Maelström

Conflicting emotions morosely problematize picturesque drab conducive momentum, difficult decisions unconscious mourning requisite paramount agile time off.

Through unfortunate circumstance trouble cruelly abounds with the mobile lucrative family business, cascading crucibles Klingon clutches awkwardly aided by a hit and run.

Classic down and out comic lugubrity staggeringly keen to romanticize coincidence, the stars aligned postmodern im/permanence gritty irritable cosmic practicality.

Constant motion demonstrative clarity intuitively reacting to frustrating stimuli, her (Marie-Josée Croze as Bibiane Champagne) family renowned the pressure abrasive outputs enduringly vague inconclusive.

Why all the hassle for simply engaging with piquant particulars precipitous life, the haunting austere adamant duties discernibly daunting lighthearted lackadaisics?

If only taking time off was much simpler a sudden sojourn a querulous jaunt, some place remote perhaps unfamiliar fortuitous fashions restorative calm. 

Not in the cards in this instance as the habitual play grinds dolorous doldrums, although the free sharing of genuine grief begets newfound friendship and lithe l’amour.

A grizzled sizzling disparaging humour harrowingly harks with dissonant certitude, narrated by a fish who keeps losing his head, like your belch tastes like sardines and lime whiskey.

As if the consistent clash of disparate ethics unconsciously produces animate haze, within which peeps must continuously make decisions based upon theories, pragmatism, and expediency.

Within this inherently confusing pinball polemic reason resides, each situation convolutedly clarified through recourse to multivariable mayhem.

The confident decision made can lead to enigmatic trust, any hesitation and everything’s lost even if negatives shake things up.

Social media takes this potentiality to panopticonic levels, like a byzantine web a’ squelched and sticky wherein which myriad strata interconnect.

The clear and rational diagnosis can’t be relied upon to be popular, unless of course it’s fashionable for a monuments brief intersection.

There seems to be less convivial reliance on the sustainability of the collective, as divisive narratives creatively collude to exalt absolute rights.

But Ukraine’s standing tall and fighting off the Russian army.

Wish I could develop a clearer picture.

But then there'd be no maelström.

Vertigo

A detective quits the force (James Stewart as John Ferguson) after a near-death experience scars him, his partner having plunged to his death trying to desperately save him.

He can no longer deal with heights and suffers from vertigo when looking down, his adoring friend trying to aid his recovery with modest sprightly daring address (Barbara Bel Geddes as Marjorie Wood). 

An old friend suddenly gets in touch (Tom Helmore as Gavin Elster) and tells him a wild story about his wife (Kim Novak as Madeleine Elster), how he believes she thinks she's possessed by the covetous spirit of a long lost relative.

He's hired to casually follow her as she makes her way around town, visiting art collections or pleasantly shopping as the bizarro days lackadaisically float by.

But she suddenly pumps up the volume by drastically plunging into San Francisco Bay, Mr. Ferguson soon jumping in after her, after which they strike up a curious acquaintance. 

But he's too late she's too far gone he unfortunately can't do anything to save her.

He's incapacitated after her passing.

Until one day, he discovers another. 

Blind obsession compulsively drives naive Mr. Ferguson to pursue an ideal, long after the disastrous moment which harrowingly led to his quixotic conviction. 

The mind-blowing shock of regenerative love igniting latent intransitory torments, everyone around him suffering as a result as he seeks fantasized facsimile. 

It's classic Hitchcocks it's been so long since I've seen one of his striking films, the frenzied emotions the intense disbelief wrapped up in crippling uncanny lamentations. 

I saw many of them in my childhood in fact sought to see every one long ago, I even taped Vertigo off of television when but a wee lad, youthful glib impressionable contemplation.

It's an excellent film wherein which people love and love's not a bad thing, it's to be cherished, admired, even Midge is quite admirable, no doubt like hapless Edward in Kierkegaard's Seducer's Diary.

In terms of forging a general consensus amongst highly opinionated peeps, perhaps it is the best film of all time, or the one which has been begrudgingly chosen.

Almost every episode of Elementary contains a much deeper mysterious plot.

With love growing piecemeal I presume.

I must admit, I prefer Citizen Kane (and Aliens). 

21 Days

Sometimes the clearest answer's too elemental to swiftly chime, 21 Days presenting guilt and innocence as one man reacts consumed, quixotic.

For a murder has been committed, and the wrong man could indeed be hung, guilt punishing the bona fide culprit, who decides to wait for the binding verdict.

He may be found innocent you see, and then everything's right as rain, Larry Durrant (Laurence Olivier) can marry his cherished belle (Vivien Leigh as Wanda), and perhaps raise a happy family.

He didn't mean to murder her husband, who was in fact a disreputable man, they just started fighting and he wound up dead, the intent to kill never crossed his mind.

He hides the body in an alley and it's discovered by a fallen priest (Hay Petrie as John Evan), who robs it and is caught red-handed, and presumed to be the murderer.

