Mandabi

The potential acquisition of a significant sum encourages excitement within a devout family, wives eager to eat rather well, a husband thinking about making loans to his friends. 

A grievous problem distresses nevertheless since he has no identification to speak of, and needs a birth certificate to cash the money order, and has no experience with bureaucracy.

It's awkward to watch as a predatory legion of pouncing perpetrators cheat and swindle him, his innate good nature abounding with trust yet rather unaccustomed to banks and business.

His heart's a good one and he encourages charity and likes to help out whenever he can, the arguments he makes to justify his largesse soundly structured and honestly thriven. 

But his country has yet to introduce public education and many are unfamiliar with dissolute tricks, remaining faithful and full of goodwill yet at times oblivious to the wolves surrounding.

Even with sound education the situation mutates and new issues develop, imagine how much simpler and more enjoyable things would be if you didn't have to take so many possibilities into consideration.

It's baffling to see so many of the same issues still manifesting within the news, as thoughts of progression from one's memorable childhood tempt thoughts of sociocultural disillusionment.

Teachers often genuinely care for the cultural well-being of their students, and provide relevant applicable advice that can be of great benefit in the world at large.

They can teach you a lot about advertising and how various schemes are trying to cheat you, if you learn how to spot them you may save a great deal and not look foolish from time to time.

Unfortunately, the world of commerce is intently aware of the challenge of teachers, and the ways in which such challenges decrease their profits and make it harder for them to trick you.

I often imagine that's why teaching is so severely criticized in the U.S and not as well-paid in some jurisdictions as it is in continental Europe.

As teachers try to help people learn how to avoid being cheated, the people cheating them accuse them of treachery and decrease their wages and credibility in turn.

Does a trusty glass of red wine every evening attempt to cheat you within such a scenario, or does it deconstruct the inconsistency with relevant ethereal coherent reckoning?  

Good music aligned with your tastes makes a strong complement harmoniously speaking. 

A figure eight, another Jets playoff win.

A walk down the boulevard.

The most recent exhibit. 

Unknown

A brilliant doctor resilient and dependable arrives with his wife at a conference in Europe, the two looking forward to innovative discussions throughout the upcoming thought provoking week (Liam Neeson as Dr. Martin Harris and January Jones as Elizabeth Harris).

But Mr. Harris forgets a suitcase at the airport and must return with improvised haste, a random accident then suddenly sending his swift moving cab into the river.

He wakes in the hospital four days later confused and uncertain of his identity, flashbacking memories intermittently bombarding his worried bewildered forlorn consciousness. 

Enough memories are pieced together to locate his wife back at the hotel, but she's claiming another man is her husband (Aidan Quinn as Dr. Martin Harris), and he has the credentials to prove it.

Dr. Harris A has no supporting documentation and is alone in a foreign city, his only contacts the irritated cab driver (Diane Kruger as Gina) and an old school Stasi agent (Bruno Ganz as Ernst Jürgen).

But as they help him piece things together determined hitpeople come viciously calling.

His life hanging in the chaotic balance.

If he can determine which life is his own.

Identities ephemeral consistent mutating sculpted and warped through variable circumstances, sincere lighthearted earnest scenarios generating alternative fluid trajectories. 

In Dr. Harris's case, a traumatic shock engenders tumultuous transmutations, childlike innocence serendipitously resuscitated with headstrong free contradictory will.

As if latent wondrous ethical senses habitually reside within unobstructed awareness, a less reserved curious luminous syndication ethereally materialized through pneumonic flux.

Divergent associates proceed reflexively according to malleable regenerative factors, expectations foiled with animate nuance or transformatively adorned with newfound resonance. 

New sets of variables present cherished fascinations as inquisitive impulses react with the arts, ahistorical multilateral syntheses composing flexible dynamic spectrums.

Acquiring new knowledge leads to the reinterpretation of staple favourites convivially collected, the reinvigoration of personal relationships, intricate staunch identity.

Dr. Harris makes a go of it in Canada and Québec as so many adventurous people do.

Not that anything's written in stone.

Unknown wildly entertains throughout. 

The Sleepover

A day proceeds according to routine habitual chill random expectations 😜, imaginary impulses confidently broadcast, friends consulted, schoolwork resumed.

For a sister the evening's provocative inasmuch as a wild party awaits (Sadie Stanley as Clancy Finch), her brother looking forward to a wholesome sleepover camped out in his old school backyard (Maxwell Simkins as Kevin). 

But earlier in the day, he was caught on video, randomly gesticulating with animate poise, his mother critiquing the mean-spirited cinematographer, who posted the private moment to YouTube.

Par for the course, although potentially harmful to his budding young developing self-esteem, he isn't phased, content and casual, back at it self-aware renditions.

Yet calamity strikes through shocking revelation later on in the laidback night, for his mom was also featured in the cantankerous clip (Malin Åkerman as Margot), which was viewed by curious millions.

Including the old gang of thieves she once led in an alternative life, before relocating to witness protection, they attempt to make larcenous headway.

Assertive coercion reluctant submission an awkward reunion impacting immediacy, her newfound cherished bourgeois family life haunting imposed begrudged nostalgia. 

Her husband's been kidnapped too and is unaccustomed to reckless crime (Ken Marino as Ron). 

He enjoys running his bakery.

Ordering pizza, PTA meetings.

