve quickly becoming an obsession, replete with fierce wherewithal, months later she's determined and ready.

She embarks naive yet feisty and soon takes on her first assignment.

Aware of possible limitations.

Seeking the truth regardless.

The Rhythm Section's quite primal, instinctual, reactive, brazen, there's little argument or variability, just raw unyielding focus.

It pulls you in with blunt alarm and keeps things rough and menaced, crazed and stressed, with striking backbeat discipline, it tenaciously accentuates.

But without the variability its plot's somewhat too thin, too reliant on what takes place considering not much happens.

When you see The Empire Strikes Back as a child you don't think that Luke is only trained by Yoda for a couple of days (is it even that long?) before he faces Vader.

But later you discover the Jedi were once educated from a very young age, for decades under the tutelage of masters, which would make Luke's emergence as a Jedi seem slightly absurd if he hadn't learned his profession under epic duress.

It's similar in The Rhythm Section inasmuch as there's too much improbability. It's a serious film so you're meant to take it seriously and the action's direct and grave so it doesn't promote generic misunderstanding.

At least for me.

I don't mean it would have been more probable if the lead had been a man. It just seems like anyone coming out of circumstances comparable to those The Rhythm Section's heroine finds herself within at the beginning, would have had quite the time suddenly transforming into an elite counterterrorist.

But whereas some films improve as you think about them after they've finished, The Rhythm Section seems more and more implausible, not that something similar couldn't have indeed taken place, but the odds of it actually happening are beyond me reasonable thresholds.

Of course good cinema excels as it takes you beyond such thresholds to present something different from typical life, but if it's meant to be persuasive, and goes out of its way to be grim and realistic, it becomes more difficult not to apply logic, the application of which doesn't aid The Rhythm Section (she fights someone who's breathing from a respirator?).

More characters and a more intricate script and it may have been more believable.

The novel's likely more gripping.

Others likely found it more appealing.

It's always a good idea to forge your own opinion.

Dolittle

An eccentric doctor imprisoned by grief makes the most of his settled routine, taking care of an eclectic menagerie while managing a cloistered estate.

But his seclusion is to be interrupted as a royal patron beckons, she's fallen ill and can't find a cure and knows Dolittle's (Robert Downey Jr.) honest and true.

He's a gifted polyglot as it were who can speak with each and every animal, applying his unique talents to the inviolable veterinary, unravelling inextricable enlivening Beatrix.

Diplomatically assuaging instinct.

To facilitate communal fluencies.

Those who would dispose of the Queen (Jessie Buckley) are none too keen to see him enlisted, even if his quest is against all odds. It's been years since he's left his domain. But he proceeds with animate rigour.

They follow him anyway with villainous intent well-endowed with extraordinary resources, but he possesses adaptive extemporaneous finesse, and can make adjustments which variably avail.

Aided by another who also loves animal kind, they set forth with noble purpose, to break free from slack despondency, and seek robust unheralded virtues.

Clues have they which may lead to nimble fortune.

In defiance of time and tide.

As raccoons shift and sway.

Their voyage symbiotically commences.

The film excels at employing whale kind to assist with bold navigation, briefly granting services submerged to accelerate adventurous import.

Ravages wrought on fierce independence aren't overlooked or casually conveyed, for a tiger has been driven mad by his confinement, incarcerated in vengeful chains.

A cohesive group, gregarious gallantry, enables velveteen execution, a binding adherence to mutual respect reifying the superlative laissez-faire.

In surest action.

Melodiously disposed.

Avidly progressing from trial to predicament, the film perhaps revels in augmented haste, rarely pausing to rear and reflect, instantaneous unimpaired impacts.

Its target audience unperturbed by the steady alert quickening, direct meaning addressing identity, reactions brisk to untold considerations, Dolittle's less concerned with mature obfuscations, immersed in innocent wondrous candour.

Assured unbeknownst lackadaisical ingenuity, it may be easy to find faults, but would a 5-year-old care?