Durrant considers giving himself up but his brother (Leslie Banks) is a prominent lawyer, who's about to be promoted to judge, the slightest scandal would ruin his career, he begs young Larry to reconsider.

While the fallen priest stands trail for murder, Larry and Wanda have 21 days, which they spend in search of bliss, sparing no expense or liberty.

But gloom haunts their freespirited endeavours as the trial nears its catastrophic end, no family, no fantasy, no future, should erroneous guilt descend.

The fallen priest doesn't even mind.

He thinks he should be punished for his desperate action.

Thus you have a devilish comedy masquerading as sincerest drama, its amoral resonance discreetly echoing, its spirited candour dissembled code.

Not me, not this blog, 21 Days.

How could audiences have figured it out when they were having so much fun?, Laurence Olivier instinctually astounding, I see why older generations loved him so.

Its fast pace and irreverent script (Basil Dean, Graham Greene & John Galsworthy [The First and the Last]) (note the legal peeps discussing their light crimes over dinner) overflow with amorous and ethical wonder, a diabolical treat for the cheeky intellect, that leaves you feeling guilty for having appreciated it.

Don't think older generations were uniformly upright with stiff upper-lips, the cheek is always trying to break through, it's just a matter of style and timing.

Great lines nuance realistic situations with audacious unorthodox levity.

The joy of filmmaking. 😜

Also known as 21 Days Together.

Reversal of Fortune

Snap judgments based upon agitated reckonings lead to pejorative sensationalized repute in Barbet Schroeder's Reversal of Fortune.

How to make someone appear guilty without making it look like you're attempting to make someone appear guilty, if they are in fact not guilty?

If they are in fact not guilty, how do you convincingly make it look like someone has attempted to make them look guilty without looking as if they were attempting to make them look guilty, before cold judicial verdicts descend?

It's basic Columbo, the televisual and cinematic world worse off without a regular dose of Columbo, and its freewheeling composed articulate dishevelled discourse, perhaps channeled by Professor Alan Dershowitz (Ron Silver) and his team in this inclusion, which asks if maligned bourgeois sentiment has predetermined an aesthete's obituary?

It's certainly quite the team.

It's incredible how many people can come together to defend or prosecute, many of them working pro bono, out of devoted respect for the law.

Engrained malfeasance.

People in positions of power exploit that power since no one holds them to account, but then someone does, it seems obvious that they're guilty, and justice adjudicates, condemning the reckless individual.

But it's still quite the task, the required reading voluminously dissonant, to transform every link into a succinct gripping narrative no small feat albeit thrilling for a motivated legal team, in possession of the facts, and interpretive plausibility, expert testimony, meticulous mechanics, it must be like playing a stable integral role in a constantly shifting production, not improvised, still rehearsed, but unaware of specific counterarguments, the speculation part of the fun, bold jurisprudent research and development.

Reversal of Fortune takes place in such a frame as Claus von Bulow (Jeremy Irons) seeks legal counsel, he's been convicted once already, and his lawyer's none too sympathetic.

He takes the case though, assembles his team, and finds evidence which contradicts his assumptions.

Upon appeal, another round of judicial observation considers the alternative facts, and the second reading makes Claus seem as innocent as he was once thought definitively guilty, differing detailed composite accounts, instructive rhetorical consommé.

People observe thousands of minute details distilled into an accessible format that leads them to make claims which back up narrative threads.

Hoping there isn't some technical distortion.

While theatrically duelling in shades.

Terminator: Dark Fate

Liked the new Terminator film.

I was surprised in the opening moments to see a beloved character shot down, and would have been angrier if that had happened much earlier, say in the 1990s, and then thought the initial terminator battle which followed was too textbook, too hasty, but after things settled down and the new parameters became clear, clearer, it took on a life of its own, and at times, seriously impressed.

I admit that I love Rise of the Machines, as I mentioned several times years ago, and Salvation isn't that bad either, although I'm not too fond of Genisys anymore.

I was partial to seeing John Connor chaotically embrace his messianic future, I suppose because it's cool to see the same characters reimagined in successive sequels, even if improbability ridiculously assails strict logic thereby, but that's the trick then, certainly, isn't it?, to make the impossible seem reasonably sound?

Rise of the Machines embraces the ridiculous aspect of reasonable improbabilities and perhaps therefore seems farcical to some, insufficiently serious in fact, lacking sombre and solemn composure.

Although I still think it does a great job of bringing Connor and Kate Brewster together, Arnold Schwarzenegger encouraging reluctant pair bonding, and as far as romantic-comedy-action-sci-fi goes, I can't think of another film that even remotely compares.

But Dark Fate works in the classic Terminator revelations well, the moments when its characters suddenly find themselves subsumed by ludicrous fact, reliant on a team they've never met before, and a plan laid out like a derelict jazz solo.

It did seem illogical that John Connor could be the only one to save the future, that no one else would rise up if he fell, especially considering how eager so many are to assert themselves, against all odds, in oppressive circumstances.

