Everything Everywhere All at Once

Multivariable universes loosely interconnected through tenuous familiarity, simultaneously emergent disproportionately taxing impeccably embellished latent hyper-reactivity. 

Perhaps every decision made unleashes alternative inconclusive realities, wherein which parallel characteristics authenticate ill-considered plans.

For each life, millions of distinct worlds invariably populate unique dimensions, which themselves continuously generate immutable mutations in a subjective infinity.

Perhaps it isn't a matter of corporeal space that the physical itself is in fact limitless, like compiling date online, how many electrons in a verbose atom?

Things take shape and manifest consistency during waking hours relatively structured, but just as the rotation of the Earth is imperceptible, perhaps sundry interdimensional interstices flourish undetected.

A brilliant way to travel between them is poetically realized in Everything Everywhere All at Once (apart from dreams), as an active mind abounding with creativity embraces overbearing disillusion.

As family pressures and economic doldrums reach discombobulating heights, escape can no longer be sublimated if it isn't the right thing to do.

She's (Michelle Yeoh as Evelyn Wang) done the right thing in many respects and has never abandoned her responsibilities, even as her father (James Hong as Gong Gong) consistently belittles her, and her wayward daughter (Stephanie Hsu as Joy Wang) refuses to help.

She's kept everything held together with infinite patience and herculean resolve, but one day it all breaks down as she embraces grave ontological flux.

That dangerous question - to be scrupulously avoided, "what if I'd done that instead?", is intensely multiplied ad infinitum, as she encounters representatives from manifold worlds, disparate lives she may have lived.

She has an active imagination so the alternative potential is tremendously profound, comic book confounding and consternating quandaries suddenly disintegrating routine life.

It's one part exceptional nervous breakdown curiously bewildering material reality, and a brilliant synthesis of fantasy and reality somewhat like magical scientific realism. 

I wonder what people who don't like comic books will think of Kwan and Scheinert's conundrum, the ways in which obsessive practicality is suddenly fantastically disposed?

Or how the comic book aficionados will inquisitively consider the realistic intrusion, the reification of their abstract dreams perhaps passionately unappreciated?

I like this kind of thing and the poetic transdimensional drive (you can jump between worlds if you figure out the improbable poetic thing to say or do in any situation), who didn't spend hours imagining such things in their youth, perhaps not with so much detail?

A mother's strength radiates incarnate.

Thankfully not in a world without feeling. 

Classic postmodern impetus.

My favourite Oscar nominee this year (it's super zeitgeisty, if you believe in that sort of thing).

Co-starring Raccoonie.

Skylines

An alien/human hybrid lives nonchalantly off the grid, remorse constricting personal ambitions, due to a failure to act in battle.

She's diligently sought after however à cause de her extraterrestrial expertise, a new mission having been spearheaded to search for booty on an alien homeworld.

A war was fought between human and alien in the not so distant past, from which terrans emerged victorious, the military mind still engaging recalibrated hypotheticals as it worries about the future.

After the war, abundant alien pilots were freed from coerced somnambulism, making their home on planet Earth thereafter, perhaps fighting to protect animal rights.

But a virus is transforming them back into mindless grasping automatons, who rile and ravage everything they see, in chaotic grand decrepitude. 

Rose (Lindsey Morgan) accepts the mission and soon it's off to the far reaches of space, her compatriots bluntly unveiling envy, while wondering if she'll freeze once more.

But something much more sinister is recklessly salvaged after they furiously crash land, embittered genocidal knowledge which facilitates lofty commands.

Will they outwit Deep Space Nine's Alexander Siddig (Radford) in time to stop the raging pandemic?

Or will coldhearted unaccommodating vengeance seal the fate of millions?

It's emphatic fast-paced sci-fi abounding with hyperreactive apocalyptic import, scene after scene fuelling kinetic reconnaissance through altruistic embellished endeavour.

Astronomical odds extenuating precision displaced diasporas conceived reconciliation, the low budget spirit ascending judiciously through wave upon wave of nimble creation.

Perhaps somewhat too catastrophic inasmuch as genocide is always distasteful, the grim sadistic paranoid leadership unimpressed with interspecial acculturations. 

Nuclear strikes etcetera aren't well-timed with the current political climate, since just a short time ago disarmament goals were radically scoffed at.

Nevertheless, it is just a film operating outside political theatre, perhaps still commentating on jingoistic pretensions in order to encourage less destructive initiatives. 

In fact in the final moments political prisoners are discovered and their release encouraged, a collection of soulful dissenting voices who vigorously critiqued warlike passions.

Cool sci-fi thoughtfully nurturing multilateral collegiality. 

We can think the same way about animals.

And bring those on the brink back from extinction. 