Cool animals.

Spirited goodwill.

Waves

As much as you may want to debate it, it's her choice, her decision.

Not an easy decision to make if you haven't prepared for it, and support is key to easing the pressure if uncertainty's fogging things up.

There's no easy way to discuss these things, if you don't like discussing them, but if you are sexually active you should be prepared for the possibility of childbirth, and there are steps you can take to make sure pregnancy's highly unlikely, if you're not ready to have a child and are hoping to finish school or get a promotion, beforehand.

I'd use condoms even if my partner was on the pill to ensure a double line of defence, until such a time as we were both ready to child rear; it's probably the most serious responsibility there is.

But if I didn't want to have a child and she did, I would respect her decision. If she asked for my counsel, I would present my arguments, but it's her decision in the end, either way, and certainly not mine. Upon hearing her decision, I would do my best to prepare for fatherhood (nothing can prepare you for it) should she have chosen to have the child, and accept my nascent responsibilities. You may find as you grow older that you like having the little ones around. I certainly didn't way back when, as I was studying and working while travelling.

It's important to respect her decision.

That's the price for all the carefree fun.

Sincerest woe descends in Trey Edward Shults's Waves after confrontation leads to animosity, as two high school seniors discuss unplanned parenthood and can't come close to seeing eye to eye.

Opioid addiction clouds Tyler Williams's (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) judgment as he struggles to comprehend, an unfortunate injury jeopardizing his wrestling career too, he can't deal, even as people try to help him.

The film's quite well done, with the best cinematography I've seen in a while (Drew Daniels), the camerawork delicately louring you in to its breezy narrative flow, the current heaving as it helplessly adjusts to wayward distraught cataclysm, so felicitous early on, heartfelt ebb and flow.

Waves.

It spends one act presenting a golden road that's fraught with peril and distraction, the other romanticizing first love as a family comes to terms with its grief.

The father's (Sterling K. Brown as Ronald Williams) a good provider but also super, "this is my house!", which frustrates his teenage son who's constantly under his watchful eye.

It's a shame it takes extreme hardship for him to learn to apply the messages he absorbs without thinking, habitually.

But as he lets go of himself and stops trying to control things, as he waits for solutions to be organically presented instead of trying to generate them through authority, his family begins to heal through logical/emotional balance, and he starts to listen to what others have to say instead of just telling them what to do.

Family isn't the army or work.

I've always thought family was a safe haven beyond strict codes of conduct.

Where you learn responsibility at play.

Without having to worry about being fired.

Brought to light at special times of the year.

Sweet lattes.

Eggnog shakes.

Widows

Left behind after a job gone wrong, a widow (Viola Davis as Veronica) weighs her unsettling options.

She's not alone, her husband's (Liam Neeson as Harry) entire crew having perished under hot pursuit, although she's a little more willing to embrace unorthodox ideas than her fellow despondent sisters (Michelle Rodriguez as Linda and Elizabeth Debicki as Alice).

After she finds plans for another heist.

And is coercively emboldened.

It's election time in her riding as well, the heir to its political dynasty (Colin Farrell as Jack Mulligan) not as ruthless as his jaded father (Robert Duvall as Tom Mulligan).

Realigned boundaries have cost him thousands of relied upon votes, however, and his strategy must broaden homegrown horizons.

His opponent's (Brian Tyree Henry as Jamal Manning) more familiar with his constituency's grievances, but runs into financial difficulties after his nest egg's ripped off.

Uncertainty ubiquitously abounds.

While goodwill beckons, lightly.

Multiple pieces composing a high stakes puzzle lacking definitive images agitate throughout Steve McQueen's Widows.

Roles, objectives, risk, and betrayal, highlight disingenuous motivations as tempting freedoms advocate.

It's as if those who were stealing everything assumed the people they were stealing from were stealing it from them anyway and therefore had no misgivings.

Serendipitous strategies aligned.

Suspended cause.

Expediency permeates Widows's calling with robust grim integrity.