High stakes shenanigans jocosely materialize inordinately spastically ensue, as requisite improbability seeks fortuitous fortune, by any spirited means necessary.

The mood is lightheartedly salient insofar as it lacks ostentatious pretensions, preferring to harness lackadaisical endearment as it crafts ill-conceived adventure.

Youthful trials are mischievously mixed with sober mature yet resigned matriculation, the resultant intergenerational mayhem concocting playful atemporal innocence.

The application of logic seems ill-suited to this specific endeavour, since applications of reasonability would instantly stultify its joie de vivre. 

Simkins delivers a performance that tumultuously holds things together, his intense emphatic enthusiasm as joyful as it is productively mischievous.

So important to embrace freeform unabashed inspired horseplay at times, as long as it isn't causing a ruckus, that results in grievous discernment.

It's great to see exuberant expression overflowing with novel unconcern.

Untamed and unrestrained.

Absurd creative momentum.

Amistad

The 19th century.

A group of slaves being transported at sea courageously revolts and takes control of the vessel.

Unfamiliar with nautical logistics, they rely on two former captors to sycophantically steer, but weeks later provisions grow slim, and they're forced to gather fresh supplies on land.

They weren't being led back to Africa as promised, and are soon detected by the American navy, who imprisons them as runaway slaves, thinking their bondage was secured legally.

At the time, Britain has nobly outlawed slavery but Spain still permits human trafficking, the Spanish crown seeking to reobtain what it claims is its property, the Americans confused by conflicting demands.

If the individuals whose freedom has been denied turn out to have been born in a Spanish country, they then belong to the Spanish crown, or the scoundrels who acquired them on its behalf, and, unfortunately, there's little the abolitionists can do.

But since they were illegally obtained in Africa their rights to freedom have been scurrilously denied.

But their lawyer needs to prove they came from Africa.

And he can't speak their language.

It takes quite some time in fact before they find someone who can, and even with the reliable African testimony, the Africans still have to prove their innocence three times.

Amistad covers a lot of ground as it champions liberty and freedom, intertwining multiple diverse threads as it weaves a compelling plot.

The independence of the American courts is analyzed through political intrigue, since the freedom of the wrongfully enslaved Africans will enrage the American South.

President Van Buren (Nigel Hawthorne) is worried about losing the next election, but also about starting a civil war, so he interferes behind the scenes, although he thankfully can't guarantee specific outcomes.

The abolitionists approach Christianity with open-minded considerate impacts, religion at times an instrument of persecution, here it pursues social justice.

Amistad is at its best as lawyer Roger Sherman Baldwin (Matthew McConaughey) gets to know his clients, notably the feisty Cinque (Djimon Hounsou), who led the sublime revolt in question.

As they slowly learn to communicate a world of enriching ideas opens up, Baldwin interested in learning about African customs, Cinque generally frustrated by appellate courts.

Kindness and understanding guide Amistad's resiliency, as it concentrates on compassionate endeavours, interwoven into a practical dynamic.

Its graphic depiction of slavery's innate horrors encourage impassioned just pursuits.

Difficult to imagine anyone could have ever treated people that way.

Amistad successfully assails such injustice.

*Billions of animals still suffer from much worse circumstances around the world. The abuse inflicted is horrifying. I'm glad so many people are trying to change things.

The Island

Every day like every other, a clone colony habitually persisting, keeping productive, following the rules, maintaining social distance, no need for further questions.

They believe they've survived a plague that has destroyed all life above ground, and that they're lucky to have escaped civilization's wanton biological destruction.

They have friends and abundant contacts but everything's been accounted for, there isn't the slightest most minuscule deviation from their overlord's strategic plan.

Traditionally this passes unnoticed, like routine shifts undiversified ubiquitous, until one clone (Ewan McGregor as Lincoln Six Echo) starts to question his existence, thereby challenging the consummate order.

There's one way to overcome confinement, they must be chosen to move to the island, the last vestige of sustainable life, still enriching upon the surface.

A glorious day if they win the lottery, full of felicity and jaunty applause, vigorous opportunities surely awaiting, joyous pastimes inveterate pause.

But while sleuthing Six Echo discovers an unspoken terrifying master narrative, which he must share with his blind compatriots, if they're ever to know robust justice.

He breaks free with his frightened love interest (Scarlett Johansson as Jordan Two Delta) to the unforgiving world beyond, mercenaries intent on tracking them down, as they flee for the wilds of Los Angeles. 

Perhaps not the best time to be reviewing The Island, considering its metaphorical import, but it is just a film after all, and COVID-19's a viral reality.

Frustrating to see the spread of fake news which refuses to believe COVID-19 exists, which doesn't take the pandemic seriously, such narratives will only ensure the plague intensifies.

You can also see The Island as a metaphorical critique of working in unregulated industry, without safety procedures or sick days, or pension or difference or critique.

You can work for months for years without incident, but to last decades without sustaining injury is against the imposing odds.

Thus you live in relative comfort with everything provided for year after year, but eventually you have to make sacrifices which seriously endanger your health.

Critiques of the situation aren't tolerated, and accessible knowledge only relates to your job, you can get to know people but not seriously, and you're stuck eating what a computer suggests.

The ending's like the emergence of self-employment, or paid sick leave, higher wages, and an ombudsperson, plus the ability to live somewhere else besides work, and spend your income on manifold goods and services.

If I remember correctly The Island wasn't well received but I'd argue it's one of Michael Bay's best. 