Thus, alternative computations perhaps make more sense than Highlander reckonings, uncharted territory reinvigorating discovery, a traditional plot realigned and recalibrated, repopulated with narrative variation.

It's nice to see Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) back at it. She adds a lot of depth and hasn't missed a beat.

Plus the new characters define themselves well.

Mr. Schwarzenegger lightens the mood.

And is reintroduced with paramount timing.

I suppose it's tough to diversify these films without setting them in the future like Salvation, as long as a terminator travels through time to hunt, and a future leader awaits unaware.

But if you want to keep things solemn while blending in a slight comedic touch, Dark Fate provides a noteworthy template, the dam doesn't burst, humanity fights back, and don't forget the convincing revelation scenes.

Tim Miller and his crew clearly care about the characters and sought to deliver a cool film for its fans.

Theatre troops have been performing Hamlet for centuries.

Working in contemporary themes.

Or reimagining historical authenticity.

As artificial intelligence becomes more prominent, don't Terminator films become more relevant?

So much time wasted in paranoid conflict.

Why isn't it clear there can be more than one?

Diqiu zuihou de yewan (Long Day's Journey into Night)

Anxieties of the inconsequential reimagine derelict desires, as guilt and a lack of purpose approach disdained oblivion.

Time to recollect, take stock, rediscover, make amends, recapture to crisply qualify, invigorate verbose loose ends.

Down the line, burlap breadcrumbs, wayward whispers coaxed, reclassified, far more questions than awkward answers, far more mystery than concrete clues, a fountainhead dissembling rations, the tracks followed arresting news.

What things were like when it seemed invincible, when life thrilled with chaotic refrain, as if freedom were nimbly tangible, disseminating secreted exclaim.

Ironclad substantial remonstrance disrupting carefree joys, bittersweet and bumptious longing, thick glacial abeyance.

Luo Hongwu (Jue Huang) navigates vague memories to adjust and define a feeling he can't recall, as if there's something ecstatically slumbering within exhaled mnemonic mists.

But the path isn't viscid or binding, there's still room for alternative flair, perhaps since the shoreline's receding, he's finally found something there.

Labyrinthine waking dream.

Not as unconscious as Bergman or Lynch, but still more surreal than shocked or cerebral, Gan Bi's Diqiu zuihou de yewan (Long Day's Journey into Night) reminisces to invoke cheer, without revealing aims or objectives.

There's a narrative, a story, but it's broken up like a cryptic jigsaw, with striking flashbacks that emerge unbidden, which winds clarify with mortal gravity.

Like a series of vignettes prevailingly bizarre, you can agilely pick and choose your favourites, then comatosely piece them together, with variable enlightening savour.

It approaches the macabre but never loses sight of the real, or at least what I've come to associate with logic, keeping rooted yet ready to blast off, like scaled traditional tracks mutating.

Search for the lost kernel.

Diversify breadth lengthwise.

Keep your mind active and open.

Feel free to lose sight of your goal.

*Not if you're playing professional sports.

There are shades of Inception artistically interwoven within, to keep you dislodged and uncertain, without structured definitive gains.

Have to start somewhere though, it's verifiable, at some point you have to write those first words, phrases, sentences, with some sort of goal in mind perhaps, that's bound to conjure innumerable alternatives.

Endemically.

Good companion film for Inception or Lost Highway.

I stand by my use of the word "cheer".

Diane

Guilt haunts a reliable community volunteer as her grown son's drug addiction becomes increasingly distressing.

She's sure and steady, well-oiled, remarkable, overflowing with humble self-sacrifice, always willing to lend helping hands.

She serves food to the down and out, finds time to visit sick friends, takes care of the elderly, and loves sitting back to discuss bygone days.

Except for one moment in particular, one extravagance that led to grief.

It's unknown if it brought on Brian's (Jake Lacy) troubles, but she unfortunately acts as if it was the root cause.

But she won't give up on him.

Stops by almost every day, brings him food, is critical but not overbearing, sympathizes unless he's reckless.

He responds. Seeks help. Sort of recovers. Becomes overbearing.

Their relationship's somewhat dysfunctional, Brian either wallowing in despair, or seeking to hoist the upper hand when he's sober.

Diane (Mary Kay Place) patiently deals, showcasing the unsung grace of spry active virtue.

Unassured yet sheltered.

Remorseful yet feisty.

She isn't a saint, I don't mean to suggest she's saintly, but her indiscretions are by no means scandalous, in the present moment, long after an impassioned youth.

Or young adulthood.

The time frame isn't specified but you can guess from the relative age of the characters.

A strange film nevertheless, one which possibly makes more sense if you've ever done good deeds, or been weighed down by guilt for things you haven't done, or simply like chillin' with family.

Why the film explicitly presents Diane engaged in hard drug use is a point of confusion, but notwithstanding a bizarre dream sequence, it does resonate with communal optimism, and establish a strong group of friends.

Who argue, reminisce, listen, tease, protest, are there for each other like a sponge or a duster, understand one another, facilitate, appease.