As long as you only seek change for those who are only helping you, millions of supporters who don't know how or are unable to assist are left assuming everything's vague.

That no one cares.

Widows's ethics may be bleak but its script's still profound and it demands your strict attention.

Left in such situations it's difficult to imagine what one might do, but McQueen crafts several striking hypotheses which provocatively grill emulsion.

Grizzled and real.

Multilayered and invested.

Foxtrot

And an exemplar was disseminated, wherein which individuals expressed themselves extemporaneously even though they had observed strict routines throughout much of their bourgeois lives, tradition and structure briefly withdrawing as overwhelming desires to alternatively communicate built up deep inside and triumphantly exhaled, a fluid gesture of harmless defiance joyously reverberating across uninhabited terrain, passing by unremarkably, the absurdity of his post and its accompanying limitless wastelands failing to generate correspondingly desolate emotions as underdeveloped independent curiosity refuses to acknowledge the austere, revellers brazen enough to pass by in good cheer suddenly transforming codes that had been youthfully displaced into bloodshed, paranoid precedents instantaneously shocking generally carefree lives, the error rapidly covered up thereafter, buried for archaeological posterity, denoted with novel graphic agency.

The drawing generating metaphorical comment.

As mourning subsides.

And love reemerges.

Making light of solemnities has sombre consequences for the denizens of Samuel Maoz's Foxtrot, as if the temptation to relax one's guard is as dangerous as it is emancipating.

The natural world countermands privileged influence within, as tensions between freedom and discipline maddeningly shock obliged quotidian necessities.

The commodification of ancient heirlooms disastrously curses the present, as tantalizing postmodern accessories addictively dominate the senses.

Extreme grief is benevolently replaced by joy before the utmost cruelty coincidentally descends.

Historical repercussions infinitely bewildering.

Combative contiguities.

Subjective cries.

The film excels at presenting free spirits tormented by regulations that must be upheld, accentuating the blasé to manifest torrential tears while cosmically suggesting there is no reasonable alternative.

The conjugal rapprochement which characterizes its concluding moments abound with blissful acquiescence.

Nevertheless.

As a couple audaciously expresses itself by sharing truthful thoughts.

What they still have rich in wonder.

Integrity, variability, mystery.

Adventure imaginatively narrativizing.

Mindfully.

After work finishes up.

Collateral Beauty

I suspect there's a prominent subculture that likes Hallmark cards and regularly exchanges them in order to express feelings of enduring love.

Subculture may be the wrong word to be using here.

No no no, they don't take the time to meticulously itemize the sundry ways in which a partner has disappointed them over the course of the last month, year, weekend, Festivus whispering, having realized that many people don't appreciate the comedic value of such clarifications and would rather simply be applauded.

Persona non grata.

Yet it seems that if everyone were to systematically express their mutual contempt ritualistically, disorganization may in fact destabilize the smooth innocuous flow of cultural codes, cultural goods, meaning that perhaps vitriolic proclamations of amour should be sequestered for the intemperate few, as they begrudgingly accept that they do indeed have feelings.

Reprieved.

They likely didn't think highly of Collateral Beauty either, even if it was overflowing with abundant goodwill and wholesome adorable tearjerks.

It does use swearing quite effectively if that counts for anything, situating the profane word within an exasperated exclamation with perfect sober timing, such a stark contrast from the preceding cuddles, repressed helplessness shockingly manifested.

Ah, so, if you're wondering why you don't like Collateral Beauty and its exceptional cast, you can at least think, there's some great swearing.

The ending's quite touching too.

Like cotton candy.

Hallmark cotton candy.