I've never seen him so concerned with social justice.

It's solid thought provoking sci-fi.

Tanin no kao (The Face of Another)

A man's face is badly disfigured in an accident at work, and no one can ease the pain he feels in the bitter shocking aftermath.

Both his wife and boss offer sympathy and paths to follow to attain new heights, but brutal depression sets in, and he won't freely listen to anyone.

He covers his face with bandages and proceeds forlorn and ornery, firm resolute disintegration, a total collapse of drive and will.

But he learns of a highly exceptional procedure that could supply him with a new face, a procedure to which he responds without doubt or hesitation or misgiving.

Delicate steps must be carefully taken to ensure surgical success, legal matters presuming a backdrop that codifies mistaken identity.

The doctor's quite idealistic and sees the potential for soulful growth, the cultivation of new beginnings, a miraculous second chance.

Meanwhile others with similar afflictions wander out and about throughout town, producing unfortunate Frankenstein effects, as they simply try to converse and observe.

I remember reading Frankenstein as a kid, it's a fascinating book, I recommend it.

What really struck me as I was reading it was how tender and loving Frankenstein initially is, as he observes humanity cautiously from afar, before they discover his startling appearance.

They may have had a scholar or a caregiver to help nurture and develop on their hands, if they hadn't reacted with fright, if they hadn't turned him into a monster.

I remember a time before shows like The Bachelor became popular, and the shock amongst my friends when they were first released, I understand that a lot of people love them, but do they not lack genuine depth?

Isn't there still something to be said for personality and conversation and the ways in which they can overcome aesthetic concerns, isn't it more important to be able to talk to someone than just to stare at them in bold excess?

The doctor in Tanin no kao (The Face of Another) doesn't let his grief overwhelm him, but when he discovers his patient wants to use his new face to seduce his wife, not the doctor's wife, it's somewhat of an ethical downer.

The film starkly examines basic instinct at an honest yet derelict level, preferring to directly interrogate desire rather than more profound applications of the intellect.

It's not that it misses the point or proceeds in error or wallows in emotional discord, rather it diagnoses unsettling social characteristics, and critiques them with morose candour.

I imagine people watching the film find the grim reality distressing, and perhaps see themselves somewhat determined to promote compassion afterwards.

It's bleak to be sure and doesn't offer much from the despondent view of its principal character.

Who's given an irresistible reprieve.

And still can't search for something higher.

Dead Ringers

Symbiotically existing in enriched systemic ecology, unwavering strict calisthenic sophistication, enraptured cozy charismatic extroversion, hesitant timid imaginative reserve, it's nice to share things, to openly bond with your closest friends, to have someone who listens intently, no matter what, with supportive perceptive inquisitive professionalism, inflating recourse to the sensual, with compelling jocose trust.

But from a rigid analysis of the potent data provided, it's clear they've never fallen in love, nor entertained the influence of an other, nor experimented outside of work.

Fraternal camaraderie bromantically heeled and coalesced, a love interest offers escape, from nothing other than endemic exclusion.

And as one twin rises, the other falls apart, the two still irrevocably united, as jealousy struts and strays.

Dark reckonings hark the one, as wild recreation threatens everything he's worked for, the other firmly relying on his research, and their unyielding warm fidelity.

If only he hadn't introduced temptation.

If only they'd persisted in nascent womb.

Dead Ringers bluntly interrogates duality, as purest electrosynthesis meets dialectical destruction.

Infusing interstellar heights with nebulous oblivion, it diagnostically conceives a tragic provocation.

The blend of successful starstruck elegance and distraught candid mayhem produces an unsettling effect, purest material Cronenberg, even as he approaches the lofty mainstream.

I actually skipped this one years ago when I was eagerly renting his early films, because I was worried it'd be too bourgeois, like he'd done something John Waters or John Carpenter would never do, for which I could find no categorical compulsion.

I remained deathly afraid.

But the result's nothing too scary, although it's quite different from Scanners or Videodrome, it's like Cronenberg's trying to do something more traditional (a drama) but still can't restrain himself, so it unreels like a high brow slightly grotesque farce, that's descended into chaos by the end.

Would have been cool if they had found partners at the same time, or had pursued l'amour less sophomorically.

Cohesive reflexive unity.

Extensively engrained.

Socioculturally cocooned.

Still not enough Jeremy Irons (Beverly and Elliot Mantle).

Don't wait an extra 15 years.

Captain Marvel

Spoiler Alert.

There was another time, dynamically transisting not long after the synthesized age, during which new technologies arose and alternative art forms flourished, perhaps lacking the clarity of its legendary progenitor, it still effortlessly distinguished itself in unsung awestruck parallel, and racism wasn't tolerated, and collectives were still ontologically featured, working people still telling their tales, which were told with honour and integrity.

Captain Marvel unreels in such a frame, and its characters find sanctuary within.

Although conflict and peril do bellicosely present themselves, and the keys to the past lie dormant in shielded oblivion.

Representatives of a colonialist empire come covetously calling after a pocket of resistance fighters escapes with one of their soldiers.

As resourceful as she is unyielding, Carol Danvers (Brie Larson) sets out upon Earth to discover truths dissimulated.

She is aided in her pursuits by feisty Agent Fury (Samuel L. Jackson), who is still somewhat green, and unaware of extraterrestrial life.