With that familiar kind of camaraderie that presumes but doesn't judge, that predicts but doesn't wager.

Diane and Brian forge a troubled symbiotic nomenclature nestled within discursive drives.

Actively administering.

Flexible choice composure.

Most of the time.

Destroyer

Overwhelmingly consumed by guilt and vengeance, a forlorn detective wearily trudges on.

Notoriously dishevelled, she struggles to deal while attempting to advise her restless daughter.

Having once infiltrated a heist prone entity, she lost everything after she failed to act.

And the individual who's haunted her for 16 years has finally resurfaced, within her reckless domain, his sights set on lucrative crime, boldly flaunting arrogant tension.

She continues to break the rules she's never followed to desperately gain an edge, and accidentally finds herself mired in steep misfortune.

Spiralling swiftly down.

Wildly reckoning sincere uncertainty.

Destroyer flexes gritty wayward concrete confrontation to adjudicate chaotic perception.

From flesh wound to break to hemorrhage to paralysis, it scoops up the lugubrity in piles of distraught doom.

Aptly succeeding at presenting direst woe, it's a little too blunt for my tastes, the intervening scenes lacking the visceral nuances that hold films like To Live and Die in L.A. or French Connection together, shocking violence erupting like periodic head shots every 8 minutes or so, or body checks in a hockey game, except that after each check the play stops and doesn't resume again, and then it suddenly starts back up and there's another check shortly thereafter before it stops again, this pattern repeating until the film's solid ending.

It's obvious that the filmmakers are capable of crafting something more subtle and nuanced and steady and memorable, something less discontinuous, or something that artistically cultivates discontinuity, but perhaps budget constraints got in the way or Destroyer's an initial offering from a fledgling craftperson, still learning to brew something less pulpy and generic.

It does function as an effective warning against both corruption and revenge however, Erin Bell's (Nicole Kidman) dismal distillation a potent reminder to let things go, no matter your gender, to move forward at some point after a period of grieving, and apply yourself with resurgent vigour to whatever tasks eventually present themselves.

Books and films and paintings and television provide limitless options to promote either contemporary or retro lifestyles.

As do sports and the daily news.

Even if even The Guardian is remarkably grim these days.

That used to be the advantage it held over The New York Times for me.  It wasn't so grim. And didn't focus on the United States so much.

It's nice when you meet people who are also living in the present regardless.

A present that isn't consumed with grasses greener.

Where resilient people make the most of their present means.

And occasionally sit back chillin'.

When all their work is done.

Lady Bird

At any given historical moment, you have powerful institutions, and powerful men and women who want to play roles within them, whether they be Jedi or Sith, whether they seek power to benefit the many or the few, the institutions exist and they need people to fill them up, in times of economic prosperity or depression, they just keep rollin', just keep rollin' on.

If religion dominates a culture, if a country's most powerful institutions are religious, Sith will be attracted to them, and will cunningly take on roles within to deviously feign virtue as they pursue oligarchic ends.

It's much simpler than launching a revolution, much less destructive, more palatable.

Thus it's men and women who pervert religious virtues for their own ends as opposed to those virtues themselves that are inherently corrupt, and if a cold hearted conniving megalomaniac seeks and gains power within a country dominated by religion, his or her tyranny would likely flourish just as it would within a democracy, assuming there were no checks and balances to restrain them, and they couldn't install loyal servants everywhere in a devout bureaucracy.

In a religious society you therefore wind up on occasion with a ruling elite who care nothing about generosity or goodwill, but are more concerned with holding onto the reigns forever, and acquiring as much personal wealth as they can meanwhile.

No matter what needs to be done to acquire it.

There are of course, other religious individuals, good people who recognize the fallibility of humankind and forgive their flocks for embracing desires that they don't encourage themselves but don't furiously condemn either.

They tend to understand that people are trying to live virtuous lives but can easily be swayed by enticing earthly passions, and spend more time trying to find constructive ends for those passions rather than condemning those who gleefully break a rule or two.

Finding religious people like this requires research and critical judgment on behalf of the curious individual, who may find a chill likeminded community if they search for it long enough.

Beware religious institutions who want large cash donations or think the world is going to end on a specific day or that science is evil or that war or racism or homophobia are good things, or that because someone saw a butterfly everyone should invest in bitcoin.

Perhaps consider the ones which argue that people shouldn't be huge assholes all the time and that communities flourish as one using science like a divine environmental conscience.

Or not, it's really up to you.

There can be a ton of associated bullshit.

But if it can stop you from being angry all the time, it may be beneficial.

In Greta Gerwig's Lady Bird, religious youth rebelliously come of age in a small moderately conservative Californian town, awkwardly experimenting with the will to party throughout, reflecting critically on wild behaviours from time to time.

Guilt and gumption argumentatively converse as a passionate mother (Laurie Metcalf as Marion McPherson) and daughter (Saoirse Ronan as Lady Bird) vigorously solemnize independent teenage drama, unacknowledged childlike love haunting their aggrieved disputes, while im/modest matriculations im/materially break away.

