Shazam! Fury of the Gods

And while engaging in acts of heroism the mighty Wizard's Staff was torn asunder, and the powerful spells it had indeed cast broken, thereby encouraging blatant disharmonies.

The daughters of Atlas in fact wildly reinvigorated at last, the staff having kept them interminably imprisoned within a labyrinthine ancient realm.

Obsessed with divine pretensions and extravagant disastrous displays, they seek to rob Shazam and his friends of their powers, with even more fury than the Philly Press!

Yet feuding erupts amongst them since they can't agree upon a plan, the youngest having fallen for trusty Freddy, the eldest comporting herself with age old wisdom. 

But in the middle lies contemptuous envy who remains inconsolable, bitter and wrathful, and rather than simply pursuing peace it unleashes hellbent devastating carnage.

Mythological beasts and a ferocious dragon attempt to lay waste to the oblivious planet, who once dared to divide their realms, contemporary generations having no idea.

Shazam must come to terms with his habitual doubt and long lasting depression, to embrace the strength resiliently needed to definitively challenge the irascible god.

And deep down in emboldened depths he bravely searches for formidable traction.

To challenge the delirious dragon (cool to see Lucy Liu riding a dragon).

With every ounce of extant vitality. 

Much less sure of himself than Batman or even Clark Kent or the furtive Blue Beetle, Shazam struggles with excessive self-criticism which at times results in self-defeating paralysis. 

As I've mentioned before, logical self-criticism is an effective tool as generally recommended, but it needs to be balanced with reasonable confidence to ensure spirited soulful synergies.

As Shazam! Fury of the Gods proves with resonant disputatious self-awareness, to champion honest mass exclamation through sensational tasked theatrics.

What to make of the ecstatic blend of ancient mythology and modern culture, the regenerative protean of metastasized matrices habitually enabling multivariable mélanges. 

The claim to humanistic divinity still remains widely challenged.

Keeping within realistic rationales.

To avoid mad imperialistic expansion (go Kamala!).

*Still makes for fun movies though.

Days of Thunder

One thing I never really got into was car racing.

I remember the first time I watched a car race on old school television in my youth, and I wasn't that interested in the material, and became nervous when 2 of the brothers present started brawling, it was an awkward day, but still memorable to say the least.

Cars just never jived with me, although they are certainly a convenient mode of transportation, and a significant component of many postmodern economies, and if not dangerous and illegal, it would be fun to drive fast.

Reason and logic eventually came to their aid as I rationally considered their universal value, and when not living in the city they are arguably essential, although I have spent countryside months strictly travelling by foot, bike, and kayak.

I also rather enjoyed Grand Prix Weekend in Montréal, although to be honest I wasn't that interested in the race. It did bring thousands of people to the city however and gave it a unique flair that caught my eye, the lauded difference even if somewhat opulent still impressively stuck out in the urban landscape.

Days of Thunder has a notable cast that efficiently keeps it real throughout the film, challenging one another and falling in love as respect is given to the race car industry.

A sequel could effectively diversify the latent material emergent in the original, using contemporary storytelling techniques to multidimensionally intensify the initial feature.

These films may have remarkable value thousands of years later after fossil fuels run out, and we lament that we never invested in alternative energies before worldwide chaos ensued.

Legends of planes and automobiles will no doubt persist for painstaking centuries, but will they endure for competitive millennia?, that is difficult to accurately predict.

As a model to aid such farfetched calculations we can evaluate the logical merit of anthropological studies, and theorize regarding how accurate they reflect the ancient past in terms of distinct reasonability.

But if everything is forgotten or narratively mutated through imagination, and DVD technology is one day re-created in the future, Days of Thunder would no doubt present something ancient yet futuristic to baffled theoreticians of old school mindsets. 

It would offer definitive proof that at one time human beings drove mechanized beasts at lightning quick speeds.

Many other sports may still be around.

But race car driving will require the Legend.

The Christmas Chronicles

The Christmas spirit has hit a critical low as people across North America stubbornly refuse to believe.

And Santa's (Kurt Russell) in trouble.

His sleigh having encountered unexpected turbulence, he's lost touch with his reindeer, and crash landed in Chicago.

He needs help, and even though he provides the adult world with ample evidence to prove he's authentic, expressing himself in different languages and reflexively presenting the perfect gift, its cold shoulder is still bluntly given, and he must therefore improvise distraught on the road.

Those who have stowed away for the journey, or part of the journey, find themselves lost in hostile streets alone, within which wits must be developed then relied upon, as potential ends for corrupt pastimes ring true.

While Santa heads to prison.

His characteristic charm and overflowing goodwill ensure he still makes the most of it, but at points things do seem rather grim, like Who-ville on lockdown, or blind commercial obsessions.

Yet true believers still remain committed to setting him free.

With hopes he will finish his work.

And save the Holiday Season yet again.

In The Christmas Chronicles.

Wherein innocence is exonerated.

A bit too hasty, perhaps, time is an issue, but naive assumptions don't compensate for productive tension.

If Santa's appeals in the restaurant had been less confident, and his audience had been more willing to listen, for instance, the result wouldn't have seemed so rushed, and stronger emotions could have been sincerely generated.