Thus, even though Captain Marvel excels at cultivating the new, it's also an origins story, the tantalizing mélange simultaneously revelatory on at least two distinct temporal levels.

Spatially pontooned.

It starts out slow, not that the action isn't constant, but it takes awhile to find its footing, as Danvers gradually learns more about her former self.

Or at least how to go about learning more about that self.

But it gets better as it proceeds, its overt focus on identity transformation skilfully worked into its cinematic ecology.

It uses comedy but isn't flip, takes things seriously to break them down, works in some Indiana Jones, and creatively plays with cyberspatial time difference.

Time differentials.

It may be my favourite Marvel film, inasmuch as it vigorously stands out on its own.

Great acting all around, but Lashana Lynch (Maria Rambeau) steals several scenes, she totally makes the most of her role, and perhaps delivers the best Marvel supporting performance to date.

Cool soundtrack too.

There's a surprising twist you don't often find in these films as well.

Oddly, even though I don't believe that aliens taught the ancient Egyptians anything, but rather that their geniuses created pyramids etc. while ours built hydrogen fuel cells, and the internet, the genius of a particular time, any given time, even caveperson time, making the most of the materials at her or his disposal, crafting ingenious artifacts/theories/structures/. . .  accordingly, while modifying them at times as he or she sees fit, I still entertained the notion that cats had been brought here by aliens one day, because the ancient Egyptians worshipped them, so I've heard, and, so far, it hasn't been possible to domesticate large raccoon populations, and I was discussing this with a friend one day, and I turned to look and saw his cat staring at me intently, with an otherworldly look on his face.

It's utterly ridiculous of course, but I still appreciate the mystery, and unless Robert E. Kahn and Vint Cerf (the internet guys according to wikipedia) turn out to have really come from space, or to have taken orders from alien rulers, I'll lean heavily towards the terrestrial origins of cats, until substantially proven otherwise.

Those little cuties.

😜

Serenity

Something strange, something not quite right, in Serenity's opening moments.

Throughout the first half of the film.

There's a vague concealed derelict somnambulistic longing haunting social relations in the beginning, like a prolonged robot hangover that's been nauseously programmed.

Disaffection, I kept thinking, I'm bound to hear the word "surreal" used to describe this film, as if its otherworldliness is a product of subconscious reckoning, as opposed to a McFlurry saturated with kalúha.

That sounds good.

But you could use the word surreal to describe it, as it progresses, in the commercial sense,
like you would use it if you were still caught up in the mainstream, still unfamiliar with less traditional surrealistic applications.

Boldly crafting alternative traditions of their own.

The surrealism becomes more pronounced and less McDreamy after down-on-his-luck fisherperson Baker Dill (Matthew McConaughey) is tasked with murdering his ex-wife's (Anne Hathaway as Karen Zariakas) utterly loathsome new husband (Jason Clarke as Frank Zariakas) to the tune of a vindictive 10 million.

It's not just that though, there's something else, something more subtle, more puzzling, more disorienting, more real.

Or surreal I suppose. 😉

A salesperson (Jeremy Strong as Reid Miller) shows up with the kind of clarification that doesn't prove or explain anything yet still shuffles the narrative off to different directions, a clever intriguingly frustrating device often used on shows like Twin Peaks or The X-Files, that keeps you genuinely desiring more even if the obscurity leaves you wanting.

The resultant delirium is quite surreal as an identity transformation bewilderingly transcends without any loss of the hermetic I.

The anxiety harrowingly increases at both conscious and unconscious levels as Baker continues to act under extreme existential duress.

The film's uninspiring first half is justified as an experimental work in progress, whose author was still crafting his own remarkable tensions, the film as a whole perhaps meant to metaphorically present a film lover's growth, as they start looking beyond commercial horizons to something less pronounced and material.

It's a strong synthesis of the blasé and the risk-fuelled that comments upon these concepts without saying anything, a mind-meld of the traditional and the experimental that effectively synergizes hesitant abandon.

Looking forward to seeing more of what Steven Knight has to offer.

I'm reminded of Tarsem Singh.

Not sure as to why.

Liu Lang Di Qiu

In the not too distant future, our sun can support terrestrial life no longer.

Seeking to avoid humanity's extinction, countries around the world internationally forge the United Earth Government.

And it is decided that a new sun must be sought in the Alpha Centauri system, and that Earth must be propelled there by gigantic fusion powered thrusters strategically located around the imperilled globe.

As the Earth's rotation ceases, after the jets are turned on, colossal tidal waves shock the surface dwelling population, many others eventually finding refuge beneath its inhospitable crust.

These subterranean cities bravely incubate civilization and boldly rear the next generation with feisty underground enterprise.

But Earth's path leads it too close to miserly Jupiter, whose cruel and voracious gravity gravely threaten interstellar propulsion.

Fortunately, two mischievous youths, a brother and sister no less, have recklessly made their way to the frozen surface, strict punishment swiftly awaiting, as massive earthquakes malign worldwide.

Little did they know, when they set out that day, that they would become integral leaders in a wild improvised effort to reignite the disabled thrusters and break free from Jupiter's clutches.

The world desperately requiring resolve.

The planet galactically inducing their reckoning.

Frant Gwo's Liu Lang Di Qiu takes sci-fi to another level, courageously imagining the most distraught of extremes, then audaciously presenting them with enriched hope-fuelled probability.

Manifold variables are symphonically strung as tumultuous dispersals chaotically sizzle.