It's a lively independent stern yet chill caring depiction of small town struggles and feisty individualities, with multiple characters diversified within, brash innocence spontaneously igniting controversy, wholesome integrities bemusedly embracing conflict.

None of these characters are trying to rule the world, they're just trying to live within it.

Religion provides them with strength, perhaps because they live in region where it doesn't have the upper-hand.

Loved the "eager-football-coach-substituting-for-the-drama-teacher" scenes.

Not-so-subtle subtlety.

Out of sight.

El hombre de las mil caras (Smoke and Mirrors)

Cast adrift by the Spanish secret service, disgraced Francisco Paesa (Eduard Fernández) must find other ways to earn a living, his reputation for profound cunning immersed in subterfuge still resonating however, as a crooked formal national police commissioner seeks his admonishing aid.

A plan.

A forecast.

Subordinate reliability a troubling factor, as indelicate months pass and pressures mount, every detail of the plan covertly constructed, contingencies classified with hypothetical clarity.

Interminable patience required by all players, Paesa's foreseen a possible outcome, that leaves him assuredly stacked in the black.

Yet he remains loyal, faithful, truthful, subservient, theoretically, resolute calm submerged and breaching, extrajudicial outcomes speculatively splayed, thatched, patched, acrobatic burlap, either way he's set free, unless he winds up in prison.

For the rest of his life.

Interstitial estuaries.

Comet and cupid.

Compacted nerve.

Expeditiously invigorating cerebral texts and phalanxes, Alberto Rodríguez's El hombre de las mil caras (Smoke and Mirrors) keeps things smooth and steady.

It masterfully pulls you in and then harkingly hails in lockdown.

Penetratingly equipped with pertinent plights enabled, multiple primary and secondary familial and professional plot threads fading then reappearing with expert cinematic timing, thereby effortlessly attaching sub/conscious depth to its politicoethical imbroglio, El hombre de las mil caras is far beyond most of what I've seen this year, another outstanding film from M. Rodríguez.

Immaculately composed.

That's/He's still so much fun to watch.

Verifiable.

*Was into Spanish music last week. Damn it!

Moonlight

Locked-down in isolation but technically free, young Little (Alex Hibbert/Ashton Sanders/Trevante Rhodes) moves between drug abusing mother (Naomie Harris) and violently dismissive classmates as gracefully as he can, finding refuge with a childless local dealer (Mahershala Ali as Juan) whose guilty conscience and ironical good nature suggest he accommodate the boy.

An oasis helplessly haunted, Little still attends school, and the bullies still bully as he ages, as he grows, as he matures.

One way to stop bullying is to fight back but they travel in packs in Barry Jenkins's Moonlight.

Cowardice.

Little (now Chiron) does bash the most vicious of them in one day with a chair after which the police take him away, suffer in silence or respond and go to prison, not much of a childhood for the peaceful gay fatherless African American kid.

Moonlight is a sad film, a resilient film, a crucial film, a sophisticated film.

A simple story on the surface which fluently presents coy critiques of cultural codes without recourse to sentiment while patiently blending in focus, asking why is difference so frightening?, why do so many instinctively suppress it?

Difference spices things up to add alternative flavours which merge and diverge with eye-opening wonder.

Adventure.

It's as simple as bread.

Different types of bread.

White bread tastes good but one day you might try brown, then rye, then pumpernickel, then multigrain.

Then you have 5 options rather than one for making a sandwich, and can experiment to find out what tastes best, for you, on each different type.

If you have to prove you're tough by forming a group to violently suppress another or an individual, you aren't tough, you're pathetic.

If you're afraid of difference ask yourself why?, and try something new, something startling, like blue cheese or a strawberry shake.

Overcoming fears is what Men and Women do.

Took me a while to start loving olives and hot peppers.

Now I eat them all the time.

A lot of the gay people I've met are chill with a great sense of humour.

It makes for good conversation.

Not many films make as serious an impact as Moonlight while just simply presenting a story.

It's profoundly chill considering the tale it's telling.

The highs and lows.

The emptiness.

Crack ruins communities, ruins lives, makes a sewer of superlatives, which otherwise may thrive.

There's no simple solution.

Besides giving up crack.

And refusing to sell it.

If that's the economy something's seriously wrong.

It does not have to be that way.

And takes courage to turn things around.

Bravery.

Dedication.

Understanding.

Will.

In the great wide open.

Moonlight states this without saying a word.

Blessed.

Captain America: Civil War

Infused with regenerative contemplative crucibles, Captain America: Civil War reflectively considers its own mortality, reinvigorating its lifeforce thereby, with abundant earthen pyrotechnic implosions.

Like Mad Max: Fury Road, Civil War doesn't focus primarily on one or two characters, preferring to simultaneously develop several of its bracing recruits, while introducing new additions and a brilliant mild-mannered villain (Daniel Brühl as Zemo).

The super villain is usually larger-than-life, obviously enough, and it was nice to see this tendency altered with a subtle human touch.