Chronicles excels at critiquing hard-hearted dismissals of the season, but still stuffers from a surplus of disbelief, which creates a bleak atmosphere, much less infused with seasonal mirth making.

Santa can't do it all himself, although Russell impresses.

Try not to misunderstand, as far as Christmas films go, it's better than many, and Santa's blunt spirited enthusiasm is endearing.

But the film's more like a video game than a movie, like Santa has to boldly pass level after level, quickly, instead of just reacting and commenting within a deep narrative.

The binge viewing aesthetic is oddly like a video game, or at least much less like a broadcast television show.

Rather than lure viewers in with great stories, perhaps binge oriented series are trying to make them feel just as great for having finished an episode as they would have had they passed a level?

Thus, although presenting hearty protagonists reverently dedicated to the holiday season, The Christmas Chronicles would have benefitted from a little more time and patience.

That perfect gift doesn't just materialize out of thin air or show up thanks to formulae or speculation.

It takes love, foresight, originality, and spontaneity, to demand it be purchased.

Or placed upon a heartfelt wish list.

Written with care.

Mailed due North.

The Circle

Omnipresent technological observation, every detail from everyone's life infinitesimally revealed with omnibus macroscopic composure, the triumph of the public sphere, no more secrets, no more subterfuge, real time rhapsodic synergistic respiration sucking in surety and exhaling plots, sandlots, polka dots, buffets, aeronautic knowledge in plain microcosm, mountainous metaphoric immersive munchy meadows, cross-referenced cursive equations, auspices, permanent honesty.

The Circle seeks to reveal everything ever recorded, every piece of data historically accumulated, every whisper, every slight, while turning everyone's life into a networked primetime extravaganza, constant pervasive awareness, monitoring each and every aspect, like itsy-bitsy circus shows.

Prophetic in its potential, sage in its revelations, James Ponsoldt's The Circle critically examines the ways in which social media has significantly transformed human existence in less than ten years, like the printing press of old, exponentially exemplified.

Within the film, an employee's (Emma Watson as Mae) responsibilities gradually increase after she's hired by the aforementioned, an innovative business that has combined several popular online sites into one übercolossus, until she goes transparent and everyone begins following every moment of her life all day everyday as it happens online, and she suddenly finds herself with an unprecedented degree of influence.

She's chill though, cool, she's not really into all that sort of, in the film anyways, the film is quite different from the book, although she realizes she possesses a perky ability to monumentally game change.

She digs.

She excavates.

She constructs.

She reveals.

If everything about all and sundry was accessible online the world would certainly become a different place.

A lot of pricks would be forced not to be huge dicks, unless some kind of sadistic sensational saga prevailed, for a time.

It might end up being like true democracy, things like starvation and violent crime slowly (perhaps rapidly) disappearing, the exaltation of the ephemeral, new variations of Star Trek compellingly illuminating the variations, slavery ending, endangered animals given a fighting chance for survival.

Imagine the pizza.

The long weekends.

The orations.

But if a select group controlled it things likely wouldn't change much.

And it would be super hard on those who didn't want their lives to be transparent, not just the unscrupulous but regular people as well, unscrupulous regular people notwithstanding.

Seems to be heading in that direction regardless.

Not really sure if The Circle's prophetic or simply just a comment on the times.

Makes the art of creating genuine surprise all the more intriguing either way.

*Another film could be made based on the book that could offer deeper reflections.

Bullhead

Symptomatically and jaggedly pluralizing the personal psychological affects of a sudden all-encompassing disillusionment, while intricately stratifying a diverse bombastic barrage, literally interjecting his film with bellicose doses of testosterone, Michaël R. Roskam takes Bullhead and cacophonically synthesizes a man with his husbandry, as he tries whatever he can to surreptitiously distend.

An event. A transformation. Perseverance. Sublimation. Shock. Disintegration.

The wind in the willows.

Or the cyclone in the spruces in this instance. Jacky Vanmarsenille (Matthias Schoenaerts) is one volatile powder keg lacking the deflammatory passions which may have softened the blow.

But apart from scintillatingly nocturnalizing a tragic character study, Bullhead complacently, cerebrally, and chaotically economizes its 'subject matter,' potently intensifying a somewhat underrepresented particular submergence, while using it to indirectly comment upon Belgian social interactions.

If Mr. Vanmarsenille represents the local, then the local is diversified, then regionalized (the regional possessing a nationalistic nuance), and then subjectively traumatized, historicized, and atemporalized, while the film retains a selective degree of objectivity (which dissipates near the end), the catalyst of said trauma triumvirately functioning within the local, regional, and national domains, with romantic, familial, comic and veterinary issues exhaustively adorning its multiplicity.

Mr. Roskam knows how to get things done (screenplay by Michaël R. Roskam). 

It offers a potential counterpoint to Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler, one film focused primarily on a individual's parenting struggles within an environment theoretically dominated by the personal, the other's less subject-centric caricature working within one hypothetically attempting to produce a less hostile bilateral congregation, both lamenting static subjective growth.

Stress. They're both, full, of stress.

I recommend Bullhead for lovers of multidimensional cinema but be prepared cause it's rather dark.

I kind of think of it as a stubborn grouchy emasculated subdued rowdy intellectual action film to which you must pay strict attention.

Calamitizing the maintenance of an ideal.

Which blindly obscures what's beautiful.