Catastrophe strikes with dependable fidelity as constant threats harken cold glacial stark entropy.

Team-based integrity internationally coalesced accentuates cooperative benefits that unleash instincts eternal.

Identity politics challenge concepts of belonging as shortsighted prejudices are critiqued and exposed.

The world, faced with an overwhelming discombobulating uprooting discourteous challenge, comes together to thwart impossibility, ensuring continuous life thereby, plus innovative infused prosperity.

As it should to combat global warming.

In an unprecedented aware multilateral interconnected age.

It would have been cool if there had been more animals in the underground cities.

A planetary meow.

An altruistic bark.

Colette

Lavish living, routinely enjoying the most sumptuous victuals to play the role your standing traditionally authenticates, variable inspired expenses infusing a literary aura with the carefree bravado of limitless production, malleability, ceremonial constants, presumed ostentation auriferously manifesting guilds, assumed impeccability unerringly suspecting intrigue, lashed foibles pronounced yet overlooked inasmuch as they characterize, at home amidst scandal and rumour, brash confidence supposed, instinctually attuned to grasped levitational predicament, brazen yet steadfast, polished yoke adjourned.

Suddenly married.

To a partner less docile than anticipated.

Eventually comprehending her worth, her value to the Parisian imagination, she challenges her freewheeling worldly spouse, who's become dependent on her novel individualism.

Wondering if the art's progress solely by chance or accident?

It seems that many well read erudite professionals reasonably publish that which they believe will profitably sustain them, their understanding of the arts being generally more reliable than a gambler's knowledge of cards or horse racing, and by reading public tastes or those of private audiences thereby, a cultural continuum emerges within which it's possible to earn a living.

Thus Willy (Dominic West) initially dismisses Colette's (Keira Knightley) first novel, thinking it won't tastefully fit the literate French spirit as he distills it, but as bills pile up and nothing appealing conveniently presents itself, he eventually pursues its publication, and it's an immediate success.

Who knows really?

J. K. Rowling, rejected.

Proust, rejected.

You can't assume novelty and experimentation will cultivate financial freedoms without worry, perhaps there are publishing houses who can with whom I'm unfamiliar, but regardless every so often that magical narrative seductively hits the shelves and its unique unbridled perfectly fitting plots, ideas, characters, and settings, impassion stoic readers who have otherwise succumbed to the piquant yet predictable.

Colette's novels sell with the unmitigated fury of an exclamatory tempest, generating revenues most sound for her foolish spendthrift husband.

She puts up with it for quite some time before finally bidding adieu and heading out on her own.

The film critiques M. Gauthier-Villars but not too severely, preferring to dis/harmoniously celebrate the times during which they excelled together to dwelling upon their inevitable break.

How could you go that far?

Such betrayal.

For a miserly pittance.

A lively entertaining clever examination of a voice which slowly learns to independently express itself, complete with a critical yet unpretentious account of conjugal versatility, straddling the upper stratosphere, agitating deals, drafts, dogmas.

Indoctrinations.

Mischievous celebratory circumnavigation afloat.

Disenchanting yet enticing.

Love Keira Knightley's outrage.

La Tenerezza (Tenderness)

Stubbornness and pride abound in Gianni Amelio's La Tenerezza, as a widower takes a shine to a family next door, while continuing to neglect his own middle-aged offspring, who shamelessly covet their litigious inheritance.

His extramarital appetites produced profound resentment in his young, and his unwillingness to accept responsibility have fostered distraught enmities.

The young family is energetic and full of life, curiosity boundlessly blooming as mother and little ones inspect undiscovered surroundings.

Lorenzo (Renato Carpentieri) finds himself offering fatherly advice and even develops kind friendships with both partners, sharing observations grumpily withheld from daughter and son with his unknown endearing impulsive new neighbours.

Something's not quite right though, Fabio (Elio Germano) often sharing awkward sad thoughts to which Lorenzo responds with empathy.

And as the joy from Amélie is pathologically reconceptualized, La Tenerezza admonishes adventurous spirits, the ramifications of settling with mindsets unsound, obtusely effecting tenants newfound, while those grown accustomed to habitual means, pay full price for taxing soirées indiscreet.

Redemption is sought however misplaced temperate reckonings bearing choice succulent fruits.

The film rhetorically narrativizes clashes between longstanding and recently confirmed residents to examine belonging and community from less romantic social ordeals.

Tenderness breaks through but as a cold heart convalesces psychological precedents confound poised rebirths.

Depicting a less cheerful array of realistic sentiments, losses disparaged erupt with molten inadmissibility.

Its mistrust of male refugees isn't counterbalanced by dependable claimants, even if said mistrust is ostensibly the byproduct of Lorenzo's infidelities, childhood trauma effecting his daughter Elena's (Giovanna Mezzogiorno) professional and personal lives, her inability to trust men perhaps resulting in cynical isolation.

Xenophobia's still xenophobia even when it's intellectually contextualized.

Leaving audiences to sift through clues presented to clarify semantic stresses may ambiguously impress, but effects still hauntingly linger long after characters heal from hard fought lessons.

L'école buissonnière (The School of Life)

A rowdy foul-mouthed Parisian orphan (Jean Scandel as Paul) is taken in by a charitable domestic  (Valérie Karsenti as Célestine) and set loose on a forested estate one mischievous informative Summer.