Demolition

Devastating impacts, instantaneous oblivion, no recourse, no quarter, a husband cannot come to terms with the death of his wife and consequently launches a full-on assault on bourgeois stability, lost in the unknown, penetrating unpredictable sorrow supersaturated with amorous considerations, did he love her?, why isn't grief virulently punishing?, this logical predicament obscuring reason with mad unconsolable solitudes, which question logic itself, for in nebulous realms of superlative shock there is no standard playbook, especially if you don't seek professional guidance and refuse to discuss things with loved ones, hence, there is neither reason nor madness, just thought mixed with emotion, like consciousness reborn, an obfuscating mélange, but if you worry about how you should be feeling as opposed to concentrating on how you are feeling without feeling guilty about your lack of emotion should you be mired in an apathetic stasis, things may exasperate, although perhaps it's exasperation itself that leads to catharsis, as it does in Jean-Marc Vallée's Demolition, the best film I've seen thus far in post-Oscar 2016 (just think, sit back, and let the thoughts flow).

It's very patient, even if Davis (Jake Gyllenhaal) believes he can immediately transmutate his feelings early on.

Vallée delicately introduces new characters with expert timing and awareness to diversify Demolition at points where you think it might start to drag, thereby strengthening everything that has previously taken place while making what's to come seem intrinsically tantalizing.

The comedy bluntly yet potently contrasts Davis's quaintly absurd mischievous romance with Karen (Naomi Watts), and increasingly hostile relations with understanding yet fed-up step-father and boss Phil (Chris Cooper), creating a brash sympathetic omnibus charter, as he enthusiastically takes to sledgehammering whatever he can, while providing guidance to a struggling youth (Judah Lewis as Chris) who's direct, confident and brash.

The two generate a constructive bond through shenanigans and level-headed discussion.

Elsewhere Vallée tenderly introduces Davis's happy memories of his wife Julia (Heather Lind), shyly working sudden rejuvenative placating solace into the film as it approaches its tear-jerking horizon.

Grieving.

A seemingly insane examination of excruciating loss which benefits from an exploration of unfathomable ir/rationalities, Demolition provocatively refrains to emotionally heal, like sustained entropy, intermingling demographic psychologies memorandum, as it brings two families closer and closer together.

I love how Jake Gyllenhaal's career is progressing. It's sort of like John Cusack's but darker.

Naomi Watts puts in another outstanding performance, one of the best actresses in Hollywood no question.

Judah Lewis may make a career of it.

Impressive.

And Chris Cooper rocks another supporting role, demonstrating why he's been popping up in so many films for so many years.

Vallée must really work well with actors (like David O. Russell).

He's pumping them out as quickly as Woody Allen too.

Written by Bryan Sipe.

Editing by Jay M. Glen.

Knight of Cups

Mused poetic carefree wanderlust, surreally surfacing then subsiding like capriciously concerned intermittence invariable, a complete lack of quotidian confines embraces disregard with irresistible a/temporal flux, playmate flock, subject of desire, cuddly and cute with innocent charm and magnetic magma, bathing in eternal springs, climactic occultist vociferous chance, guiding tides through fortune and bedlam, the loss of a loved one, haunting insouciant amour.

Plot secondary to image and impression, a dream indulgently manifests its candour, an obsession with water like soul purification, from one partner to the next, transfixed, transpiring, like he's lost but aware of his surroundings, enjoying the good times but wondering, "what's the point?"

Frolicking friendship and family.

Joyful ambivalent sorrow.

The plot submissively burdens Knight of Cups with fluttering ephemeral obscurities, a parade of seemingly relevant yet easily dismissed observations following Rick (Christian Bale) from one romance to the next.

In terms of a study of presence, of the man who characteristically captures the attention of everyone wherever he goes, whatever he does, without making any effort, without having to do anything, Knight of Cups fuels his inner-strength, electrifies his childish wonder, examines his relationships with diverse sultry invention, a sense of tragedy troubling his mind, while he never has to work, and is surrounded by voluptuous vixens.

The images are stunning and it's edited like a cinematic poem.

The images and editing distract from its somewhat shallow subject matter, however, the man who has everything and doesn't have to do anything, such grief, how tragic!, and compensate by celebrating spontaneity, the continuous illumination of the surroundings, the camaraderie, the impartiality entrancing the fluidity, depending on multiple subjective points of view.