The Predator

The Predator franchise having adjourned several years past on a rather unexpected bone-trilling high note, I was quite eager to entertain its brave successor, inasmuch as it seemed reasonable that it would reach even greater heights, hope logically characterized through lighthearted thrift, the lack of prolonged accompanying anticipatory proclamations (trailers) further augmenting wondrous presumption,  I imagined it would impress, if not at least, mischievously diversify.

Yet it seems as if the new team was somewhat overwhelmed by their preceding act, and therefore sought transformative comedic consolidations, the resultant feature perhaps shocking resigned traditionalists, who no doubt stayed till the campy end regardless.

Not to say that Shane Black's unique approach lacks merit, but the Predator films do generally attempt to frighten, relying more heavily on horror than the absurd, often tending to terrify demonstrously.

Within elite commandoes find themselves replaced with a duty-free band of misfits, who have the audacity to tell jokes and exalt mischief, the rapidly paced loosely structured plot maladroitly reflecting their shenanigans, the resulting synthesis bizarrely endearing, typically tantalizing withheld revelations, bluntly shared, unabashed, tomfoolery.

It's more like a keg party than a night out at Saint-Bock, enthusiasm and excess carelessly abounding without taking much time to consider effect, mood, ambience, or likelihood.

Correspondingly, solutions readily present themselves, albeit in an inebriated way, chaotic resiliencies flying high on adrenaline, a family caught up in the jetstreamed carnage.

It's like Joes who haven't done much research suddenly find themselves experientially reaching ingenious conclusions, heavily saturated with kitschy ingenuity, as unconcerned as they are bewildered.

But even if they charmingly hypothesize, they can't outwit the film's brazen capacity.

It is fun though.

I like what they're trying to do, i.e, write a critical horror/comedy, and they mention all kinds of cool things like buses and science and global warming.

Plus it's co-starring Jake Busey (Keyes).

But the script could have perhaps used another round of edits, during which perhaps the predator dog idea would have been reimagined or left out.

A courageous attempt not lacking in ambition that still goes way too far, while mischievously diversifying no less, The Predator may have seriously impressed had it been crafted with more critical insight.

It may convince people to start thinking more seriously about climate change though.

Climate change is definitely real within.

And hopefully still will be in upcoming sequels.

*I never even listened to the Yardbirds!

Harrumph!

Inhumanwich!

Global annihilation, voraciously presenting itself as conscious highly radioactive ground beef, sets out to capitalistically aggrandize, or plain and simply gluttonously devour.

Cincinnati unassumingly resting upon its sloppy path, a team of reluctant scientific heroes spontaneously joes to whopperifically flame-broil.

Lovin' every single carcinogenic prostate sizzle, heavily armed militaristic imprecision must recklessly engage, unable to determine if it can leave a lasting impression, it randomly improvises, and cartographically refills.

Only one person, in the known universe, can withstand the demon's exacting crawl, a mild-mannered limitless consumer, once, vocationally renowned.

Allergic to onions though he may be, willingly accepting his herculean labour, proceeding as would a wild boar possessing tusks of immortality, he eternally embraces his bold ephemeral hunger.

With room left over for pizza.

Covered with anchovies of old.

Sometimes it isn't fair to judge a film based upon merit, success, ingenuity, exoneration, originality, genius, appetite, intergalacticity, gumption, nope, sometimes a minimalist application of spirited inanity is the crucial critical factor to be haphazardly applied, whether the film has a low budget, a lack of concern, no goals, passion, agenda, rules, regulations, form working hand in hand with content inasmuch as it's quickly thrown together to castigate lacks of foresight, fast food or meat consumption in this instance, effort, yes, there might be effort, and the trick may be to indubitably judge if the film was effortlessly made or cheaply constructed, a beautiful thing or bilious impulse, perhaps simply a two day old baguette, tart treacle, meat that passes the smell test, or healthy yet aggravating nicorette gum, whatever the criteria, its bombastic sentience irresponsibly euthanizes audacity, while emphasizing bromantic good times, or feminist bewilderment.

Perhaps also indestructibility.

Bamboozled in boisterous fey jocose panini, wisecracked inherent impediments exclaim gargantuan folio.

Did they at least fail to attempt to innovate in any way while confidently transmitting an unreasonable lack of sophistication?

Did they at least refuel the status quo with disingenuous yet hearty absurd incredulous compunction?

Did they not even try to give everything they've got without seeming hopelessly and aimlessly incompetent?

I'd watch it again, regardless, if that means anything, this pan-fried indigestible Inhumanwich!

A bit more time and money and they might seriously impress some day.

Solid indistinct blunt metaphorical mischief.

Still much better than The House.

Midnight vegetarianism?