Vision (Paul Bettany) points out how the activities of the Avengers have served to encourage antithetical tyrannical histrionics, the challenge of defeating them too irresistible for megalomaniacs to ignore, power mad lunatics who might have remained inert in their absence, inimically keeping themselves in check.

Makes sense.

But Civil War is mainly concerned with civilian casualties (like Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice), with decision making and oversight, Falcon (Anthony Mackie) reminding Captain America (Chris Evans) that the wicked are shooting at him too, the United Nations stepping in to neuter their independence.

It follows the Captain America storyline closely as Cap continues to try to save his old friend Bucky (Sebastian Stan), but I'd argue it's the 3rd Avengers film. Some of them are missing, but Civil War examines the dynamics of the Avengers much more closely than Captain America's, slowly breaking down their chummy conviviality, as Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) and Cap bitterly establish opposing factions.

The UN believes the Avengers should be held accountable for their future actions and seeks to establish a committee to decide when and where to deploy them should the forces of evil contend.

Generosity not being solely an impulse of the guilty, Stark still feels regret for the innocents who have died on his watch, and agrees that the Avengers's actions should be legally sanctioned to prevent further loss of life.

Captain America disagrees, thinking their startling efficiencies will be unnecessarily disillusioned by bureaucratic finagling and polemical delays.

The Avengers consequently divide and even battle one another as immediacy demands their intervention once more.

When they do intervene, do they do so too quickly, without applying enough thought to the side-effects of their engagements, ignoring local, national, and global laws as they save the world from imminent destruction?

Are they justified in responding instantaneously, since their enemies are usually universally threatening?

Early on in the film, a split-second decision almost releases a deadly biological agent into an urban environment, which would have likely killed thousands.

They are capable of managing such scenarios, but a slight miscalculation and they would have been responsible for the deaths.

Yet if Loki invades again with another bloodthirsty army intent on enslaving the planet, then it makes sense that the Avengers should charge in head on.

If a committee was responsible for authorizing such a defence they most likely would if they were indeed thinking clearly.

But as the aura of the Avengers intensifies and their enemies expand exponentially, how will they deal with concurrent attacks launched from different locations around the world?

Does it make sense that they each train their own specialized forces to be ready to defend different domains at the same time, the United Nations providing their counterstrikes with a centralized governing authority, with members of the Avengers advising them as needs be?

But HYDRA has undoubtably infiltrated the UN (and are perhaps working with Loki in a Vichyesque fashion) and would likely attempt to use its influence to frustrate the Avengers therewithin.

If the Avengers are guided by the UN it clears their conscience of responsibility, unless they're prevented from acting which may augment crushing pangs of guilt afterwards (I'm thinking Superman II).

The Avengers have entered the political realm, wherein most actions are polarized, no matter how many times you apologize, and a resultant stoic ambivalence enables its representatives to constructively cope with the fallout.

The best Marvel film thus far, making good on its Empire Strikes Back reference (the audacity), Captain America: Civil War cerebrally moves the franchise forward, sacrificing sensation for revelation, spry self-aware matriculation.

The action's secondary to the thought.

Big time character development.

Scenes that could have been cut are left in to the film's advantage.

It's more like solid drama than fantasy.

Blown away.

Note: sarcasm is often employed by intelligent people but watch for the person who isn't intelligent yet picks up on the fact that if you respond to something someone says sarcastically you can often win over the crowd without having to explain why you're responding sarcastically. Some people realize that all you have to do is employ the sarcastic tone without offering further explanation to win arguments without ever actually saying anything. It's just repetition. A troublesome bunch.

L'Hermine (Courted)

As it began, I was worried.

The subject matter, the trial of a man from the projects accused of killing his baby, seemed sterile, like there was nothing more to it besides the trial itself, mundane fictionalized courtroom drama, too direct, too pinpointed, polished and shrewd yet textbook and obligatory, like actual courtroom drama, a trip to the laundry, baking soda, antiseptic concrete diction.

But L'Hermine (Courted) slowly builds President Racine's (Fabrice Luchini) determined objective character with understated incisive mature solemn clarity, his courtroom strategically managed with only one goal in mind, the discovery of the truth, or, in light of insufficient evidence, the nurturing of a level-headed atmosphere within which the evidence can be clearly and concisely adjudicated.

The trial in question stands out since Racine is in love, was in love, with a member of the jury, Ditte Lorensen-Coteret (Sidse Babett Knudsen), and considering that he has a reputation for being obstinately punitive, her enlightening presence functions like a meditative emancipating regenerative balm, not distracting him from his work, but rather enabling him to approach it with warm hearted vigour as opposed to cold calculated formality.

True love?

In L'Hermine, it's true love, that true love igniting a spark of youthful innocence rarely embraced by an aging criminal court judge/President, who has spent decades in ignorance of the revelations of joy.

What I've just written is ten thousand times more sentimental than the film itself.

L'Hermine masterfully builds Racine and Lorensen-Coteret's relationship with modest narrative maturity, a total lack of sensation or antiquation, like a slowly building intellectually sustained crescendo, supported by multiple minor characters who each add melodic nuances of their own.