Her husband's (Eric Elmosnino as Borel) tasked with managing the grounds and is less enamoured with the boy.

Trespassing is forbidden, and the existence of such wilds within a heavily populated realm tempts landless neighbours to secretively venture forth.

Since little Paul is free to scan and survey his new domain he meets a colourful cast of characters, their ingenuity providing him with playful imaginative recourse, cautiously balanced with the legal lay of the land.

Borel haplessly enforces while feisty Totoche (François Cluzet) outwits through innovation, his clever tricks ensuring modest plunder, cheeky testaments to individualistic invention.

Totoche and Paul forge an undefined team of sorts which excels at living freely, the bachelor and the orphan symbiotically coexisting within natural frontiers, amiable enough to avoid suspicion and crafty enough to brew memorable batches, good times generating familial emotions, cascading in hearty arrears.

A magical tale as realistic as it is fancy free.

Like Dickensian Thoreau subtly blended with Disney.

Friendships made.

L'école buissonnière.

Lighthearted and adventurous yet aware of rules and structure, Buissonnière presents mature mischief to cultivate austere lands.

Independent communities matched with age-old traditions, a public slowly materializes on the respectful inclusive horizon.

Some characters have much larger roles than others, and at times I thought it would have benefitted from more integration.

I wanted more gypsy.

But if you're in the mood for a heartwarming look at innocence emancipated, and wildlife left free to roam, L'école buissonnière offers a family friendly escape into vivacious inchoate wonder, toning down the menace, to focus intently on creativity.

Change.

I hope the forest persisted.

Extant forests must be like spiritual diamond mines in Europe, without the pollution.

Whatever Claire Denis.

Whatever!

Knock

Having escaped the clutches of ne'er-do-wells who seek to vengefully discipline and punish, a resourceful medically inclined entrepreneur finds work in an isolated village.

Referred to locally as the doctor, his remarkable skill and charm soon has everyone salubriously enamoured, renowned beauties cherishing his companionship, established families appreciative of his foresight.

Even if a fussy priest remains suspicious.

Yet although Dr. Knock (Omar Sy) is sought after and desired, being of a romantic disposition, he spiritually manages his appetites, with the hopes of cultivating a platonic friendship in bloom.

Plus sérieusement.

But will desperate old acquaintances suddenly appear, intent on ruining his newfound communal engagements?

And will those who passionately resist the excitement generated through change blindly vilify its cheerful plaudits, focusing too strictly upon precise definitions, as discursive alternatives prosper fluidly and amuse?

Magnanimous mountaineering?

Perhaps not.

Lorraine Lévy's Knock playfully asks if imaginative innovations are more substantial than concrete calculations?, as bounding life in action flowers with postured prestige.

If the diagnoses exist yet specific corollaries are lacking, is motivational sustainable spirit preferable to austere vitality?

In politics, childhood and fiction, yes, in medicine, Knock presents a strong controversial localized case.

It celebrates the positive impacts alternative initiatives can have on environments grown static over time while championing the ways in which outsiders can fruitfully benefit the new places they come to call home.

Should they choose to call it home one day.

The secular is depicted fantastically while the religious coldly straddles the real, their fictional dialectic not as profound as it could have been, but Knock is a lighthearted comedy whose rigorous emotion naively contemplates creatively exalted difference.

Like having an ice cream instead of boxing.

Preconceptions slowly melting away.

I, Tonya

Piecing together an identity can be laborious work, requiring years of dedicated research and a mastery of sundry source materials, a striking caricature then struck from the resultant reams of research that hopefully captivates both lay and expert viewers or readers alike, with its traditional exceptions, critical controversies exemplified notwithstanding, how does one classify an individual?, I'm still not certain, but can loosely stitch different economic realities together, if so tasked, or perhaps, commissioned.

Some worlds within worlds, however, the figure skating world as it's depicted in I, Tonya for instance, delicately existing within the unpredictable rambunctious buck of wild hardworking American egalitarian miscellany, prefer such narratives to eagerly adopt a prim presentation, as they're inspirationally and influentially disseminated to curious fans, exceptions to the rules obdurately punished for their lack of eloquence, even if, like Tonya Harding (Margot Robbie/McKenna Grace/Maizie Smith), they're one of the greatest representatives the sport has ever seen.

In the U.S even, where a versatile hardboiled lack of gentility has long been its cultural calling card.

More research required.

But you would think that in a culture which also prides itself on athletic achievement, funds would have been made available to assist young Tonya in acquiring the expensive outfits she couldn't buy, especially after she became the first American female figure skater to land the triple Axel, it wasn't the case though, according to I, Tonya, and instead her sartorial ingenuity often resulted in belittling judicial penalties.

Not that goodwill would have saved her.

Eventually, her foolish abusive shitbag husband's (Sebastian Stan as Jeff Gillooly) Cro-Magnon friend (Paul Walter Hauser as Shawn) ruined her career by facilitating an act so loathsomely stupid it still occupies a prominent place in the halls of true idiocy.

True infamy.

Strange film.

The music and mockumentarially realistic interviews set it up like a rip-roarin' homebrewed good time, but then you watch as Tonya's constantly abused from the age of 4 like director Craig Gillespie found a way to incarnate hair on the dog, and it's disconcerting.

You bought it.

Even with all that national attention she still had nowhere else to go, and the people whom you'd think would offer support, the aristos of the figure skating enclave, seem to have given her the crystal clear finger, perhaps hoping her unsuitable image would then quickly fade.