Would watch it again.

Christian Bale must have loved filming this one.

Editing by A.J. Edwards, Keith Fraase, Geoffrey Richman, and Mark Yoshikawa.

Cinematography by Emmanuel Lubezki.

October Gale

Overcome with shattering grief, a widow heads North, to convalesce in the calming wilderness, embowered yet stricken, facing her demons alone.

When catastrophe strikes in the form of a hunted man, desperately seeking escape, who suddenly shows up unannounced on her island, frightened, abandoned, and wounded.

His story's far-fetched, yet when his assailants come calling, their truth projects panic and understanding.

As the power goes out.

And the storm sets in.

Two struggling lonely resiliencies meet, come together, and lock and load, Ruba Nadda's October Gale supplying their depressions with a maniacal impediment to surmount, its vindictive ammunition, oppressing their hopes for forgiveness.

Compassion and trust come to their aid, as they constructively bond, to prognosticate their survival.

Character driven, the film relies on the strong performances delivered by Patricia Clarkson (Helen Matthews), Scott Speedman (William), and Tim Roth (Tom), the intensity of their restrained emotions, embracing the storm's bitter graft.

The film focuses on scarcity, on lack, on the barren repercussions of losing a loved one, which explains why the scenery isn't warmly pronounced, even though they're in an exceptionally beautiful region of Canada.

Poignancy.

The Way

After Tom Avery (Martin Sheen) learns that his son Daniel (Emilio Estevez) has died while hiking El Camino de Santiago, he flies to France and decides to undertake the pilgrimage through Spain himself. Unprepared for the journey and approaching retirement, he buckles down and proceeds regardless to try and understand his son's bohemian spirit which he had routinely belittled throughout his life. While coping with his loss, he reluctantly befriends three younger adventurous subjects who take a mysterious shine to his rigorous no-nonsense elderly personality, each embracing the trek for different reasons. Their heterogeneous individualist assembly forms a peculiar undefined pact as they encounter a colourful cast of characters while seeking lodging along the way.

Emilio Estevez's The Way elastically populates a variety of different situations with thought provoking revelations towards its healing goal. Some of the dialogue and interactions could have benefitted from a careful study of Woody Allen or John Cassavetes, but I can't deny that he works well within his elevated wide-reaching down-to-earth frame.

Heated exchanges. Romantic musings. Acerbic challenges. Carefree suggestions. Confident purpose. Cohesive wanderings.

Unpredictable traumatic events necessitate change. Improvised determined responses supported by but not rooted within historico-cultural traditions can lead to revitalizing affects. Social opportunities and previously unconsidered theoretical trajectories abound after the embrace of the other. Letting go and enjoying the difference leads to spiritual rebirth.

The Way.

Monsieur Lazhar

Immigrating. Searching for work. Adapting to the dynamics of your new surroundings. Quietly suffering from the trauma of your previous ones.

Philippe Falardeau's Monsieur Lazhar follows the activities of Bachir Lazhar (Mohamed Fellag) as he seeks refugee status in Montréal and finds a job teaching in an inner-city elementary school. Matters are complicated by the fact that he replaces a respected facilitator of learning who recently committed suicide in the classroom. His students are confused and shocked.

His antiquated teaching style doesn't placate things.

But his strict yet forgiving direct approach has its merits as he attempts to bring his students's pain out into the open. Simultaneously creating a cathartic outlet and an administrative backlash, he boldly proceeds while negotiating the consequences.

With neither teaching degree nor classroom experience.

His traditional signs and points of reference have been displaced, transformed and differentiated, yet his wit remains intact, enabling him to manufacture structured cultural resources through the process of active creativity.

Which facilitate his socio-economic recovery.

Flexibly managing the viewpoints of the other while adopting components of their constructive criticisms to his professional and social practices leads to his modest integration.

Synthesizing divergent contents with similar forms systematically acculturates his multifaceted tenacity.

Because he gives a shit.