If someone asked the question, "can we take a routine legal drama and use intellect to illuminate the vitality of true love while keeping things plausible during a traditional criminal trial?", I would now respond by saying, "yes, yes you can."

Offering insights into the French legal system while proving that logic can amorously shine, L'Hermine keeps things professional to cleverly stylize contemporary bourgeois love.

Give it a chance.

Rawly refined.

Medium rare.

The Lady in the Van

Lickety-script, parlourized parlay, respective reflections respondents embrayed, a guest, a neighbour, interrupting the labour, coaching a fabler, ultrasounding enabler.

The savour.

A lady moves in in her van, parking on the street then in the driveway, a compassionate suburb, she becomes a distinct curiosity, troubled yet pluminescent, in her wayward harmless upbraid.

Alright, there's this writer who talks to himself, splits it between literary and day-to-day preoccupations, the imaginative side earning the scratch, the other forced to handle bills, conversation, too sympathetic to turn the lady away, too conflicted to stop thinking he should, writing the story as it unreels, thought unified in action.

It works, fussy yet comfortable comedic communal kerfuffles, both characters lost in transition diversifying their conditions to mutually suspend, mystery driving Alex Jennings (Alan Bennett) to understand Miss Shepherd's (Maggie Smith) past, tragedy romantically polishing its unveiling.

Warmhearted comedy you know, strong communities, not so obsessed with sleaze, such obsessions perhaps indicating decadence, yet still, often, hilarious.

I like these stories that write themselves without trumping everything up to exercise extreme bravado.

It does drag for 15 minutes or so but then picks up and limberly compensates.

Heart, it's great to see films with heart that aren't tearjerkingly sentimental, or, if they are like that, say in the final moments, they at least recognize such indulgences with ecstatic free-spirited self-deprecating smarm.

Gradually revealing Shepherd's past while contrasting it with current circumstances generally keeps the pace moving at a productive contemplative putter.

Assembling this and that.

Rascals.

A film that's being written while it unreels that can't get past the first 5 minutes due to all the conflicting voices might work.

It's probably been done.

Secret in their Eyes

Crushing unconscionable all-consuming guilt frenetically drives Ray Kasten (Chiwetel Ejiofor) to hunt down a vicious killer, his life having been rigidly repressed ever since he missed an appointment 13 years ago.

Defined by this moment, and the professional relationships he developed therein, he will not yield in his pursuit, and after years of struggling to surface, has finally found a constructive lead.

She still loves him.

And he still loves her, codes of conduct having sublimated their longing for unity, the flame still burns, impassioned by the meaninglessness of time.

What awaits them is what they least suspected, nocturnal netherwhirls soiled and crested, reciprocal tortuous incarcerated plumes, valiantly embittered, confiscated in ruin.

A loving team, a gregarious group, punctually paralyzed through unremitting strife.

Secret in their Eyes.

The film blends the past with the present to accentuate an atemporal thrust for resolution, and although this creates a dismal opaque omnibus, it still aptly reflects a desperate psychological sterility.

It also asks tough questions regarding the war on terror, nationally juxtaposing the private with the cultural, to add a chilling layer of vengeful domestic inquiry.

The darkness is counterbalanced by the mainstream cast whose subdued supplementary teamwork collegially cultivates the light.

Well done but missing something, Secret in their Eyes punishes to persevere, ethics timelessly emboldened, obsessive displaced haunts, enervating in its resolve.

The Look of Silence

The abysmal aftermath, intergenerational dialogues, between men forced to live with their crimes, and a thoughtful soul inquisitively vilifying them.

According to stats from The Look of Silence, a million communists were killed in Indonesia in 1965 after the military seized control and began executing its potential opposition.

Dark times.

Inimically ideological.

Fascist dogma.

Crippling legacy.

Gruesome testimony.

Many of those responsible for the systematic killings survived into old age, living a relatively comfortable life, still believing in the brutal cause they supported.

A gentle, ah, fellow citizen?, Adi Rukun, whose brother was butchered, interviews a sampling of them while Joshua Oppenheimer films their conversations.

The victims and the voracious, acknowledging they can't come to terms.

Many community members criticize Rukun for examining the issue, not wishing to see the same set of historical circumstances ignite again.

I suppose if you lived through the horror that would be a natural reaction, although ignoring/covering up history with egregiously inaccurate lies does little to compensate its concerned ethical descendants.

Silence.

The silence itself possibly creating the tension it hopes to obscure.

The circumstances likely wouldn't repeat themselves.

And acknowledging the truth, like acknowledging scientific truth, looks less internationally pathetic.

More questions than answers here.

Dangerous questions to ask.

Integral to social justice.

Miraculum

Flight plans, guilt-ridden, felicitous, miserable, and emancipating flight plans, desperately intermingle differing degrees of shock, immersed in Daniel Grou's Miraculum, as risks deteriorate familial stabilities, and the concept of vice, is multifariously de/moralized.