She was tough though, didn't back down, kept fighting until her supporting cast fucked shit up irreconcilably, an iconic American.

The film's really well done if it isn't disturbing.

Frightening.

Don't know where the truth's to be dug out of it but it certainly does facilitate some sincere craziness.

General sobriety's a good thing if you're competing internationally.

I'm not saying the world of figure skating should be like a monster truck rally, although that might make a funny tv movie, but perhaps it could be more sympathetic.

Seems like Ms. Harding should have had a lot more support anyways.

More research required.

As it stands, I, Tonya's an American tragedy.

Always great to see Bobby Cannavale (Martin Maddox).

Churchill

Qualifying the identity of a charismatic colossus with definitive ambient converging characteristics can be as politically crafty as the individual under observation, if sober rhetoric is to be biographically evidenced, the resultant identity less of a fiction than an interpretive constellation/polemic/homage/impression, narrative arguments creatively distilling personality inasmuch as their propositions are culturally elevated, for a time, for a fissure, for a season, skilfully situating themselves within broader agitations depending on the motivations of their supporting cast, like strategic serendipity, or a bit of provocative horseplay.

The wonderful thing about In Search of Lost Time is that it follows the same characters for thousands of pages throughout their lives, Proust intricately demonstrating how different ages and relationships and fashions and successes/failures privately shape mass marketed caricatures, a book about someone's life seeming more like a resonant aspect within such a frame, even if the press may still play the Ignatieff card if it so chooses.

So much diversity condensed into stereotypical miniatures which guide light yet edgy conversations with the playful wit of meaningless escapades.

Unless they're about Trump.

Monster.

Jonathan Teplitzky's Churchill sympathetically examines the great orator's rational wish to not repeat World War I's Gallipoli disaster.

His criticisms of Operation Overlord, as logical and sound as they appear, were countered by alternative evaluations which were rather unappreciative of his sustained opposition.

The realization that his viewpoints weren't militaristically cherished briefly derailed his confident locomotion, the film humanistically yet melodramatically suggesting that this was the moment he completely transformed from military strategist to political exponent.

Chruchill (Brian Cox) the man figures more prominently in Teplitzky's film than the immutable godlike figurehead I've encountered in books at times, a compelling cinematic feature considering how respectfully leadership at the highest levels is depicted within.

Cognizant of the great unknown, the approach of less critical engagements, he strove on regardless, cultivating tidal pride.

James Purefoy (King George VI) delivers a brilliant supporting performance.

Brian Cox also excels.

*Forgot to mention the ways in which Churchill's editing process is dramatized: fantastic. At least when he's searching for the right word.

Cult of Chucky

Inextinguishable malevolent flames of pure maladjusted fury continue to terrify innocent yet vengeful Andy (Alex Vincent) and Nica (Fiona Dourif), the former having escaped to the country, the later, residing within a minimum security nuthouse, ignored and barely able to move, in Don Mancini's Cult of Chucky.

Not as much time and thought is put into imagining how Chucky (Brad Dourif) will be unleashed once more in this one, yet said Chucky, maniacal embodiment of blind undiscerning impulsive valueless consumeristic purchasing, soon visits rehabilitating Nica, who is being pervertedly manipulated by her secular psychiatrist, the traditional massacre following shortly thereafter, as obdurate extreme materialism rationally will not believe.

Demonic denizens ravaging.

Exonerating sheer incapacity.

For Chucky's wisecracking also betrays the world of pain that awaits young funny people after reaching the age of 27.

Should they choose to continue expressing themselves without a tight grip on the reigns.

And Andy's suffering that of the torment perennially felt by a child abused by the other children in his small hometown, a child who never leaves yet matures to become successful, but must still regularly see those who once routinely humiliated him, as living memories haunt and torment throughout the course of his busy days.

Even if they're now under his employ.

And beautiful Nica, paralyzed and surrounded by an ungrateful frenzied brood, warns of the unacknowledged dismissive regard a generous mother receives when raising bullish misogynistic patriarchal young.

This halloween.

Even if the movie came out some time ago.

Cult of Chucky could have used more Andy.

Great production values nevertheless.

Blade Runner 2049

Discontinuous highjacked expedited inevitable irrelevancy.

Circuitous momentous obedience bountifully propelling twisted archaic innate atypical hemorrhage.

Existential awakening argumentative dawn autosuggestive auspices communal cast iron cravings, clues, ambulatory optics, somnambulistic certainty, neigh, whisker.

Fragmentary vestiges ominously scattered cryptic pathfinder serpentinely excavating miracles, whippoorwills, potash.

Direly coaxed into a subconscious vortex transformative sensual belonging propagated harvested posterity.

Suckling within the protospatial womb.

A set plan, goals, preconditioned life programmed to pounce and prognosticate, virtual violations inorganic technotruths, aesthetic vibrations old school orchestrations architecturally hallowed within alternative sanctuary, every scene reigniting the ambivalent distraught investigative visceral momentum, symphonically sequestering emotional anomalies to imagine identity harmoniously hewn, institutionalized on the outskirts primordial emergent feeling, a home, a relationship, a father figure, integration, tacit knowledge extant and mobile, coveted like uncertifiable exception, music, production design, editing, cinematography, as vocal as dialogue, plot, or character.