Synoptic suffering.

A weary outcast attempts to make amends through profits earned from drug smuggling.

An affair crushes and/or enlivens the members of two elderly couples.

Distant addictive empty partners seek to rejuvenate their marriage.

A struggling Jehovah's Witness is tempted by secular advancements (blood transfusions).

The four stories downtroddenly unfurl within and without (like Babel or Tian zhu ding), lucidly pinpointing vectorized vertices, occasionally peaking ensemble, dedicating a despondent deconstructive density to open-minded conscientious plights, which resists clear and distinct binding generalizations, to materially matriculate the mundanely divine.

Although communal belonging is fluidly challenged as unforgiving bulwarks fortify their positions.

Wherein resistance is rather futile.

Miraculum isn't like pastis, milk, and honey, more like a caressing melancholic ideological tempest, compelling in its whirlwinds, tight, multifaceted, challenging.

Editing by Valérie Héroux.

Written by Gabriel Sabourin (Valérie Beaugrand-Champagne consulting).

It breathes difficult distinct tetralectics into profound ethical quotients, corrugating crisp conceptions of the beautiful, rationally masterminded, exacting, composed.

Keeping you focused at full attention.

Built to multilaterally stimulate.

Whitewash

Bland mundane blunt verisimilitudes cordially plow absurd fail-safes in Emanuel Hoss-Desmarais's campy Whitewash.

It's not that it's bland.

The characters and situations are somewhat bland but the ways in which they mitigate predetermined discourses of the sympathetic hyperstylizes their cerebral forthcomings.

A down-to-earth puzzling routine pervasively co-opts its miscalculated immersions but Bruce's (Thomas Haden Church) struggle to legitimize his poorly executed attempts to avoid the truth apply a lively coat of untarnished wherewithal.

During his discussions with Paul (Marc Labrèche), and others, he tries not to be blunt, but lacks the finely tuned verbal veneers necessary to convivially cloak his to-the-point observations, although he doesn't have many alternatives when interacting with Paul, whose death may not even be as accidental as it appears.

He remains cordial while hiding-out in the wilderness but guilt and fear infiltrate his interactions, causing him to appear awkward and creepy, loneliness, indulgence, bad luck.

He has to pick up supplies from time to time.

He drives a snow removal machine.

The more I think about it, the film seems less and less absurd, as if it's trying to trick you into thinking it's absurd by exfoliating the unexceptional.

Which makes for some constructive camp.

The previews were pleasantly misleading.

I've wanted to see this since I heard Thomas Haden Church was being paired-up with Marc Labrèche.

Brilliant.

Casting by Margery Simkin.

If you're thinking, this winter's been long and harsh, go see this film.

Not only is it worth seeing, it's perfect for a long harsh winter's February.

On par with Premier Amour and Vic + Flo ont vu un ours.

We Need to Talk about Kevin

Demon spawn is birthed in Lynne Ramsay's We Need to Talk about Kevin and provided with access to a vindictive bow.  Eva Khatchadourian (Tilda Swinton) isn't the most outwardly loving mother/person and Kevin (Ezra Miller, Jasper Newell, Rock Duer) is by no means a happy responsive son. Seen through the lens of Eva's guilt ridden memories, being alive and eventually having to contribute to the continuing development of a community seems to have caused Kevin no end of pain. As he ages, this pain transforms into wickedness as he finds ways to disruptively take part. Possessing a bleak miserable cynical outlook, he flagitiously predicts the outcomes of various interactions with mom and does his best to ensure they flourish repeatedly.

All the while getting along well with his father (John C. Reilly) and enjoying the comforts of a suburban lifestyle.

The film itself is cunning, cutting, and challenging, generating pathos and humour within its sardonically stark yet traumatically playful frames. It juxtaposes parenting methodologies with communal judgments while stoically capturing a subject's helpless resolve as she formulaically attempts to domestically enact a traditional characterization of a mother's role while remaining unable to convincingly fake the requisite emotion. Kevin seemingly makes her pay for her dispassion by doing everything he can to provoke her rage. After one significant miscue, she retreats into an apathetic posture with the intent of never displaying her reckless anger again. Little Kevin becomes increasingly sinister, his dad maintains that boys will be boys, and dread tempered with disbelief crystallizes deep within her psyche.

We Need to Talk about Kevin uses the opposition established between demon spawn and reluctant mother to comic effect while making you feel guilty for finding parts of it funny. The bits of dark humour are intermittently interjected between the aftershocks of Kevin's calculated psychotic rampage which display Eva's unfortunate neighbourly predicament from multiple interpersonal angles. Hence, the mood shifts frequently and is orchestrated with a subtle expertise which disables one-dimensional attachments while still managing to sustain an appealing fluid uniformity (the mood creatively changes but as each scene takes on a life of its own they become united through the act of continuous non-chaotic formal diversification), these mood shifts reflecting the internal psychological dilemmas publicly banished from Eva's complacent demeanour.

It's well done.