The most beautiful dress I've ever seen.

Every sequence painstakingly sculpted to intangibly perspire life while inquisitively examining manufactured ontological biology by humanistically juxtaposing desperate and plutocratic being.

Without sharp contrast.

With minimal direct contact.

Non-existent environmental biodiversity morosely levels artistic conflict like a galaxy with no solar system or a workplace without feminine voice.

As fragile as cloistered brilliance she cultivates eternities crafting memories as wondrous as the Saguenay for the fortunate to joyfully consider.

Respectful of its origins while dynamically creating divergent vision, Blade Runner 2049 is on par with Mad Max: Fury Road in terms of revelation, in this case that of Denis Villeneuve's genius, which successfully synthesizes so many gifted subjects.

Harrison Ford's (Deckard) so real.

Ryan Gosling ('K') too.

Weirdos

The striking underground comedic Canadian coming of age pseudo-road trip, nestled on cozy Cape Breton Island, with teenage conflicts to settle and communal sympathy to spare, a wide variety of soulful situations stitched together to explore desire, relationships, and family, as a young couple discuss the nature of their bond, both representatives confused and curious, as they head to a beach party revelling off the beaten track.

Weirdos focuses on identity inasmuch as it challenges gender based preconceptions.

Alice (Julia Sarah Stone) wants to be a police officer for instance and Kit (Dylan Authors) wants to move away from his father, who uses homophobic slurs.

They're not particularly weird though.

I didn't think they were that weird anyways.

Perhaps they were in 1973.

There was this dance I saw on Degrassi Junior High when I was a kid that presented a bunch of fellow youngsters from different backgrounds just having a good time dancing together.

It didn't seem weird.

In fact it seemed like a lot of fun.

I figured the title is more of a test, a challenge, do you actually think these characters are strange or are you missing the point if you can't see how normal they are?

If you ask me, there's really just being, living, wanting to do things and doing them.

If jerks won't let you try due to some shortsighted notion based upon a callous stereotype ignorantly generated by fear and hatred (how these rotten individuals are trying to make themselves seem like victims in the Trump era [as they recklessly bully]), screw 'em.

If you really want to do it, find another way, even if it can be incredibly difficult at times.

You may just find a lot of people believe in you.

Weirdos excels.

A light examination of difference that generates contentment and disappointment while gingerly transitioning from one scene to the next.

I didn't understand why Kit's mother (Molly Parker) received such harsh treatment though.

Artists criticizing artists for lacking social graces always confuses me.

She doesn't understand children well nor the impacts of the statements she makes.

But toss her into a mental hospital? Again?

Odd.

There's probably something I'm missing about the character, but I still wonder if the amount of money French cultures spend promoting the arts and artists is directly proportional to that which English cultures spend promoting pharmaceutical drugs and psychiatric hospitals.

I'd like to research that theory.

Going to see a French artist perform on French turf is quite remarkable. They have personality and they're there to entertainingly share that personality while performing to an audience who isn't only there to see them play music.

The audience wants to hear what the artist has to say.

When you hear French people discuss artists in conversation they do so with a degree of respect that I rarely note in conversations regarding the arts with English people.

Not all English people.

Obviously this isn't a critical reflection that exhaustively examines shortcomings etcetera, but these are features I've noticed about French culture in conversation.

A criticism of artists in English realms I've often heard is, "why did they talk so much between songs?"

I never understood that point.

Just experiential observations.

Things I've noticed.

Toni Erdmann

The unexpected smile, the medium coffee spontaneously upgraded, surprise Thai food, microbrasserie du Lac St-Jean, discourses of extemporaneity startling and surprising with lighthearted charm and velvety enchantment, extracurricular cuddles, subtlety delicately embraced, yet it doesn't have to be so cozy, so huggable, the art of introducing mild-mannered bizarre yet keenly shocking escapades to a routine having been disruptively cultivated by a few, mischievously mutating manifestations genuinely juggling various psychologies in sundry situations to produce desired wtfs?, perfecting their grasp over a lifetime, to pluck up and stack anew.

Maren Ade's Toni Erdmann addresses such potential by placing a loveable creative comic within a corporate crucible, his goal, to cheer up his successful yet sad daughter, who's living the high life yet shovelling the coal.

She's none too impressed, but dad (Peter Simonischek) keeps showing back up equipped with alternative personality.

She can't deny that he's funny.

Nor that he radiates goodwill.

But it's not really a comedic film, not really a drama either, Toni Erdmann's more like a brilliant presentation of the seriously awkward which patiently and articulately synthesizes different lifestyles to hilariously and sensibly simplify choice.

Films that are almost three hours long which cleverly clasp your attention the whole way through are a rare treat, especially ones which realistically examine so many different aspects of the human predicament without directly moralizing, judiciously justifying scenario after scenario instead which simultaneously intensify while lightening lives lost and lounging.

Material taken on the road.

There's a chill extended shot which builds Erdmann's character early on. He's sitting next to an elegant stone wall which resembles aspects of a wild ocean that's been thoughtfully tamed.

Throughout the film he playfully interjects harmless doses of character to sharply strung financially volatile vectors, character which appears wild at first, but he does so with such well-timed respectful controlled im/precision that nothing ever wantonly swerves out of control.

Chaotic stability critically conditioned.

The script reflexively blends hierarchical configurations with nimble finesse and stressed out soul.

The last 25 minutes are so freakin' good.